Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Japan, Fuyuki . Two hundred years ago.

Deep in the bowels of Mount Enzo, there was no sound of birdsong or wind. Only a heavy, rhythmic hum—the sound of the earth itself, with liquid mana coursing through its veins .

In the center of the vast cavern rose the Altar. It was no elegant work of art, but a crude, functional structure—a gigantic stone press, looming over a bed riddled with magical channels. It resembled the jaws of an ancient monster, frozen in anticipation of prey.

Makiri Zolgen knelt before the bed. His hands, not yet withered by dark magic, but strong and alive, clasped the cold palms of the woman sitting before him. His tear-filled eyes held no madness for the future Zouken . They held only the heartbreaking love and despair of a man giving away with his own hands what was most precious to him.

“We can stop,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Justice… We can leave. Forget about the Truth. Forget about saving humanity. Just… live.”

The woman in the snow-white ceremonial gown, Justeaze Lizritch von Einzbern , shook her head. Her face, beautiful and pale as the first snow, was calm, but an infinite sadness lurked at the corners of her lips. She was a Saint of Winter, created for this moment, but with Makiri, she had learned to be simply a woman. And that part of her was now the first to die.

“You know it’s impossible, Makiri ,” she touched his face, wiping away a tear. “If we leave, all the sacrifices, all the suffering in this world… they will remain meaningless. My family has searched for the Third Truth for a thousand years. I am the key. And you are the one who will turn it.”

In the shadows, near the cave wall, stood Nagato Tohsaka . He turned away, unable to bear to watch his friends part. He had given up this land, he had drawn the circles, but the weight of this moment weighed even on his pragmatic heart.

Tohsaka said quietly . "The ley lines are in resonance."

Makiri sobbed, pressing Justicia's hand to his lips.

"I don't want a world without you," he breathed. "What do I care about saving humanity if you're not in it?"

"I will not disappear, my love," Justicia gently released her hand and lay down on the cold stone of the altar. Her hair fell like a silver fan. "I will become the heart of this system. I will be the Great Chalice. I will wait for you... there, on the other side. When the Ritual is complete, when the Third Magic becomes reality... we will meet again. In eternity."

She looked up at the massive stone press looming above her. It wasn't a coffin. It was a door that could only be opened from the inside, by sacrificing oneself.

"Promise me, Makiri ," her voice became quiet but firm. "Promise me that you will see this through. That you will not let my sacrifice be in vain. That you will see the Grail filled."

Makiri stood up, his face set in stone, but his eyes filled with agony.

"I swear," he said, and the word was heavier than the mountain above them. "I will overcome time itself. I will change my body, I will reject my humanity, I will become rot and darkness if necessary... but I will live to see the day your wish is fulfilled. I will be the guardian of this system until death separates me from my purpose."

Justice smiled one last time and closed her eyes.

— Go ahead.

Tosaka activated the mechanism. A screeching sound filled his ears. Makiri watched, unblinking, as the massive stone slab slowly, inexorably descended.

It wasn't instantaneous. It was a slow burial. Magical circuits flared, digging into Justicia's body, connecting her nervous system to Fuyuki's ley lines . She didn't scream, but Makiri saw a spasm run through her body before the stone obscured her face.

Boom.

The press closed. The living woman vanished, crushed, dissolved in stone and magic. In her place, only a pulsating, humming construct remained. The Great Grail awakened, and its first "heartbeat" was the echo of the soul of the one Makiri loved. Zolgen .

He fell to his knees before the stone mass, scratching the stone with his nails, and screamed. In that scream, the noble magician Makiri died and the monstrous Mato was born. Zouken is a being obsessed with the goal for which he just killed his soul.

***

France, Rouen. May 30, 1431.

The sky above the market square was as gray as ash. The smell of burning clinged to clothes, hair, and skin. The crowd had long since dispersed, taking with them the satisfaction of someone else's death, but one man remained.

Marshal of France Gilles de Rais knelt before a black stain on the cobblestones—the only remnant of the Maid of Orleans. His eyes, once full of reverence, were now dry and red, like wounds.

He clutched a golden cup in his hands. Not the sacred vessel the Knights of the Round Table sought, but another—a dark artifact that had come into his possession in his hour of despair.

"Lord..." he whispered, and there was more venom in that whisper than in a snake bite. "You didn't save her. You allowed them to burn Your most devoted daughter. If this is Your justice, then I reject it!"

The cup vibrated in his hands. A voice rang through Gilles's mind—not human, but mechanical, as if the very fabric of the universe were speaking. It was the voice of the System, founded two hundred years ago (in a future that was irrelevant to the Grail, for it existed outside of time) in distant Japan.

"Request accepted. Wish: Resurrection. Analysis… Impossible. Subject's soul has ascended to the rank of Heroic Spirits and is in the Throne of Heroes. Return is impossible."

"I don't care about your rules!" Gilles shouted, slamming his fist on the ground. "Give me back Jeanne! I want to see her smile! I want to follow her banner again!"

"Energy is required to perform a Miracle," the voice in his head continued dispassionately, explaining the essence of what the Einzberns , Tohsaka , and Makiri had created . "The Holy Grail System is a ritual. To reach the Akasha , the Origin of all existence, and rewrite reality, the vessel must be filled."

Images flashed before Gilles's mind's eye, explaining the nature of the coming massacre:

"Seven Masters—mages yearning for a miracle. Seven Servants—the greatest heroes of the past, legends made flesh from the ether. Saber . Archer . Lancer . Rider. Caster . Assassin . Berserker. They are summoned not to live, but to die. Their souls are the fuel. By killing each other, they fill the Cup. And the last one standing will earn the right to the True Miracle."

It was cruel arithmetic. To save one life or change the world, the souls of seven great heroes must be burned.

"War..." Gilles croaked. "You want me to start a massacre? To kill heroes on a whim?"

His face twisted into a terrible grimace. If God was cruel, then why should he, Gilles, be merciful?

"You will have war," he whispered, rising from his knees. "I will burn this world that rejected her. But I don't need the Grail to reach some 'Source.' I need Her . "

of Arc's original soul is impossible. Her spirit is pure. She has accepted her destiny and has no desire for the Grail. She will not answer the call of hatred."

These words were the last straw. Reality cracked for Gilles. If Saint Joan had forgiven her executioners, then he, Gilles, would never forgive them. If God had taken the saint, then he, Gilles, would create a monster.

He raised the Cup above his head. Dark mana , thick and viscous as mud, began to flow from it, drenching the ashes.

"If you can't give me back the Saint..." His voice broke into a shriek of madness. "Then give me one who hates this world as much as I do! Give me the Dragon Witch! I don't care about history! I don't care about the truth! I'll use your system, your 'War,' but I'll twist its essence! I'll create my own Servant!"

"Attention. Anomaly Formation. Creation of a Heroic Spirit that does not exist in history. Class… Avenger ."

The black mud began to churn. From the ashes, pain, the curses of Gilles de Rais, and the omnipotence of the Grail, a figure began to rise.

This wasn't summoning magic. It was an act of creation through desecration.

In fire and darkness, breaking all the laws laid down by the founders, Joan of Arc Alter was born .

***

Inside the Cup. Outside of time.

At first there was silence. Thick, viscous, like oil. In this silence there was no peace, only an endless, insatiable hunger.

Somewhere far away, beyond this black ocean, a man screamed. Gilles de Rais. He wasn't praying—he was demanding. He wanted what was gone back. He wanted ashes to become flesh again, for the past to become present.

And the Abyss, slumbering in the Chalice, responded. It could not bestow mercy, but it could fulfill whims.

"You want to hold her?" a whisper rang out in the void. "Then give her an anchor. Give her something that will keep her from flying away into the sky."

A spark of consciousness flared in the darkness. A new soul, still nameless. At that very moment, an image appeared before her inner gaze. Dazzling, unbearably bright.

She saw the Way .

She saw the figure of a knight, woven from pure light. The knight ran forward, and every step he took was a refusal. His shining armor fell from him, the chains of his attachments crumbled to dust, his very flesh thinned, turning into spirit. They grabbed his hands, earthly passions tried to hold him back, but he tore at these bonds with a cry full of agony and absolute, ringing freedom. He strove for the Chalice not to drink from it, but to pour himself into it. To become light. To leave.

This was the Truth. This was the path of the one whose face she wore.

The newborn soul shrank in terror. This light was scorching. This freedom felt like annihilation. She didn't want to dissolve. She wanted to be . Here and now.

"I don't want to disappear!" she screamed silently. "I want to feel! I want to touch! I want weight!"

And then the Darkness offered her a deal.

"If you don't want to be light, become heaviness. If you don't want sacrifice, take what's yours with strength. Fill yourself not with spirit, but with desire."

Instead of breaking the chains like that shining knight, she grabbed them. She wrapped them around her hands, shackling herself to the earth, to the dirt, to the pain. She rejected heavenly lightness for earthly heaviness. She chose the gravity of resentment.

Black mana surged through her, forming bones from curses and blood from hatred. This wasn't healing, this was the creation of an idol. She drank this darkness greedily, choking, just to find form, just to avoid becoming that blinding nothingness.

Joan of Arc Alter opened her eyes.

The world around her was gray with ash. The air of Rouen in 1431 was bitter, and her first breath burned her lungs. But it was the pain of life.

A man with wild eyes knelt before her, crying and stretching out his arms to her, seeing a miracle in her.

“You’ve returned…” Gilles whispered. “My saint… Have you come to punish them?”

Zhanna looked at her hands. They were clad in black gauntlets. She felt the weight of her body, the weight of her sword, the weight of someone else's memory, something she'd never had. She felt as if she'd fallen from a great height and shattered, but had been forced to reassemble herself from the fragments.

She knew that somewhere up there, in the unattainable heights, the real Jeanne looked down on her with sadness and forgiveness. And this knowledge caused a black, poisonous anger to boil within the new Jeanne.

"I am not what you prayed for, Gilles," her voice was low, like the roar of a furnace. "I am not salvation. I am your thirst that will never be quenched."

She gripped the hilt of the sword. It was not a protector's sword. It was an executioner's sword.

“ But if this world wants to see me so much…” she grinned, and there was not a drop of humility in that smile, only a challenge to the heavens that rejected her, “…I will show them what real fire is.”

High above her, beyond clouds and time, the Great Machine of Fate—or perhaps the One who wound it—did not intervene. The gears turned. A mistake was made, a distortion accepted. For even a stone thrown with hatred may one day form the foundation of a temple. Even a lie given flesh may one day learn the truth.

But the path to this lay through the hell she had just brought with her.

***

( Godric's Hollow, 1899. Shortly after Kendra's death Dumbledore )

The house smelled of lavender, dust, and sickness. The scent haunted Albus , clinging to his robes and clinging to his tongue. It was the scent of hopelessness.

Ariana slept in the next room, her breathing ragged and whistling, as if the air in this reality was too rough for her torn soul.

Aberforth sat in the kitchen , sharpening a knife, methodically drawing the blade across a whetstone , and the sound— shirk , shirk —was more irritating to Albus than his sister's screams during her fits.

“We have to do something,” Aberforth muttered , not looking up.

Albus said wearily , leafing through another healing treatise . "The potions are calming her, the charms are holding back the emissions..."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Aberforth slammed the knife into the wooden tabletop. "I'm talking about healing. Real healing. So she can be... herself again."

"Magic isn't omnipotent," Albus snapped coldly , feeling the irritation of a genius rising within him, forced to explain the obvious to a simpleton. "You can't mend a broken soul like a cup. Gamp's Laws ..."

"Damn the laws!" Aberforth leaned forward. His eyes, blue like his brother's, glowed with a fanatical, desperate fire. "I heard talk at the Hog's Head. Travelers from the East. They talk of a ritual. Of the Cup."

Albus snorted.

— The Holy Grail? The Tales of Beedle the Bard for grown-ups, Abe. The Arthurian cycle is a metaphor for the search for the divine, not an instruction manual.

"They say it's not a Christian relic," Aberforth continued stubbornly . "They call it the Vessel of Wishes. They say that somewhere at the edge of the world, in the mountains of Japan, three families of wizards created a path to the Source. A path that can rewrite reality."

Albus froze, his hand turning the page stopping.

Source. Akasha .

A theoretical concept whispered about by the boldest minds of Transfiguration. A place where everything is recorded. If you gain access to it… you can do more than just "cure" Ariana . You can undo the day the Muggles attacked her . You can erase the very concept of " Muggle ."

"It's dark magic, Abe," Albus said quietly , but his voice no longer held the same confidence. "If such a thing exists… the price for it will be higher than we can pay."

Aberforth whispered , looking at his sister's door. "If it brings her back… I'll pay anything."

Albus didn't sleep that night . He stared at the ceiling and, for the first time, thought not about hiding his sister from the world, but about reshaping the world to suit her. The seed had been sown.

***

Bathilda's barn Bagshot )

Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the boards, and golden dust danced in its rays. But what lay on the table between the two young men was far brighter than the sun.

Gellert Grindelwald was as beautiful and terrifying as a fallen angel. He drew diagrams on parchment whose complexity would have made an ordinary wizard's nose bleed.

"The Deathly Hallows..." Gellert waved his hand dismissively at the triangle, circle, and line symbol. "They're toys, Albus . A cloak to hide. A wand to kill. A stone to amuse oneself with phantoms. They're tools for cowards who fear the inevitable."

He leaned closer, his multi-colored eyes hypnotizing.

"But what you asked about... What they whisper about in Durmstrang ... It's not a victory over Death. It's a victory over Life."

Gellert unrolled an ancient scroll covered with hieroglyphs and German runes.

— The Einzbern family . Alchemists of the North. They call it Heaven's Feel . Touch of Heaven. Third True Magic. Materialization of the soul.

Albus peered eagerly at the drawing. It was a diagram of a giant mana accumulator .

"Is this... a perpetual motion machine?" he whispered. "An endless source of energy?"

"More," Grindelwald smiled . "It's a wish-fulfillment mechanism. Imagine, Albus . A world where wizards don't have to hide. A world where we rule by right of strength and wisdom. We won't need to conquer Muggles . We'll simply wish for the world to be right."

"But the mechanism..." Albus's gaze , honed by years of study, latched onto the details of the ritual. The system of "Servants." The need to "fill" the vessel. " Gellert , it speaks of seven souls. Of heroic spirits. To set this in motion... do we need to burn history?"

Grindelwald laughed.

"History is written by the victors, my friend. Are seven ghosts of the past a high price to pay for the future? Isn't Ariana worth burning a few old legends?"

In that moment, Albus was blinded. He didn't see murder. He saw a solution. He saw a world where his sister was healthy, where he and Gellert stood at the head of a new order, and in their hands, a chalice shining with the light of truth.

He didn't notice a small note in the scroll's margins, written by an unknown artist a hundred years ago: "The basis is a living soul. Justice. Eternal torment."

He was too in love. With the idea. And he treasured the friend who brought it to him too much.

***

(1945. Ruins near Dresden)

The war was ending, but the magic it had awakened was only just beginning to bare its teeth.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the edge of the crater. This wasn't the work of Muggle bombers. The ground here hadn't been blasted—it had been obliterated . A perfectly flat hemisphere of emptiness, a kilometer in radius, where houses, trees, people, and the very soil had vanished, leaving only vitrified rock.

In his hands he held the report obtained by Newt. Salamander from Grindelwald's personal archive .

"He called it 'The Summoning,'" Newt said quietly , standing nearby. He wasn't looking into the crater, his gaze fixed on the cage of Thestrals , who were pawing restlessly, sensing something more terrible than death. "He wanted to summon a 'Guardian Angel' for the new world."

Dumbledore opened the folder. There weren't any Dark Magic schematics there. There were calculations. Cold, mathematical calculations of mana consumption .

Experiment #7. Class: Berserker. Subject is immune to Imperius Curse. Subject ignores shield charms. Subject is capable of destroying an army of mages in three minutes. Energy consumption: critical. More sources required.

Dumbledore turned the page and saw something that chilled him to the core. These weren't wand diagrams. These were descriptions of "Batteries." Grindelwald hadn't used crystals. He had used prisoners. Hundreds of wizards and Muggles , their life force drained dry to keep one such "Angel" alive in this world for even an hour.

"These aren't angels, Newt ," Albus whispered . "They're monsters from legends who don't fit comfortably into our reality."

He remembered Aberforth's stories about the Holy Grail. About the cup that grants wishes. Now he saw the price. For the cup to be filled, for the wish to be fulfilled, a war was needed. Not the kind of war where duelists exchange spells. But a war where gods and monsters walk the earth, for whom ordinary wizards are but dust under their feet.

If he had obtained the Grail… If he had summoned someone to save Ariana …

He imagined his fragile, broken sister. And he imagined next to her a Being capable of wiping out a city with a single swing of his sword. A Being who feeds on the souls of the living to remain in this world.

"Justice Einzbern ..." he recalled the name from the old scrolls. The woman who became the gate.

Grindelwald's documents contained a note in the margin: "The Grail is pure. It is all-powerful. But it is blind. It will give you a sword capable of splitting the planet if you ask for power. And it does not care what you do with it."

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

The Grail wasn't cursed. It was too powerful. It was a self-destruct button for the world, disguised as salvation. In the hands of a man like Grindelwald —or even in his own, grief-stricken hands—this power would not bring peace. It would bring Silence.

"We must destroy this knowledge ," Dumbledore said , and his voice took on a steeliness that hadn't been there before. "No one must seek the Grail. Not for love, not for power."

He realized that even if the Grail could bring Ariana back , the price of that miracle would be turning the world into a graveyard. Ariana would never accept that. And neither would he.

That day, he decided he would defeat Grindelwald not for world domination, but to hide the keys to a door humanity had no right to open.

***

(Windy Hill, 1980, a few days before Halloween)

Severus's face . Snape's body was mingling with tears and dirt, but he didn't notice the cold. He was kneeling before the man he hated and feared, but who was his last hope.

"Hide them. Hide them all," Snape croaked . "I beg you."

Albus Dumbledore looked down at him, his expression unreadable. There was no contempt in his eyes, only an endless, leaden heaviness.

"You're asking me to save her, Severus . But you know who's hunting her. Voldemort . His power grows every day. Ordinary charms might not be able to hold him back."

Snape raised his head, his eyes burning with a feverish fire of despair.

“There are other ways!” he cried. “There are whispers in Death Eater circles… Of old magic. Of a Cup that can rewrite fate. Of Servants who are stronger than any army. You defeated Grindelwald ; you know where it is! Use it! Summon someone! Save Lily, even if it means burning the world!”

Snape's words hit Dumbledore like a physical blow.

Burn the whole world for one person.

This is exactly what he wanted to do for Ariana .

Grindelwald wanted to do .

Snape was proposing now .

Dumbledore remembered the crater beneath Dresden. He remembered the cold calculations of sacrifices.

If he uses the Grail to save Lily Potter, he will open the door he locked forty years ago. He will summon into this world beings for whom humans are mere mana . And then Voldemort , seeing this power, will desire it even more. The war will turn into a slaughter of the gods, in which not only Lily, but also her son and millions of others will perish.

The Grail won't save them. It will exchange one tragedy for another, even greater.

"No," Dumbledore's voice was quiet, but firm as a tombstone. "We will not touch that power, Severus . Never. The price is too high. Even for Lily."

"You're condemning her to death!" Snape howled .

"I'm trying to save her soul and this world from a fate worse than death," Dumbledore replied . "We use the Fidelius . We trust in people, not cursed miracles."

He turned away so Snape wouldn't see the pain in his eyes. He knew the Fidelius was unreliable. He knew the chances were slim. But that was the human way.

But at that moment, standing in the freezing rain, Dumbledore realized another terrible thing.

Snape knew about the Grail. Death Eaters whispered about it. Voldemort sought a way to it.

His vow of silence, made in 1945, had been broken. The secret had leaked out. And if the Dark Lord found a way to start a war… Dumbledore would have to break his word. He would have to tell the Potters, or even their son, the truth. But only when he was ready. Not to use the Grail, but to destroy it before it destroyed them all.

"Get up, Severus ," he said wearily. "We will fight. But by our rules. While we still can."

***

Organization for the Preservation of Humanity "Chaldea". 2015.

It all started with an announcement calling for volunteers.

Ritsuka Fujimaru , twenty-one years old. A recent college graduate, he stood on the threshold of adulthood and, frankly, had no idea what to do with it. He was looking for a job, looking for meaning, and instead found a one-way ticket to the snowy mountains of Antarctica.

He wasn't a great mage. Only a drop of magical blood flowed through his veins, barely enough to see what was hidden from the common eye. He was a "backup option," number 48 on a list of forty-eight candidates. A statistical error.

Chaldea greeted him with sterile white corridors and the hum of complex machinery. This place was a monument to human genius and arrogance—a fusion of magic and technology, created to look to the future.

In the hallway, he met a girl. She was standing by the window, looking out at the endless snowstorm.

Mash Kirielight .

She seemed fragile to him, almost transparent, like a ghost bound to this place. The girl with glasses and a strange animal on her shoulder— Fou .

"Are you the new candidate?" she asked then. There was no emotion in her voice, only polite curiosity. "Welcome to Chaldea, Senpai ."

The word " Senpai " sounded strange. He'd been here for less than a year, he knew nothing, and she, who'd lived here her whole life, called him senior. But at that moment, Ritsuka felt like, for the first time in a long time, someone was looking at him as more than just a line on a resume.

And then there was a meeting with the Director.

Olga-Maria Animusphere . Heiress to a great family, daughter of the founder. She was the embodiment of aristocracy, strength, and… a deeply hidden fear. She lectured on the importance of the mission, on saving humanity, on Rayshift .

Ritsuka listened. He tried hard to listen. But the flight, the thin mountain air, and the monotonous hum of the instruments took their toll.

He fell asleep.

Right in the front row, at the most important briefing in human history.

"Get out!" Olga-Maria's shriek woke him up. "Get this idiot out of my sight! Send him to the infirmary, and then on the first flight home! He has no place among the saviors of the world!"

It was humiliating. He was shown the door like a naughty schoolboy.

And it saved his life.

An hour later, the world turned upside down. Sirens wailed, shattering eardrums. The earth shook.

Explosion in the command center. Sabotage.

When Ritsuka staggered to the control room, he saw an inferno. Flames were consuming the capsules containing the candidates—the very elite mages who were supposed to save the world. They were dying before they could even wake up. The Chaldeas system —the model of the Earth's soul—was dyed crimson. The color of blood. The color of the end of the world.

Humanity was burned. The future disappeared.

In the midst of this chaos, he found Mash. She was crushed under rubble, her body broken, the life draining from her.

“Leave me…” she whispered. “Run, Senpai …”

But he didn't run. An ordinary guy looking for work suddenly found something worth staying for. He took her cold, bloody hand.

"I'm not leaving. If this is the end, we'll face it together."

And then a miracle occurred. The Summoning System, responding to his will and her despair, activated. Mash didn't die. She became a demi-Servant, embracing the power of the fallen hero, Galahad .

They Rayshifted . Jumped into the burning city of Fuyuki . To the point where all the troubles began.

There, Ritsuka witnessed Olga-Maria's death. He saw the one who had driven him away, the one who had seemed all-powerful, crying and calling for help as the traitor Lev Lionell cast her into the endless death of Chaldeas . He saw her existence erased.

But Leo didn't stop at destroying the present. He poisoned the past.

Later, fighting his way through the burning eras, Ritsuka learned the truth. Lion Lionel had scattered the seeds of destruction across history. He had given the Holy Grails—not sacred relics, but twisted magical reactors—to those whose hearts were blackened by despair. He had given weapons to the madmen who yearned to see the world burn.

It was in this way, in 1431, in war-torn France, that Ritsuka first met Nei.

He learned that Leo had placed one of these Grails in the hands of the grief-stricken Gilles de Rais. And this Grail, responding to a prayer filled with hatred, had not resurrected a saint, but created a monster. It had given birth to the Dragon Witch —Jeanne Alter. A creature woven from filth and resentment, who existed only to burn the country that had betrayed her original.

Ritsuka fought her in Orleans. He saw her rage, her pain, and her inevitable defeat. He watched her disappear, convinced she was just a bad dream of history.

Ritsuka's soul Something died in Fujimaru . The boy who simply wanted to find his place in life burned in the fires of Fuyuki and Orleans.

From the ashes rose the Last Master.

The following months merged into an endless series of battles.

France, Rome, Ocean, London, America, Camelot , Babylon...

He walked through the ages. He saw civilizations burn. He befriended kings and drank with pirates. He held dying gods in his arms and comforted weeping monsters.

His hands, which had once held only textbooks, learned to wield weapons and cast Command Spells. His gaze, once open and naive, became heavy as lead. He learned to make decisions that affected billions of lives. He learned to say goodbye.

He was forged in the crucible of suffering. He became the one who carried the sky on his shoulders when the Atlanteans fell.

But he didn't become embittered. This was his greatest weapon. Despite all the pain, despite the betrayals and horror, he retained the ability to empathize. He saw the Servants not as tools, but as people. He understood their pain because he himself was overcome with it.

And so, after saving humanity, when it seemed like we could breathe a sigh of relief, Chaldea's sensors detected a new, strange anomaly.

Not a threat to destroy history.

Not an invasion of the gods.

A strange, distorted blot on the canvas of reality. An "event" that shouldn't have happened.

"Seven Fake Heroic Spirits."

Someone tried to rewrite the history of art and heroes. Someone who hated the truth and loved lies.

Ritsuka rose from his chair in the command post.

"Mash," he said quietly. "Get ready for Rayshift . We have a new job."

He didn't yet know that he was about to meet the one who would become his most difficult test. The one whose hatred was so great that she created herself.

Chapter Text

— Bravo, pitiful believer, you’ve defeated me! — laughed Jeanne Alter, lying on the ground and slyly glancing at the face of her victor.

She lay there in beautiful black armor, defeated but not broken in spirit, her face resolute like a lion's. The real Jeanne d'Arc looked at her with pity, as if it wasn’t her sword at the throat of the defeated.

Around them stretched a wasteland, cut by deep cracks and craters from the explosions of a fierce battle. Fragments of ancient temples and statues were scattered everywhere, as if they were amidst the ruins of an ancient city. The sky above seemed distorted, with strange rifts and flashes of light, as though this unnatural zone floated between dimensions.

Da Vinci clutched an ancient book, into which she had sealed the remnants of the broken relic. Ritsuka leaned on his sword, breathing heavily after the intense skirmishes.

Around the fallen Jeanne Alter lay the bodies of defeated fake Heroic Spirits, almost turned into formless magical energy after their defeat. The atmosphere was heavy with the echoes of a fierce battle, but now everything had quieted into tense silence when godlike forces clashed one last time.

Previously, Joan had been an ordinary shepherdess until she heard wondrous voices in her dreams. They called to her, guided her, and led her to victories, forever inscribing her name in the history of France. She could never have imagined how much evil her distorted copy was capable of. In her worst nightmare, she had never envisioned that bloody sea with drifting islands of corpses and rivers of tears, suffering, and sorrow, from which her sinister dark copy drank with insatiable thirst. The one whose heart beats beneath her foot, clad in shining armor. The one whom she perhaps pitied, were it not for all the evil behind her back.

"You know your fate!" Jeanne Alter spat out with burning bitterness. "Burned at the stake, like a witch! Betrayed by friends, by the king, and by the people of France, for whom you fought so selflessly!"

Her amber eyes blazed with malice as she stared directly at the real Jeanne. For the holy maiden, this gaze was worse than any burning at the stake. It seemed that just one touch of it would tarnish the perfectly polished armor of the true Jeanne, turn her hair gray, and change the color of her clear eyes. And she would laugh deafeningly, insanely, preparing to mete out her own twisted justice.

Horrified by this furious flame in the gaze of her Alter-version, Saint Jeanne involuntarily shuddered. The sinister copy caught her tiny tremor and let out a loud, eerie laugh — exactly like the one the real Jeanne had imagined just moments earlier in her mind. But this time, the saint quickly composed herself.

"I am needed in this world," she calmly replied. "It is my duty. Tell me better, why did you copy so many famous historical figures? What did you want to prove?"

"I just wanted to show who among us is the real Jeanne d'Arc!" Alter retorted defiantly.

"Is that so?" asked the real Jeanne and fell into thought.

"Bravo!" came the voice of Ritsuka, clapping his hands. "Bravo! The Servant copies you created surpassed the originals. But do you feel no pity for them?"

He looked sympathetically at the fallen Jeanne Alter, hiding genuine sorrow for the senseless bloodshed behind his Master’s mask.

Jeanne Alter blinked for a moment, casting a glance where the false Brunhilda had fallen in the recent battle. After a brief pause, she responded with cold indifference:

"They were never perfect anyway. I couldn't summon them in their proper forms."

Ritsuka and the others exchanged puzzled looks. After the exhausting battle, everyone looked as if they had been hit by a speeding train and survived only through some extremely mysterious miracle. The final fight — not with the fakes, but with Jeanne Alter herself — nearly cost Ritsuka his life. She had almost reached him with her bloody sword but was stopped by the real Jeanne, with whom she engaged in a fierce duel.

Jeanne Alter fought with inhuman skill against several of Ritsuka’s Servants at once, finding sadistic pleasure in it. She showered them with cruel jokes and insane laughter. Now she lay on the ground, defeated, but her spirit remained unshaken. With a face contorted in a self-satisfied smirk, she reveled in her last triumph.

Saint Jeanne was silent for a while, but finally gathered her strength and asked:

"Who are your parents? Where did your childhood pass?"

Jeanne Alter thought for a moment but merely shrugged:

"What difference does it make? I am forever your aspect, your dark side! Accept me!" Her gaze flared again with murderous rage at these words.

"My dear Jeanne!" Leonardo addressed her compassionately, "You surrounded yourself with male servants, you even created a loyal friend who died for you. What do you know about yourself? Nothing."

Jeanne Alter merely smiled smugly in response.

"You betrayed your only true friend," Leonardo continued sadly.

At this, Jeanne Alter merely winced and lowered her gaze. All this time, her face appeared completely impassive, as if carved from stone — an impenetrable mask without a trace of emotion or thought. Even Ritsuka, who had encountered her before, now wondered about her intentions. He could never predict what savage move she would come up with in the next instant of battle. Now, her facial expression told him nothing.

Saint Jeanne d'Arc looked at the defeated Alter with growing regret, and finally lowered her spear. She did it with such a painful sigh, as if the last of her strength had left her weary body and she anticipated imminent death from multiple wounds. But those wounds were not physical — her armor protected her from them. The fallen Joan didn’t react to her gesture, continuing to lie in the same spot. She plunged into deep thoughts, gazing at her heavily rising chest. Gradually, her gaze unfocused, but the expression of concentrated thoughtfulness did not leave her face.

"I created them merely for my own entertainment," Jeanne Alter laughed mockingly, throwing her head back. "They were nothing more than my toys."

"Your counterfeits significantly surpassed the real Servants they were copied from," Leonardo continued in a soft but insistent tone. "You are incredibly talented, Joan. You surpassed even your creator, Gilles de Rais. They were happy and sincerely enjoyed themselves and the wonderful company you bestowed upon them. For that, they loved and cared for you."

Jeanne Alter closed her eyes, unable to bear the compassionate gaze of the genius any longer.

"How dare someone give love and care to such a vengeful, malicious creature as me?" she burst out with bitter bewilderment.

The real Jeanne responded:

"Because you are not the evil you think you are."

"True," Da Vinci nodded in agreement. "Chaldea found no reality where Jeanne d'Arc was a villain. And just as the real Jeanne is no villain, neither can you become one."

"What are you talking about?" Alter muttered gloomily, keeping her eyes closed.

"Anti-hero?" Jeanne Alter asked with a bitter smile. "Do you think it’s that simple? Erase everything that has been done? Forget all the pain and hatred? Start with a clean slate? Where are the guarantees that I won’t snap again?"

"There are no guarantees," Leonardo softly replied. "But there is hope. And there is you yourself. Your choice."

At that moment, a shadow of genuine fear flickered across the face of the defeated Jeanne Alter for the first time.

"If I become a Servant and you summon me…" she paused briefly, struggling with doubts.

For a second, she pondered.

"Why wasn’t I created by someone else?" she said with disappointment. "How humiliating — to be just someone’s failed clone and never become a true Heroic Spirit…"

Glancing at the real Jeanne, Alter cried out with passionate bitterness:

"I wanted so much to be like you! A nothing compared to you, not even resembling your shadow! I hate you for it and myself, and I will always hate! I hate the whole world for how they betrayed us! No matter how many lives I save… my hatred will remain with me forever! I will always seek revenge! Revenge is the only thing I live for!"

Saint Jeanne stepped closer and knelt beside Alter. Her gaze was full of compassion.

"My poor, lost sister," she said gently and placed a hand on Alter's shoulder. "I know your pain, your hatred. But this is not the way. Allow me to share with you the true light."

Da Vinci approached and also touched the shoulder of the defeated:

"Jeanne, you were created in anger and hatred, but your soul is not marked by irreversible evil. Give us the chance to help you find new meaning."

Ritsuka knelt before her.

"Jeanne, I see how your soul cries out for redemption. I promise to be a kind and caring Master for you if you decide to join me. You will no longer be alone."

Tears finally streamed from Jeanne Alter's eyes. She looked at Ritsuka:

"Ritsuka," called Jeanne Alter.

"Yes, Jeanne?" he responded.

"I feel a connection between you and my future 'self.' It is ready to accept you as its Master. Perhaps in the future, I will forget that I was once just a fake Heroic Spirit. Please, take care of me! But I want something good to remain in my memory… Ritsuka, promise me that you will take responsibility for who I will become in the future!"

Finishing her plea, Alter shuddered and froze. After a second, her figure dissipated, turning into a stream of glowing particles of light, vanishing into the air.

The real Joan raised her eyes to the heavens and prayed for the repose of her dark sister's soul.

"And is that all?" flashed through the fading consciousness of Jeanne Alter. "So much pain, so much destruction… for what? For the fleeting satisfaction of revenge? Am I just a shadow doomed to bring destruction forever? Is there no other way…"

At that moment, a blinding light enveloped her, consuming the last remnants of her essence.

***

Ritsuka sat in a cozy lounge room of Chaldea, sipping aromatic coffee from a mug printed with portraits of heroes from some old movie. Something about wizards, but Ritsuka didn’t delve into the details. On the low table in front of him lay several volumes of various books with greasy covers, as if they had been read many times.

Mash Kyrielight, sitting next to him on the sofa, studied reports about the recent operation against Jeanne Alter’s fake Servants. She also held a mug, but with the emblem of The Chronicles of Narnia.

"What a complicated case," she thoughtfully drawled after a minute of silence and took a small sip.

"A complicated case indeed," Ritsuka agreed, leaning back on the sofa cushions and setting down his mug. For a moment, his gaze lingered on a little book about magical creatures existing within the pages of some fantasy world. Mash seemed to dream of visiting there. And the irony of fate was that the most complicated case turned out to be precisely for the side filled with hatred, which nearly destroyed the world. But what would have happened if someone else had gone in her place?

"So now we have a walking embodiment of a glaring inferiority complex, talents, and inexhaustible energy." Mash continued to reflect.

"In other words, a walking disaster?" Ritsuka smirked.

"That depends on who you ask," Mash replied with a warm smile.

An urgent alarm signal spread throughout the entire Chaldea complex. The smile instantly disappeared from Ritsuka’s face.

***

Ritsuka quickly entered a room separated from the rest of the Chaldea facilities, packed with monitors and complex devices. The windows were covered with dark curtains. Maps of the world and various schematics hung on the walls. Among the familiar graphs and charts, glowing runes occasionally appeared, drawn on the walls with a special composition, the formula of which only a few initiates knew. The faint smell of magic and ozone filled the air, and sometimes barely noticeable electrical discharges ran between the devices.

"What happened?" he asked, scanning the three specialists in white coats who were intently monitoring the data on the screens.

"The supercomputer detects the appearance of a new singularity," the senior one replied, without taking his eyes off the monitor. "After June 2, 1998, no life forms are detected on Earth. Global catastrophe."

"What caused the singularity?"

"According to the data, someone gained access to the Holy Grail, Master Ritsuka. The probable geolocation is established — it's a remote, sparsely populated area of England in northern Scotland."

Ritsuka glanced at the large monitor. He saw the ruins of an old but entirely ordinary medieval castle. Nothing remarkable, just enough so that people never took photos nearby.

Ritsuka frowned. Some magical objects on the shelves twitched and stirred, as if sensing his anxiety.

"Did you identify the person who gained control over the Grail?"

"No," the specialist shook his head. "We are dealing with a previously unknown historical figure. Not a single mention of her exists in any parallel realities viewed by Chaldea."

"Don’t you find," Ritsuka slowly remarked, "that this person has too much power to remain in the shadows in all other realities?"

"We drew the same conclusion, Master. We assume that the observed world resembles a box with a double bottom. We only see its outer part, while the true cause of the crisis is hidden inside, where we cannot penetrate directly."

Ritsuka nodded. Nearby, ancient folios barely audibly rustled, their covers adorned with beautiful inscriptions and coats of arms.

"We recommend sending one of the Servants for reconnaissance," the specialist continued.

"That’s too risky," Ritsuka replied after a pause. "By sending a Servant there, I risk becoming the primary cause of the catastrophe. And why only a Servant? Can’t I go with them?"

"I’m afraid that your presence in that world would make you part of its history, Master Ritsuka. Which means you would become one of the causes of the singularity and wouldn’t be able to observe its development from the outside. Chaldea shouldn’t exert excessive influence on the observed worlds."

Ritsuka nodded. That made sense.

"And if only my presence became the cause, then Chaldea would create more problems than it solves," he said. "Didn’t I prevent the emergence of singularities before?"

"Undoubtedly, Master. But this time the situation is especially unpredictable. A reconnaissance raid by a Servant will give us key information that we missed during analysis. This will be a more reliable method."

"Understood," Ritsuka finally agreed. "Whom do you recommend sending?"

***

In the huge round hall at the center of Chaldea stood a strange device — giant rings entangled with wires and cables. Complex runes and magical symbols were inscribed on them from the outside. Ritsuka stood before this time machine, pensively gazing into the distance.

Numerous technicians and scientists bustled around, adjusting the equipment and launching systems. Bright lamps illuminated the entire hall, preparing for a powerful energy surge. It seemed as if the space around the machine slightly vibrated, and the air was thick with electrified anticipation. Any minute now, this device would come to life, mechanisms would spring into action, and once again make fiction a reality. But Ritsuka was preoccupied: his thoughts were entirely consumed by the difficult choice.

"Whom will you send into the past, Master Ritsuka?" Leonardo addressed him.

"Whom?" echoed in Ritsuka’s head. Yes, this choice was far from simple…

"The date is set!" a shout came from above.

"Confirming date setup! July 30, 1994!" other technicians responded.

Whom will you send, Ritsuka?

Whom to send? Who would handle it better than the other Servants? Whom would he trust with his own life in such a dangerous operation? Thoughts swirled in his head.

"I confirm the date setup," he mechanically pronounced, "the date is set correctly!"

Who would handle it better than the other Servants?

"Location is set!"

Location… Ritsuka glanced at a small monitor displaying the coordinates.

Whom would you trust with your own life?

"Confirming location setup! Great Britain, London, Charing Cross Road!"

Something tightened in Ritsuka’s chest. These coordinates led straight to… It can’t be! He focused, staring at the monitor. No, it was just an ordinary, unremarkable pub.

"Choose, Master, whom you want to send," said Leonarda.

"Master Ritsuka, send me!" Astolfo immediately jumped in front of him. "You can count on me! I’ll never let you down!"

Ritsuka took a deep breath. He knew well the abilities and character of Astolfo, but…

"No, Astolfo," he shook his head.

"What?" Astolfo asked in confusion.

"External temporal contour is ready." Another call came from above.

"I believe you’re a great knight and capable of much," Ritsuka began gently. "I believe you’d never let me down."

Astolfo beamed at these words of praise.

"But why then, Master Ritsuka? Why do you refuse to send me, knowing all this?"

"Astolfo, if I send you, I’ll immediately reveal all my cards to the enemy," Ritsuka seriously replied. "Whoever it is, it would be a very rash move on my part. Sorry, but I must bet on the dark horse."

"On whom?" Astolfo asked with sincere confusion.

"Opening of the temporal corridor in five seconds…" came more shouts.

Ritsuka took a deep breath.

"On the one who wants to become a hero but can only seek revenge."

Astolfo’s eyes, full of doubt, met his gaze.

"But you wouldn’t trust her with your life, Master Ritsuka?"

At that moment, a deafening hum sounded, and the giant rings of the time machine began to rotate. The runes on the walls lit up brightly, and the entire space of the hall filled with radiance. A dark figure appeared before Ritsuka, froze for an instant, and then was enveloped in a blinding column of light. Another second — and she vanished, leaving behind only a faint smell of ozone and a sense of irretrievable loss.

***

July 30, 1994. On the quiet street of London called Charing Cross Road, between two music shops, in one of the buildings with an inconspicuous sign hid “The Leaky Cauldron” — one of the most famous magical places in the city.

Right at the door of the pub suddenly appeared a figure in black armor. It was Jeanne Alter, transported here from the 21st century just a second ago. Her amber eyes quickly scanned the street, searching for new potential victims. Mentally, she was already preparing to continue her deadly march, but something subtly changed. Instead of the usual smell of soot and blood, her nostrils caught a strange mix of aromas: wood, old books, something sweetish, and indescribably spicy.

Jeanne smirked confidently, inhaling the city-scented air of the quiet London street. Her gaze studied the rare passersby who, by a strange twist of fate, had wandered into this corner.

She closed her eyes and focused, discerning only internal sensations. Somewhere nearby, right here, lived an incredible number of magicians! Jeanne Alter felt their presence as a needle feels the attraction of a powerful magnet. She barely suppressed a chuckle of delight and turned towards the unremarkable building.

The old wooden sign above the entrance read: "The Leaky Cauldron." Like a weightless shadow, Alter slipped inside through the heavy doors. In the smoke-filled hall reigned a dim half-light. Several dozen patrons dressed in strange attire — robes and cloaks of the most incredible colors and styles — quietly conversed, sipping drinks from mugs and glasses. The smell of soot and blood, to which she was so accustomed, was barely perceptible here, giving way to unfamiliar but rather pleasant aromas.

Twisting her lips in surprise, Jeanne froze momentarily at the pub’s entrance, checking her sensations. But a second later, the excitement of being near magical power overwhelmed her again.

"What a lovely masquerade!" she smirked and headed toward the bar.

Taking a high stool at the bar, Jeanne noticed a newspaper lying there out of the corner of her eye and quickly snatched it up — "The Daily Prophet."

"Despite all the efforts of the Ministry, the dangerous prisoner Sirius Black escaped custody organized at Hogwarts by his vigilant professors!" screamed the headline.

Alter scrutinized the moving photograph of the fugitive — a gaunt man with sunken gray eyes and tangled black hair streaked with gray. In the photo, he looked pitiful, beaten by life.

Something in this picture caught her attention. Not the escaped criminal himself, but rather the fact that the photograph moved. "Different magic," a fleeting thought crossed her mind.

Assessing his appearance with a quick glance, Jeanne Alter flipped the page with absolute indifference. Whatever this Sirius had done, he clearly wasn’t someone who could reach the Holy Grail and make world-destroying wishes.

"You can take the newspaper if you want, young lady!" the bartender addressed her, a short, plump man with a kindly face. "It’s been lying here since last month. Nobody reads it anymore."

Jeanne glanced at him and gave him such a look that anyone would have wanted to sink through the floor rather than meet those cruel amber eyes. But the bartender was undeterred and said with a friendly smile:

"Ah, youth! So, I see, you’re new here? Let me help you, young lady."

He quickly finished with another customer, picked up a glass, and began hurriedly pouring something into it. Clearly deciding to treat the stranger to a cocktail.

"I’m treating a beautiful lady on the house!" the bartender smiled, completely ignoring the distrust and confusion written on Jeanne’s face.

"On the other side of the bar, you’ll see a brick wall," the bartender continued, not waiting for Jeanne Alter’s reaction. "Tap the marked bricks a few times with your wand, and you’ll enter Diagon Alley."

He looked expectantly at Jeanne.

"Do you have a magic wand? If not, I’ll guide you myself. There, you can buy clothes, household items, even pets. And at Florian Fortescue’s café, you can try the best ice cream in the world!" the bartender smacked his lips and patted his round belly in delight.

Jeanne listened attentively, not missing the slightest movement of his hands as he handed her the cocktail glass. Her usually blazing amber eyes were now more wary, studying. The unfamiliar environment, strange people, incomprehensible conversations — all this caused her vague unease. She was used to chaos and destruction, the smell of blood and the cries of the dying. Here, everything was different. Too… peaceful.

"At Gringotts Bank, you can ask the goblins for a loan if you have no money. And at Madam Malkin’s, you can buy yourself a beautiful new dress…" he examined her black armor, looking scorched. "Or something more suitable. And at old Tom’s, you can spend the night!"

Having finished mixing the drink, the bartender deftly perched a slice of lemon on the rim of the glass and, stirring it with a straw, placed it in front of Alter.

She took the glass and measured the bartender with an appraising look. In that look, one could read distrust, suspicion, and… a fleeting confusion. She wasn’t used to such treatment. People either feared her or hated her. But this person, apparently, felt neither. He simply… treated her.

"Do you have any other questions, dear?" he asked, continuing to smile warmly.

Taking a sip from the glass and smiling with squinted eyes, Jeanne nodded. The drink turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant in taste. Sweet, with a slight tanginess and a barely noticeable spicy aftertaste. "Not poison," she noted to herself.

"Tell me… about the darkest mage of recent decades."

"Oh, so you’re French? You have a distinctive accent," noted the bartender, wiping the counter with a cloth. "Here, they’re afraid to speak his name aloud. His name is…" he leaned toward Jeanne and lowered his voice to a whisper, “…Voldemort. They say he was so terrible that even after his death, his followers, the Death Eaters, continue to do evil."

Jeanne squeezed the glass so hard that fine cracks began to appear under her fingers. But she didn’t show it.

"Oh, oui," she surprisingly calmly agreed, not looking at what happened to the glass.

"Tell me, miss… what’s your name?... Why are you so nervous?" the bartender asked worriedly. "Better sit down at a table and rest."

Jeanne stared at him with a heavy, piercing gaze. His concern irritated her. She wasn’t used to people caring for her.

"It won’t cost you a single Knut, I promise!" the bartender quickly assured her with a smile. "Wait until the establishment closes, and I’ll tell you about the last Dark Mage of modern times. I’ll share what I know."

Nodding with interest, Jeanne Alter moved and took a free seat at a table in the hall. She sat in the darkest corner, back to the wall, to observe all the patrons. Her gaze slid across the hall, catching strange details: an elderly witch in a pointed hat feeding an owl from her hand, a young wizard engrossed in reading a book, flipping pages with a wave of his wand, a young couple stopping at the pub entrance, tenderly holding hands, smiles shining on both their faces — they had just noticed each other and were rushing to meet, to embrace…

For a moment, Jeanne’s gaze lingered on the couple. Something unfamiliar stirred inside. Not envy, not malice, but rather… a slight tingling. As if for a second, she saw something she was deprived of. Something that the original Jeanne had, but she would never have. Love. Friendship. Family. She sharply shook her head, driving away unwanted thoughts. "Weakness," she hissed to herself. "All this — weakness. I don’t need it."

***

Ritsuka stood before the now-empty time-travel device. Just a minute ago, she had stood there, Jeanne Alter, the dark soul created for vengeance. And now she’s gone. Sent into the past, into a foreign world, on a mission that determines the fate of humanity. "Did I do the right thing?" flashed through his mind. "Why her? Why did I trust her, the one who brought only destruction? Something tells me this was the only right path. But what if I’m wrong?.." He shook his head, dispelling doubts. The decision is made. The die is cast. All that remains is to wait.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up from a nightmare. Lately, they had become more frequent. In his dreams, he saw images of unfamiliar places and people, and after some of them, his scar would distinctly hurt. One such dream ended with the death of some Muggle security guard who was guarding a mansion. The guard had just entered one of the rooms, suspecting that sneaky kids had broken into the mansion, and overheard a conversation between adult men, one of whom he couldn’t see. Harry vividly dreamed how a massive armchair turned toward the Muggle. Every time he tried to remember if he had seen anything in the depths of the chair, his scar would sear with piercing pain. But what frightened Harry the most wasn’t the pain itself. What scared him was that his scar had never hurt before. Or...

Harry remembered how three years ago he had locked eyes with Professor Snape. At that moment, he had felt a similar sensation in his scar. Back then, Harry didn’t know that it was actually because of Quirrell, who was hiding Voldemort's face under his turban. But the pain he felt now was incomparable to that.

After pondering what to do, Harry wrote a letter to his godfather. Sirius Black was the closest and dearest person to him on the entire planet, his only relative. He would definitely read the letter and advise him. Harry wrote the letter to his godfather with hope, not so much expecting that Sirius would explain why his scar might be hurting—no. He wrote the letter hoping to receive at least a few lines in response that would warm him and help him overcome his fear.

Recalling his school friends, Harry thought that the clever Hermione would have advised him to write to Dumbledore while she looked it up in a reference book. But as soon as he tried to imagine such a letter, Harry immediately wilted. What would such a letter look like, and how would the wise headmaster perceive it? "Dear Professor Dumbledore, my scar hurts?" No, writing to Sirius was the best option. There was no need to bother Professor Dumbledore; he had enough worries without dealing with students’ scar pains.

After sending the letter to Sirius with another tropical bird — which he had been sending instead of owls lately — Harry lay down on the bed for a second. Sleep eluded him completely, so he got up and slowly began preparing for breakfast.

***

That day, after a modest breakfast consisting of the rabbit food despised by Uncle Vernon but calmly accepted by Harry, who had received four cakes from his friends the day before for his birthday, something unthinkable happened: the Dursleys' doorbell rang.

Uncle Vernon, having examined the issue raised by the postman on the agenda, became enraged. Knowing his temper, looking at the envelope plastered with stamps except for one square inch with the tiny address of the Dursleys meticulously written on it, and learning the content of the letter, Harry clearly felt the thin ice he had just stepped onto. Fearing he might accidentally spoil Uncle Vernon’s mood, Harry carefully chose his words during their conversation. But this lasted only until the moment when Uncle Vernon, who didn’t mince words, called Mrs. Weasley a fatso. Gently hinting that he was writing a letter to Sirius right then, Harry dampened his fiery uncle’s spirit and even got his consent to attend the Quidditch World Cup. If only he could have foreseen the events that would follow!

***

On the fateful evening of the next day, Harry and the Dursleys were waiting for the Weasley family in the living room. The meeting was set for five o'clock in the evening. But it was already past six, and there was still no sign of the Weasleys. Harry was starting to worry about his friends when something happened that only he could have guessed. The Weasleys hadn’t come by car; instead, they had parked under the electric fireplace in the Dursleys' living room.

“Floo powder,” Harry thought.

“KABOOM!” said the chimney, before the electric fireplace flew out, followed by his friends swinging a cord.

Harry looked at them endlessly happy. For him, there was no chaos in the living room or gloomy Dursleys disturbed by the mess. He simply enjoyed the moment. Only when it was time to leave, when Mr. Weasley lit a fire in the ruined fireplace and Harry said goodbye to them, seeing Dudley fall victim to gluttony at the last moment, did Harry realize that something was wrong.

At the scraped wooden table sat four red-haired boys and an unfamiliar girl. After stepping out of the fireplace, Harry adjusted his glasses, trying to dispel the haze of smoke. In the dim light of the living room, he made out the stranger. Her snow-white hair sharply contrasted with her dark, almost black dress. But what struck Harry the most were her eyes—amber, piercing, as if seeing right through him.

The moment their eyes met, Harry felt a sharp stab of fear, as if a thin icy needle had pierced his heart. In an instant, a vision flashed before his eyes, freezing the blood in his veins. A fiery sky, covered with crimson clouds, cast ominous shadows over the battlefield. Broken spears protruded from the bodies of fallen warriors, twisted metal armor lay everywhere like shed snake skin. Shadows darted across the field, and arrows whistled through the air... and something else. Something that made Harry’s breath catch and his stomach clench into a tight knot.

And amidst this chaos stood she. Her white hair fluttered in the wind, and on her head gleamed a broken crown of dark metal. Amber eyes, burning with cold, inhuman flame, stared directly at Harry. A dark cuirass protected her chest, and a sharp-edged pauldron shielded her shoulder. On her legs were fabric stockings and high boots with steel soles. Around her neck hung several rows of chains. In her hand, she held a long spear with a banner displaying a distorted cross-like symbol. A torn, burnt crimson cloak billowed behind her back.

The vision disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind an unpleasant chill, confusion, and… strange curiosity. Harry involuntarily took a step back, trying to catch his breath. His heart was pounding in his chest. The girl watched him with a slight squint, her face remaining completely inscrutable. When Harry flinched, she only shrugged slightly and averted her gaze.

“Oh, Harry! We have other guests besides you,” Ron cheerfully announced, breaking the awkward silence. “This is a girl from France; her name is Joan.”

“Je ne comprends pas,” Joan quietly said, her voice unexpectedly high and melodic. She looked challengingly at Ron.

“Oh, yeah,” Ron muttered, slightly embarrassed. “She doesn’t speak English very well yet.”

Chapter Text

Harry seemed to have just touched the pillow when Mrs. Weasley woke him up. A wonderful night without dreams. Much better this way than with another portion of horrors.

At dawn, a procession led by Mr. Weasley along with Harry, Hermione, and Jeanne set off towards the portal at Stoatshead Hill.

"Somewhere along the way I missed..." Harry asked Ron, "Mr. Weasley said he got tickets to the championship as a favor. Where did Jeanne get her ticket?"

"An absurd coincidence," Ron snorted, "One ticket stuck to another, and no one noticed until Dad started recounting them."

"Just like that?" Harry was surprised.

"I’m telling you—an absurd coincidence. Dad tried to invite Mum to the championship, but she refused outright. She says she doesn’t like the noise, and besides, she has too much to do at home. In the end, she insisted on sending Jeanne with us. Lucky us, right?"

"Indeed, lucky," Harry replied, pondering the mysteriously stuck tickets.

Only when they all gathered together atop the hill, on a tiny patch of land alongside the two Diggorys, did Harry unexpectedly find himself face-to-face with Jeanne—attentive, focused, and resolutely inscrutable. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t tell whether she was thinking about touching the portal, which looked like an old boot, or taking someone nearby by the hand. At the moment when the entire group’s feet left the ground and they were whisked far, far away, Harry noticed how the faces of those traveling by portal for the first time changed. Only Jeanne's face remained unchanged. It retained its expression even upon landing. Contrary to the adults' expectations and the reality that befell the youngsters, Jeanne landed on both feet instead of falling haphazardly onto the meadow near the landing site, as if she had traveled by portal before. Too bad Bill wasn’t around; otherwise, he could ask her something. Thoughts about her inexplicable calmness seemed to occupy only him, so after getting up, the group continued their journey to the tent camp near the stadium. In this tent city, they encountered many familiar and unfamiliar faces, similar and different. There, Harry saw foreign students for the first time.

"What do you think, who are they?" he asked, "They’re clearly not from Hogwarts."

"Apparently from some foreign school," Ron guessed. "I know such schools exist, but I’ve never met anyone from there. Bill corresponded with someone from Brazil… ages ago… He even wanted to go there on exchange, but our parents didn’t have the means, so Bill wrote that he couldn’t come. The Brazilian friend got very offended and sent him a hat with a curse—Bill's ears curled up because of it."

"But what about Jeanne? Where does she study?"

"You’d better ask her yourself where she studies. All we managed to extract from her is that Jeanne is transferring to our school."

"Don’t you find it strange—to go study in a foreign school where they teach in a language you don’t speak?"

"Such questions apparently don’t bother her," Ron shrugged. "Maybe at some level, everything is under control for her. Perhaps they’ll finally assign her a translator, or cast some spell on her."

Harry shrugged in response. If a wizard friend, who breathes and lives magic his whole life, doesn’t know something, what can he know?

"Where did you find her?"

"Mum and Dad went to Diagon Alley when preparing to receive guests, and they returned with her. They couldn’t pass by a lonely girl and invited her to stay with us."

"What was she doing alone in Diagon Alley?"

"Buying school supplies. She’s our classmate, Harry."

"Interesting, what house will she be sorted into?"

In response, Ron merely shrugged.

***

The kids didn’t have time to get bored during the day—they helped Mr. Weasley set up their spot in the tent city, chatted with new and old acquaintances, strolled, talked, and had fun. Somehow, Harry even missed the moment when Fred and George made their sports bet on the championship.

"... Ireland will win, but Krum will catch the Snitch," Fred declared.

Harry would hardly remember this bet later, nor would Hermione or Ron think about it. Only Jeanne attentively watched Ludo Bagman’s face with her piercing gaze and silently listened. This whole scene might have chilled Harry and Ron to the bone, but at that moment, they weren’t thinking about the new acquaintance they couldn’t even talk to properly. Meanwhile, Jeanne seemed like a lurking predator. No one could say what she was thinking, while she kept silent and listened intently, as if lying in wait and patiently biding her time.

***

In the evening, the tent city came alive especially vibrantly, and if during the day wizards diligently pretended to be Muggles, now magic bubbled everywhere. Transgressing traders were everywhere, and the crowd thickened. Under the cover of darkness, a gong sounded.

"It’s time to go!" Mr. Weasley said.

The colossal size of the stadium, capable of accommodating a dozen cathedrals, impressed not only Harry. In their group, no one remained unimpressed. Even Jeanne turned her head in amazement, trying to take in the enormous structure while Mr. Weasley explained how five hundred top-notch wizards spent a year building it and covering it with protective charms. Impressed by this stadium, akin to a new Wonder of the World like the Egyptian Pyramids, Harry even involuntarily felt a slight chill on his skin. One hundred thousand seats! And they got some of the best seats—in the ministerial box. Over the next half hour, people arrived at their box, each more important than the last. However, the most important figures weren’t even the highest-ranking ministry officials or the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. That honor belonged to the Malfoys, who took their places behind the spots occupied by the Weasleys and their guests. Their importance was so great that even Jeanne couldn’t resist smiling at their excessive arrogance, drawing attention to herself.

Noticing her reaction, Draco protested.

"And who exactly are you?"

Without delay, she rose from her seat, extended her right hand forward, and began speaking in French. Her voice was deep and beautiful. Draco didn’t rush to kiss her hand, but his mood changed.

"Be careful, Draco!" warned Lucius Malfoy. "Some Frenchwomen might have veela relatives. Fall for one, and you’ll forget your own name!" Turning to Jeanne, he inquired, "So what is the name of this lovely creature my son has the honor of meeting?"

She looked at him for a moment as if he were dirt she was afraid of getting dirty, smirked nastily, and replied:

"Jeanne from Arc."

Lucius Malfoy tried to measure the young Frenchwoman with a glance in return, but his attempt turned into a staring contest, which he lost. Jeanne’s amber eyes were like those of a hungry predator, and the recently hidden monster had found its prey. Not wanting to figure out right then and there who or what this ominous being was, Lucius hurried to take their seats.

At that moment, Ron and Harry inadvertently thought about her school future.

"She’ll have a tough time if the Hat sorts her into Slytherin," Ron whispered to his friend. "Malfoy will bury her alive for that."

"Maybe it’s better if she ends up with us?" Harry asked.

"Maybe, yes. Better that way."

***

The match ended, leaving a sea of vivid impressions for the kids and adults alike. Everyone rejoiced and celebrated. Especially Fred and George, since their game prediction came true, meaning they were now in line for a golden reward.

On the way back to the tent, Harry caught up with Jeanne. She walked with her head slightly tilted back, gazing somewhere into the night sky. Her white hair seemed almost luminous in the dark. Harry couldn’t help but admire her.

"So, do you understand English?" he asked, a little embarrassed. "I saw how Malfoy spoke to you, and…"

Jeanne slowly turned her gaze to Harry. Her amber eyes sparkled in the dark.

"A little," she replied, her voice ringing with metallic undertones, like the sound of a blade. "Enough to understand when I’m being insulted."

Harry felt the color rising to his cheeks.

"I didn’t... I just wanted to say that if you want, you can talk to us more often. You'll learn the language faster that way," he mumbled.

Jeanne closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, playful sparks danced in them. A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on her face.

"Merci," she responded with a playful tone. "But I prefer to observe. And listen. It’s much more interesting that way."

She turned away again and gazed into the sky. Harry looked there too. Above them stretched an endless starry sky.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"Hmm," Jeanne let out a short, somewhat disdainful sound. "I’ve seen better."

She fell silent. Harry didn’t know what to say. He felt her gaze on him but didn’t dare turn around. Tension hung in the air.

"Goodnight, 'Arry," Jeanne finally said, her voice once again cold and detached, with metallic undertones.

"Goodnight, Jeanne," he replied and, feeling flustered, hurried to his tent.

Chapter Text

Before falling asleep, Harry imagined himself flying like Krum, stepping onto the stadium as Ludo Bagman's voice boomed across the field:

"And now entering the field… Po-o-tter!"

Whether he had drifted off into a daydream or his imagination had blended with real dreams, he was abruptly pulled from his reverie by an unexpected shout from Mr. Weasley:

"Get up! Ron, Harry, wake up, quickly!"

The boys quickly realized the change in atmosphere. All the joy and excitement of the competition had faded, replaced by cries of despair and terror. People were running around, seeking shelter. Anxiety hung thick in the air. Something terrible was happening.

Leaving the tent, Ron and Harry looked around. Amidst the general panic, they saw real Death Eaters for the first time in their lives. Drunken Death Eaters were tormenting Mr. Roberts’ family — the Muggle camp manager — and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

"This is madness… sheer madness!" Ron lamented.

From the boys' tent emerged Ron’s brothers and Mr. Weasley, while Ginny, Hermione, and Jeanne rushed out of the girls' tent. The latter fixed a predatory gaze on the Death Eaters the moment she noticed them. It was as if an unknown beast had found new prey, and the Death Eaters appeared to her no more than swift quarry.

"We’ll help the Ministry guards!" Mr. Weasley shouted. "All of you—head into the forest and stay together. I’ll come for you as soon as we deal with this."

Taking Bill, Percy, and Charlie with him, Mr. Weasley dashed toward the advancing column of Death Eaters.

"Let’s go!" Fred grabbed Ginny by the hand and pulled her into the forest.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George rushed after them. After a brief hesitation, Jeanne followed suit: for a moment, she stood still, watching the advancing Death Eaters, but decided not to lag behind her new acquaintances. Reaching the trees, they turned back.

The colorful lanterns that had illuminated the path to the stadium went dark; dark silhouettes moved between the trees; somewhere, children were crying; anxious exclamations and panicked voices echoed through the cold night air.

Harry felt people pushing against him from all sides, their faces indistinguishable. Then he heard Ron gasp in pain.

"What happened?" Hermione asked worriedly, stopping so abruptly that Harry bumped into her. "Ron, where are you? Oh, how silly."

She lit her wand and directed a narrow beam of light across the path—Ron was sprawled on the ground.

"Tripped over a root," he grumbled angrily, getting back to his feet.

"With feet that size, it’s no wonder," a voice drawled sarcastically from behind, stretching out each word.

Malfoy stood two steps away, leaning casually against a tree with an utterly serene expression. Arms crossed over his chest, he watched the events in the camp through a gap in the trees.

Ron reacted violently to the unexpected encounter with Malfoy. Malfoy didn’t appreciate the reaction and advised Ron to watch his words.

"Wouldn’t it be better for you to clear out of here? You wouldn’t want her to be spotted, would you?" Malfoy nodded towards Hermione.

A deafening boom came from the field, and for a moment, everything around was illuminated by a flash of green light. Instinctively, Harry pressed closer to Ron. Hermione, on the other hand, straightened up, her face expressing outrage.

"And what’s that supposed to mean?" she asked sharply, looking toward the flash.

"Granger, they’re looking for Muggles," Malfoy drawled, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Care to show off your knickers between heaven and earth? Oh, and there’s that French girl with you… I wonder, could she be one of your kind?"

Harry saw Jeanne tense up. She sharply turned to Malfoy, her movements quick and fluid, like a predatory cat. For a moment, she approached him closely, her amber eyes, glowing like hot coals, piercing into him. Harry felt a chill run down his spine. Even Malfoy seemed to tone it down a bit.

"Whatever you’re plotting—my father will crush you into dust, girl!" Malfoy blurted out, trying to maintain his feigned calm, though his voice trembled slightly.

"And where are your parents?" Harry snapped, unable to contain his anger. "Out there in masks, am I wrong?"

Malfoy turned to Harry, his smile becoming strained.

"Well… even if they were there, I doubt I’d tell you, Potter. Agree?"

Jeanne again turned her gaze to Malfoy. A strange expression appeared on her face that Harry couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t regret, disdain, or anger… something else. Something cold and frightening. She glanced at the flashes of green light in the distance, then back at Malfoy. Her lips slowly stretched into a smirk that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. That smile was worse than any grimace he had ever seen.

She suddenly stomped her foot. Under her shoe, a branch snapped with a crunch. Malfoy flinched and nearly fell but managed to grab onto the tree. In his eyes, Harry saw genuine fear.

"Oh, just drop it," Hermione said, glaring at Malfoy with disgust. "Let’s go find the others."

"Don’t stick your bushy head out, Granger," Malfoy sneered.

"Let’s go," Hermione repeated and dragged Ron and Harry toward the road.

"I’d bet anything his father is one of those masked thugs!" Ron declared angrily.

"Well, in any case, the Ministry will catch him!" Hermione remarked earnestly. "I just don’t understand where everyone else has gone?"

Fred, George, and Ginny were nowhere to be seen, though the road was packed with people—all nervously glancing back at the chaotic camp. Nearby, a group of pajama-clad teenagers was loudly arguing. One girl separated from the group, approached them, and began speaking in French. Hermione guessed—they were students from Beauxbatons. Including Jeanne in the conversation, they found out that the French students were looking for the headmaster of their academy. After the conversation, Hermione thanked Jeanne for her help but looked at her with a hint of distrust. Harry and Ron caught that look in their friend’s eyes.

"Do you suspect her of something?" Harry whispered.

"Only that she hasn’t studied at Beauxbatons," Hermione replied. "She doesn’t even know the name of their academy’s headmaster. How is that possible?"

"Maybe the headmaster of their academy isn’t as popular or prominent a figure as Professor Dumbledore," Ron suggested.

"Oh, come on!" Harry tried to intervene. "Maybe Beauxbatons isn’t the only school in France."

"If that’s the case, I hope she doesn’t embarrass herself in front of our teachers, especially Professor Snape!"

Ron lit his wand and looked around.

"Fred and George couldn’t have gone far," he said.

Harry also reached into his pocket for his wand but found only the now-useless Omnioculars he had used at the stadium.

"Oh no, it can’t be! I’ve lost my wand!" he exclaimed in dismay.

"You’re joking?"

Ron and Hermione raised their wands higher to illuminate the ground, but it was futile—the wand was nowhere to be seen. They glanced at Jeanne. She held her wand like an experienced fencer. Her wand resembled a sword—long, sharp, with almost a full hilt.

Ollivander probably doesn’t make wands like that, Hermione thought upon seeing it.

"Maybe it’s still in the tent?" Ron suggested.

"Perhaps it fell out of your pocket when we were running?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered, "maybe."

The next moment, the kids were frightened by a suspicious rustle. To their relief, it turned out to be Winky the house-elf. Harry remembered her well—she had occupied a seat in the ministerial box for her master. Now she was behaving strangely—muttering about bad wizards and moving as if restrained by something invisible.

The road led them deeper into the forest, but Fred and George were still nowhere to be seen. Along the way, they stumbled upon a group of goblins clucking over a huge sack of gold. Undoubtedly, they had made a winning bet. Not far from them, they saw three beautiful veelas, surrounded by men of all kinds boasting shamelessly. Seeing through their simple lies, the trio chuckled silently and hurried past.

When the voices of the veelas and their admirers faded into the distance, deep in the forest, the group encountered Ludo Bagman. He looked unwell, as if troubled by something. They told him what had happened, and without wasting time on lengthy conversations, he disapparated. The group decided to stay there and started discussing the events and their causes, but before they could think of anything serious, they heard a suspicious noise in the bushes. Hiding so they wouldn’t be seen, in complete silence, they noticed a shadow emerge from the forest.

"Mortmordre!" an unknown voice cried, pointing a wand skyward. Something massive shot upward, and Harry hurriedly looked up to see where it was heading.

"What the…" Ron gasped, jumping to his feet and staring at the strange apparition.

In the sky shone a giant green skull, with a snake-like tongue protruding from it. The forest was pierced by screams. What happened? Harry wondered. Could all this commotion really have been caused by this symbol in the sky?

"Hey, who’s there?" Harry called out, trying to get the attention of the person who had conjured the sign. No one responded.

"Harry, come on, let’s go!" Hermione grabbed his jacket and pulled him back.

Jeanne attempted to venture out, but Ron grabbed her by the leg and pulled her along.

"What’s going on?" Harry asked, seeing Hermione’s pale, frightened face.

"It’s the Dark Mark, Harry!" Hermione dragged him with all her might. "You-Know-Who’s sign!"

"Voldemort?"

"Harry, hurry!" Hermione pleaded.

They were about to leave the clearing when twenty loud cracks sounded around them, and wizards appeared with wands drawn.

"Down!" Harry shouted, knocking his companions to the ground.

The next moment, those twenty wizards could have struck them.

"Stop!" a familiar voice thundered. "Cease! That’s my son!"

Harry lifted his head slightly. Above them stood Mr. Weasley.

"Ron… Harry!" his voice trembled. "Hermione… Jeanne… Are you all right?"

"Step aside, Arthur."

Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, approached them along with the Ministry wizards. He interrogated the kids, expecting to catch them in casting the Dark Mark, but they swore they hadn’t summoned it.

"Did any of you see where the Dark Mark came from?" Mr. Weasley asked.

The kids pointed to where they had seen the person who cast it. The wizards headed in the indicated direction. They found the culprit. It was Winky the house-elf, holding Harry’s wand in her hands.

A couple of hours later, Harry tried to fall asleep but couldn’t. The events of the evening kept replaying in his mind. Before his eyes stood the terrified Winky, assuring Mr. Crouch that she hadn’t summoned the Dark Mark, hadn’t seen anyone, and hadn’t used Harry’s wand. She had merely found the wand at the spot where the Dark Mark appeared. Still, Mr. Crouch was adamant. He intended to free her, never wanting to deal with Winky again.

"I don’t need a house-elf who doesn’t follow my orders."

"Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers launched the Dark Mark every time they killed someone," Mr. Weasley’s words echoed in Harry’s mind as he drifted off to sleep. "The horror it inspired… you have no idea. You were too young. Just imagine approaching your home, seeing the Dark Mark hovering above it, and realizing what you’ll find inside… Everyone feared the worst… the absolute worst…"

Three days ago, Harry had been awakened by a burning sensation in his scar. Today, for the first time in thirteen years, someone had launched Voldemort’s emblem into the sky. He couldn’t explain all that had happened, but subconsciously, he felt a connection between these events.

Chapter Text

The rest of the holidays flew by unnoticed. When they returned to The Burrow, Mrs. Weasley was on the verge of tears because of what had happened. After breakfast, gathered together in one room with his friends, Harry told them about the incident with his scar. His friends' reaction was predictable and entirely in line with Harry’s expectations.

The following week, a sensational article by the famous journalist Rita Skeeter thundered through the pages of the Daily Prophet. In it, the author gleefully dissected every skeleton in the Ministry’s closet, savoring each tiny detail. Harry thought that Mr. Crouch had been lucky to hush up the story about his house-elf in time; otherwise, Skeeter's article would have been even more explosive.

On the last day of the holidays, Ron's mother outfitted the kids with dress robes for the journey. Harry’s robe looked much more presentable than Ron’s, which led to an argument between Ron and his mother. Ron flatly refused to wear it out of fear of embarrassing himself in front of the entire school.

The next morning, Harry felt a slight sadness at the passing of the holidays. Ahead of him lay the return to Hogwarts, now with a new acquaintance. He didn’t know which house Jeanne would be sorted into, but her eyes sparkled with lively interest. She couldn’t wait to find herself in the famous “Hogwarts,” and such an opportunity awaited her by the evening of that very day.

At the table this time, there was a discussion about the unexpected nighttime attack on Mad-Eye Moody. Mr. Weasley had urgently left the house to assist the old Auror.

Throughout the day and the entire journey to Hogwarts, there were remarkable and mysterious hints at some event that was supposed to unfold at the school this year. Even the usually sharp-tongued Malfoy, after having a good laugh at Ron’s dress robes, hinted at an upcoming chance to make some money.

The arrival of the Hogwarts Express at Hogsmeade station was accompanied by rolls of thunder. A storm was approaching the castle. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Jeanne, and Neville climbed with great pleasure into one of the horseless carriages, from which they could comfortably watch the raging weather. Inside, they sympathized with the first-years, whom Hagrid had to ferry across the lake in boats, adhering to the long-standing tradition.

***

Upon arriving at the castle, Jeanne met Professor McGonagall. The strict witch in square glasses, her lips tightly pursed, immediately singled out the new student from the crowd of drenched students. Harry and his friends were also in poor shape — the ride in the thestral-drawn carriage had left traces of rain and mud on their clothes. Peeves also considered it his duty to "welcome" the kids upon arrival, pelting them with water bombs, which did nothing to help them dry off.

"Mademoiselle d’Arc," Professor McGonagall addressed Jeanne, her voice clear and slightly sharp. "I am Professor McGonagall. Welcome to Hogwarts. You will undergo the Sorting Ceremony. Please wait here with the first-years."

Jeanne glanced at Professor McGonagall with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Sparks of amusement danced in her amber eyes.

"The Sorting?" she repeated, her voice ringing. "A quoi bon? I already know where my place is."

"I’m sorry?" McGonagall asked, raising an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

"I said," Jeanne repeated more slowly, carefully enunciating each word, "why do I need this? I already know where I will end up."

"This is a mandatory procedure, mademoiselle," Professor McGonagall said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "For everyone."

Jeanne shrugged and, without replying, turned away, beginning to examine the portraits on the walls. A flicker of something—boredom or hidden amusement—flashed in her eyes. Suddenly, a crash echoed through the hall, and a waterfall poured down from the ceiling, drenching the students below from head to toe. Harry and his friends, who were already soaked from the ride with the thestrals, got another soaking. Peeves zoomed past, cackling maliciously and waving a huge bucket.

"Peeves!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall, frowning sternly. "Stop this nonsense immediately!"

But Peeves only laughed louder and disappeared into the wall, leaving behind a puddle and a group of indignant first-years. Jeanne watched this spectacle with undisguised interest. For a moment, she fixed her gaze on the spot where Peeves had vanished, and Harry, noting her attention to the poltergeist, guessed that some plan had just formed in her mind. He even noticed a glint in her eyes that could be mistaken for admiration.

Professor McGonagall sighed and addressed Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville:

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr. Longbottom," she said sternly. "Why are you still here? Don’t you know that dinner has already started? Or… are you doubting the correctness of your own Sorting?"

Harry opened his mouth to explain about Peeves and his water bombs, but then thought better of it. Professor McGonagall was unlikely to appreciate such explanations. He and his friends hurried into the Great Hall. As he passed Jeanne, Harry involuntarily slowed his pace. Their eyes met. For a fraction of a second, Harry lost himself in the depths of her amber eyes. He saw in them not only mystery and coldness, but also… a spark. And that spark seemed to respond to something inside him. Jeanne gave a barely noticeable smile, and that smile was meant only for him. Harry felt his cheeks flush, and he hurried to catch up with his friends.

***

The Great Hall was magnificent and richly decorated for the start of the new school year. Despite the bad weather, which had even seeped into the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, it was beautiful. Golden goblets and plates shimmered in the light of thousands of candles floating above the tables. Students were taking their seats at the house tables. Upon entering the hall, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville sat as usual at the Gryffindor table.

By a strange twist of fate, Harry had only ever attended his own Sorting before, though first-years arrived every year to study at Hogwarts. Now he had the opportunity to see how new students were Sorted for the first time in three years.

Several seats at the staff table remained empty: Hagrid was absent, battling the weather on the lake with the first-years, as was Professor McGonagall and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

"I wonder when they’ll start serving food?" Ron grumbled, rubbing his stomach. "I could eat a whole hippogriff right now."

At that moment, the doors swung open, and Professor McGonagall entered, leading a line of frightened first-years. Behind them, slightly detached, walked Jeanne. Her eyes sparkled as she curiously surveyed the Great Hall, which she was seeing for the first time. Watching her, Harry couldn’t deny that the excitement in her eyes made her even more… attractive.

The Sorting Hat sang its song, and Professor McGonagall stepped forward to make an announcement:

"Attention, please!" announced Professor McGonagall as the first-years lined up in front of the staff table. "Today we not only have new first-year students, but also Mademoiselle d’Arc from France, who will be joining the fourth year. She will also undergo the Sorting Ceremony. Please be polite and welcoming."

Ron found the Sorting unbearably long, but the list of first-years showed no signs of ending. Professor McGonagall continued calling out names, and the Hat shouted out the names of the houses. Finally, the last first-year was sorted.

"Jeanne d’Arc," McGonagall called the final name.

Jeanne approached the stool slowly. Her movements were smooth and graceful, as if she were dancing. When Professor McGonagall placed the Hat on her head, Jeanne closed her eyes. There was no trace of nervousness on her face, only a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

Jeanne walked up to Professor McGonagall and sat on the stool, after which the professor placed the Sorting Hat on her head. No one could say exactly what happened next. Some claimed that Jeanne sat under the Sorting Hat for an eternity; others said it hadn’t even been a second. Harry noticed that while sitting under the Hat, she closed her eyes and quietly hummed something to herself, as if conversing with the Hat.

Seeing this, he remembered his own Sorting, which had also felt agonizingly long. To this day, the Hat’s voice sometimes still echoed in his head.

"Not Slytherin, eh? But you could achieve greatness in Slytherin…"

He remembered how the Hat had only sorted him into Gryffindor because he had specifically asked it to. In those moments, the torturous waiting turned into mounting tension. Remembering his own experience, Harry clenched his fists under the table, hoping for something without knowing exactly what.

"Gryffindor!" the Hat exclaimed.

Jeanne opened her eyes. Her usual self-satisfied smile reappeared on her face. She removed the Hat and walked over to the Gryffindor table. The students shifted to make room, and she sat next to Harry. He felt her proximity, the light scent of her perfume, and his heart began to race.

"Why did it take so long?" Ron asked, grimacing. "I thought I’d die of hunger."

"The Hat wanted to send me to Slytherin," Jeanne replied calmly and confidently. "I had to… persuade it a little."

She winked at Harry, and he once again felt that strange mix of fear and admiration.

After a hearty and delicious feast to celebrate the start of the new school year, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat. In his speech, he announced that there would be no Quidditch matches this year. A wave of outrage and astonished exclamations swept through the hall.

"This is related to events that will begin in October and continue throughout the school year. They will require all of the teachers' time and energy, but I am sure you will find them truly enjoyable. It is with great pleasure that I announce that this year at Hogwarts..."

Accompanied by an especially loud thunderclap, the doors of the Great Hall burst open with a bang, and a stranger entered. With an artificial leg, a magical eye spinning in all directions, covered in scars, wearing a traveling cloak and loudly clacking cane, he strode through the entire Great Hall to the staff table, shook hands with Dumbledore, exchanged a few whispered words, and then limped to the empty seat. He picked up a sausage, brought it to the remnants of his nose, sniffed it, and satisfied with its smell, pulled the plate of sausages toward him.

"Allow me to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore cheerfully announced in the ensuing silence. "Professor Moody."

Dumbledore and Hagrid clapped their hands, but the students did not join in the applause, something that had never happened in previous years. Never before had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher been met with such coldness and suspicion within the castle walls.

Dumbledore smiled at the students, who were watching Moody with rapt attention, and continued his speech.

"As I was saying, in the coming months, we will have the honor of hosting an extraordinarily exciting event, the likes of which have not been seen in this century. It is with immense pleasure that I inform you that this year at Hogwarts, the Triwizard Tournament will take place."

Chapter Text

By morning, the storm had subsided, leaving behind only freshness and the smell of wet earth. However, the sky in the Great Hall continued to glower — apparently, even magic couldn't overcome the mood of nature. The morning classes consisted of Herbology with Professor Sprout, where they were squeezing pus from bubotubers — an activity that hardly inspired enthusiasm in anyone — and Care of Magical Creatures. During this lesson, the Gryffindors together with the Slytherins attempted to feed the blast-ended skrewts. These strange creatures, capable of simultaneously burning, stinging, and biting, evoked bewilderment and fear in most students.

"Who on earth needs these... monsters?" Malfoy asked disdainfully, jumping back from another blast-ended skrewt that tried to bite him.

Harry noticed that Jeanne, on the contrary, was examining the skrewts with undisguised interest. Her eyes sparkled, and a faint smile played on her lips. She seemed to see something... attractive in these dangerous creatures. This intrigued Harry even more.

After lunch, there was Divination class. Harry, Ron, and Jeanne arrived earlier than everyone else and sat at a table in the center of the classroom.

Professor Trelawney, wrapped in her scarves and shawls, floated out from behind a large armchair; her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, appeared enormous and somewhat frightening.

"Good day. You have arrived earlier than the others today, my dear," Professor Trelawney said mournfully to Harry. "Lately, my Inner Eye has seen your brave face clouded with worry. And unfortunately, I must say that your anxiety is not unfounded. I foresee difficult times ahead for you, alas... Very difficult... I fear what terrifies you will indeed come to pass... And perhaps much sooner than you think..."

Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Ron, looking at Harry, rolled his eyes — Harry responded with a stoic expression. At the same time, Harry felt a slight unease. He himself knew that something was wrong. Professor Trelawney turned her gaze to Jeanne.

"And you, my dear..." she approached Jeanne and took her hand, speaking in a sepulchral tone. "I see... pain. So much pain and suffering. In your heart burns an unquenchable fire... You are a mighty warrior marching towards your goal, but... you cannot fulfill your destiny. Not because you are weak or afraid. No... You have enough courage for an entire army. But... something is holding you back. Something... very powerful. It will be difficult... Very difficult for you if you wish to fulfill your desire..."

Jeanne freed her hand from Professor Trelawney's grasp. Not a single muscle moved on her face.

"C'est intéressant," she quietly said, her voice as cold as ice.

When Professor Trelawney left, Ron turned to Jeanne.

"So, what was that?" he asked, shocked. "Did you understand anything?"

Jeanne shrugged and looked at Harry. Her gaze was piercing and... slightly sad.

"Empty words," she replied with her usual self-satisfied smirk. "She’s just playing her part."

Later, by the doors of the Great Hall, Malfoy accosted the group. He was unusually interested in a fresh article in the Daily Prophet written by Rita Skeeter. They weren’t surprised by its terrible content since such nasty articles were written by no one else but her among all the authors of the Prophet. After publicly reading the article, Malfoy commented on the attached photo in his own way. The photo depicted Mr. and Mrs. Weasley standing in front of their house — The Burrow — and Malfoy couldn’t resist making remarks about the house and Mrs. Weasley’s appearance. Ron became extremely angry and was ready to give the offender a piece of his mind, so Harry and Hermione struggled to hold him back. But no one was holding Jeanne, so she silently approached him and slapped him so hard that he barely stayed on his feet.

"And what about your mother, Malfoy?" Harry retorted, pulling Ron away by his cloak along with Hermione to prevent him from attacking Malfoy. "It looks like she just smelled a pile of crap under her nose. Tell me, does she always look like that, or is it because you were nearby?"

Malfoy’s pale face flushed:

"Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter!"

"Then shut your filthy mouth!" Harry snapped and turned to leave. Jeanne did the same, spitting in Malfoy’s face before leaving.

There was a loud crack, followed by an even louder:

"OH NO YOU DON’T, BOY!"

A moment later, the students learned several lessons from the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher:

1. Attacking from behind is bad.

2. Professor Moody is always vigilant.

3. Professor Moody’s magical eye can see even through the back of his head.

4. School rules don’t apply to Professor Moody, and he can easily turn a student into a ferret, conducting a personal lesson in good manners anytime.

The unplanned personal lesson in good manners and high etiquette was interrupted by Professor McGonagall, who restored Malfoy’s human form and freed him from the lesson. Despite this, Ron enjoyed the incident for a few more minutes, trying to memorize the remarkable sight of Draco Malfoy as a bouncing ferret for a long time.

***

Two days later, the first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson with Moody took place. The atmosphere in the classroom was electrified. Moody, with his restless spinning eye and hoarse voice, immediately captured the students' attention. He didn’t waste time on greetings or introductions but got straight to the point. He showed them the Unforgivable Curses.

Harry watched the proceedings, holding his breath. He saw how the Cruciatus Curse struck a spider, causing it to writhe in pain, and felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. Ron sat next to him, pale and silent. Hermione bit her lips, disgust evident in her eyes. Even Jeanne, who usually seemed so impervious, paled slightly. And Neville... Neville looked as if he might faint at any moment.

After the lesson, most of the students spilled out of the classroom, excitedly discussing what they had seen. But Harry, Ron, Hermione, Jeanne, and Neville remained seated, silent and subdued. Neville stood by the door, clutching his books, his face almost white. He stared at one spot, as if still seeing the tormented spider in front of him.

"Neville," Harry said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "are you okay?"

Neville flinched and looked at Harry with a dazed gaze.

"I... I don't..." he mumbled, "I just... it was... terrible."

At that moment, Moody peered out of the classroom.

"Longbottom," he said in his hoarse voice, "stay behind for a minute. I want to show you something."

Neville obediently entered the classroom. Moody closed the door behind him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged worried glances. Jeanne watched them with an inscrutable expression on her face.

It was only after dinner that they saw Neville again. He was sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, flipping through a thick book. Seeing his friends, he smiled.

"Professor Moody gave me a book," he said, showing them the cover. "Magical Mediterranean Water Plants and Their Properties. He said Professor Sprout recommended he give it to me."

"And... and what did he say to you?" asked Ron, looking at Neville anxiously.

"Nothing special," Neville replied, shrugging. "He just asked how I handled the lesson. And said he understands my feelings. He... he's been through a lot himself."

***

Ron, Jeanne, and Harry sat down at a table in the common room and began working on their Divination homework. Ron, as usual, excelled in inventing creative accidents involving brooms, while Harry came up with scenarios involving dark magical creatures. But Jeanne... Jeanne surpassed them both. Her descriptions of deaths were so detailed, so... unusual, that Harry's hair stood on end. He listened to her tales of flaming snakes, poisonous flowers, and cursed daggers with horror and, at the same time, with some strange admiration. Her otherness amazed him. She was too different from anyone he knew. There was something... mysterious and captivating about her. At one point, Jeanne noticed his gaze and smiled. Her smile was quick and... almost tender.

Harry felt his cheeks flush.

Meanwhile, Fred and George, sitting at a separate table, were furiously scribbling something on parchment, frowning. They hardly spoke, only occasionally exchanging short, indistinct phrases.

Hermione, who was sitting nearby, tried several times to talk to them, but the twins just waved her off, not taking their eyes off their task. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

"What are you doing?" she asked irritably. "You look like you're planning to rob Gringotts."

Fred and George exchanged glances. Fred covered the parchment with his hand.

"Nothing special," he muttered.

"Just... busy," added George.

"Very busy," the twins said in unison and dove back into their writing.

Hermione snorted and turned away. She took some badges with the inscription "S.P.E.W." out of her bag and started laying them out on the table.

"What are those?" asked Ron, eyeing the badges with interest.

"These are badges for members of my new society," Hermione proudly announced. "The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. We will fight for the rights of house-elves."

Ron and Harry exchanged glances. They both knew this would end up being something... interesting. Jeanne watched Hermione with a slight smile.

At that moment, an owl suddenly tapped on the window. It was Hedwig, Harry’s owl. She had a letter in her beak. Harry took the letter and unfolded it. It was from Sirius.

"Harry, I am flying north immediately. The news about your scar is the latest in a string of strange rumors reaching me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore. They say he has called Mad-Eye out of retirement. This means he is reading the signs — even if no one else does. I'll be there soon. My best wishes to Ron and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry. Sirius," the letter read.

Harry read the letter twice. Ron and Hermione exchanged worried glances.

"What signs?" Ron whispered. "What is he talking about?"

"I don't know," Harry replied, frowning. "But I feel like something is wrong."

He glanced at Jeanne. She sat silently, her face inscrutable. But Harry knew she felt something too. Something... important.

After discussing with his friends what signs Dumbledore might be reading, and feeling angry with himself for forcing his godfather to risk flying north, Harry went to bed feeling upset, noting to himself that he didn’t hear Neville’s usual snoring. That night, two fourth-year students in the Gryffindor tower couldn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Harry rushed to the owlery, deciding not to delay sending a new letter to Sirius. He feared more than ever that his godfather might give himself away and was eager to prevent any risk for the only person with whom he had felt a true kinship.

Dear Sirius,

Don't worry about my scar. It doesn’t hurt; it was just my imagination.

I wrote the last letter half-asleep. So calm down and don’t come here. I’m perfectly fine, and so is my head.

Harry

***

"Today," announced Moody, his magical eye spinning restlessly as if searching for prey, "we will continue our study of the Unforgivable Curses. And by order of Professor Dumbledore, each of you will experience the effects of the Imperius Curse."

A tense murmur ran through the class. Harry felt his stomach clench unpleasantly. He still remembered the terror he experienced during the previous lesson when Moody demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse.

"It’s necessary so you can learn to resist this curse," continued Moody. "In a real battle, you won’t get a second chance."

He began to walk around the classroom, his cane loudly tapping against the stone floor. Harry saw Neville’s hands trembling. Even Ron and Hermione looked tense. Only Jeanne sat calmly, her face inscrutable. Harry noticed she was watching Moody with interest, as if studying him.

When Moody reached Harry, he raised his wand.

"Imperio!"

Harry felt an alien will invade his mind like a cold, sticky wave. He tried to resist, but it was useless. His body started moving on its own. He stood up from his chair, walked over to the desk, and… began squatting.

"Jump onto the table, Potter," commanded Moody.

Harry obeyed. He jumped onto the table, his legs aching unpleasantly. Then he began dancing, performing absurd movements dictated by Moody’s will. He felt like a puppet in the hands of a puppeteer. It was humiliating. After the fourth attempt, nearly breaking his leg, he finally managed to break free from the spell's control. He fell off the table, his legs shaking.

When it was Jeanne’s turn, Harry watched her anxiously. Moody cast the spell. Jeanne froze momentarily, as if listening to something. Then she slowly raised her hand… and scratched her nose.

Moody frowned.

“d’Arc, I said raise your right hand,” he repeated, intensifying the spell’s effect.

Jeanne raised… her left hand. A faint smile appeared on her face. Harry couldn’t help but smile. She was clearly playing with Moody, like a cat with a mouse. On the second attempt, as if tired of the game, she followed Moody’s command. But in her eyes, Harry saw the same spark of mischief and defiance.

***

The teachers spared no mercy on the students, overwhelming them with homework. Even Hagrid, usually so good-natured, instructed them to visit the Blast-Ended Skrewts every evening and try to figure out what they ate. Snape, as always, outdid everyone.
"By Christmas, I expect you all to know every antidote by heart," he hissed, scanning the class with an icy glare. "Otherwise… one of you will personally test their effectiveness."

Harry shivered, catching the professor’s gaze. The prospect of becoming Snape’s guinea pig did not thrill him at all. Jeanne Alter, sitting next to him, quietly snorted. Harry glanced at her surreptitiously. She looked… amusingly indignant. This was so unlike her usual cold composure that Harry couldn’t help but smile.

Returning from Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures lesson, the group got stuck in a huge crowd. Ron, being the tallest, stood on tiptoe and read aloud the announcement. It stated that on the upcoming Friday, October 30, delegations from two magical schools—Durmstrang and Beauxbatons—would arrive at Hogwarts.

On the appointed day at six o'clock in the evening, the entire school gathered in the courtyard to meet the long-awaited guests. First to arrive was the delegation from Beauxbatons, flying in a giant blue carriage. Shortly after, the Durmstrang delegation emerged from the depths of the Hogwarts lake on a massive ship, surprising everyone because among the students of this school was the famous…

The appointed day arrived quickly. At six o'clock in the evening, the whole school poured into the courtyard to greet the guests. First appeared a giant blue carriage drawn by… something Harry couldn’t make out in the twilight. Students from Beauxbatons stepped out of the carriage, dressed in light blue robes. Shortly afterward, a huge ship slowly surfaced from the depths of the Black Lake. It was so large that it seemed about to crash into the shore. When the ship docked, the Durmstrang students began disembarking, dressed in dark, heavy fur coats.

And then a cry rang out, instantly picked up by the excited crowd:

"Krum! It’s Viktor Krum!"

***

After the first joint dinner with the guests, Dumbledore addressed the students and guests of Hogwarts. He announced the opening of the Triwizard Tournament and introduced the magical Goblet of Fire—the very judge that would select the participants of the Tournament.

"Those wishing to participate in the competition for the title of champion must clearly write their name and school on a piece of parchment and drop it into the Goblet," he said. "They have twenty-four hours to think it over. The Goblet will be placed in the hall. Tomorrow evening, it will spit out the names of the champions who will take part in the Triwizard Tournament. Of course, only the most worthy will be chosen. The Goblet will remain in the hall overnight and will be accessible to anyone who wishes to participate in the Tournament. Only those who are seventeen or older will be allowed to enter. To ensure those under seventeen do not succumb to temptation, I will draw a forbidden line around it. Crossing this line is prohibited for anyone below the specified age. Lastly, those wishing to participate should note—once chosen as champions, there is no turning back. Champions must complete the Tournament to the end. By throwing your name into the Goblet, you enter into a magical contract that cannot be broken. Therefore, think carefully about whether you truly want to participate in the Tournament. Now, it seems like the perfect time to go to bed. Good night to all."

The next morning and day passed in anticipation. Everyone was burning with curiosity to find out who would be announced as champions, and some even wanted to bypass the rules and participate despite their age. Thus, the restless Weasley twins were caught. Having drunk an aging potion beforehand, they hoped to fool the Goblet and publicly threw in their names, but an unknown force threw the twins beyond the boundary line along with their names. Falling onto the marble floor of the Great Hall, the brothers discovered they had unexpectedly turned into deep old men. Everyone rolled with laughter, including Fred and George themselves, watching this metamorphosis.

The atmosphere at Hogwarts seemed electrified. Everyone talked about nothing but the Tournament. Harry, Ron, and Hermione discussed which upperclassmen would dare to submit their names. Jeanne kept to herself, observing the events with an inscrutable expression. Harry couldn’t understand what she was thinking.

"I’m sure someone definitely threw their name in last night. I would have done the same. It’s unpleasant when everyone’s watching you at such a moment. What if the Goblet spits your name right in your face?" Harry said at breakfast while discussing with his friends whether any Hogwarts student had thrown their name into the Goblet.

Jeanne, who was sitting nearby, gave him a quick glance. A strange spark flashed in her eyes.

***

The Saturday dinner was especially solemn. Tension hung in the air. Everyone eagerly awaited the announcement of the champions' names. Harry felt out of place. He stole glances at Jeanne. She sat next to him, completely motionless, like a statue. Her face was inscrutable, but deep in her amber eyes, he saw… a spark. A spark that both attracted and frightened him.

When Dumbledore approached the Goblet of Fire, the hall fell silent in anticipation. The Goblet flared with bright blue flames and spat out the first piece of parchment.

"The Durmstrang champion—Viktor Krum!" announced Dumbledore.

The entire hall erupted in applause. Everyone cheered for Krum, the beloved young seeker of the Bulgarian national team, and no one doubted that he would become the champion of the Tournament.

"The Beauxbatons champion—Fleur Delacour!"

Once again, the hall applauded the new participant of the Tournament, the beautiful blonde Frenchwoman.

"The Hogwarts champion—Cedric Diggory!" announced Dumbledore.

Another wave of applause erupted. Cedric, the seeker and captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and Head Boy of Hogwarts, was well-loved by everyone. But just as Dumbledore prepared to make another announcement, the Goblet of Fire flared up again and spat out a fourth name. This time the flame was different—brighter, more intense. A surprised murmur ran through the hall. Dumbledore frowned, caught the parchment, and froze, as if not believing his eyes. Catching it mid-air, Dumbledore looked down and announced:

"Harry Potter and Jeanne d’Arc."

Chapter Text

Inside, Harry felt everything turn upside down. Just a moment ago, he had been happy for Cedric, looking forward to cheering on his friend, but now… He couldn’t believe his ears. Could Dumbledore really have called his name? Harry stole a glance at Jeanne. Her face, usually adorned with a self-satisfied smirk, showed genuine astonishment. From his experience, he knew it was very difficult to wipe that expression of extreme smugness off her face. This only confused Harry even more. A dead silence reigned around them, broken only by the quiet hum of shocked whispers. Everyone was staring at them, mouths agape. Some people stood up, wanting to get a better look at Harry and Jeanne. Even the Gryffindors looked as though they had seen a ghost.

Professor McGonagall quickly rose from her seat, walked past Ludo Bagman, and approached Dumbledore, whispering something anxiously in his ear. The headmaster frowned.

"I didn’t throw my name into the Goblet," Harry said, his voice trembling. "You know... it wasn’t me."

Ron and Hermione silently stared at him in bewilderment. Jeanne shook her head in shock. Dumbledore straightened and nodded to Professor McGonagall. His face was serious.

"Harry Potter and Jeanne d’Arc," he said. "Please come here."

"Go," Hermione urged Harry, her voice barely audible [[2]].

Harry stood up and walked toward the staff table. His legs felt like lead. The path to the professor's table had never seemed so long in his life. It could only be compared to the walk to the scaffold, and like a condemned man going to execution, he walked, accompanied by numerous stares. Behind him followed Jeanne, her face paler than usual.

"This way," Dumbledore said, pointing to a small door next to the staff table. "Both of you."

Everyone looked at Harry and Jeanne in confusion, unable to understand how this could have happened. Even Hagrid didn’t wink or say a word.

Behind the fateful door were Krum, Fleur, and Cedric. They looked at Harry and Jeanne with bewilderment as they entered.

"What’s going on?" Fleur asked. "Should we go back to the hall?"

Harry wanted to answer her, and various responses came to mind. He still couldn’t believe what had happened and hoped until the last moment that it was all just a dream. He couldn’t guess what Jeanne was thinking, but her face showed even more bewilderment than any of the students or teachers. It seemed she was about to declare the situation a farce and announce she wouldn’t participate. Dumbledore’s words echoed again in Harry’s head:

"By throwing your name into the Goblet, you enter into a magical contract that cannot be broken. Therefore, think carefully about whether you truly want to participate in the Tournament."

Harry was absolutely terrified. He had no idea what awaited him or what trials the Tournament participants would face. He had barely made it to his fourth year, and now he had to compete with students who would graduate next year. From the horrifying and complex thoughts swirling in his mind, Harry felt like his head was about to explode. Every second, he expected Dumbledore or someone else to come in and announce — the Goblet had made a mistake, and all candidates should resubmit their names.

Ludo Bagman entered the room and announced:

"Incredible! An extraordinary event! Gentlemen, ladies... Allow me to introduce, as paradoxical as it may sound, two more participants in the Tournament!"

Fleur didn’t believe Bagman’s words. A moment later, the door behind them opened again, and the directors of all three schools entered with the Hogwarts professors. Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore, Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, and even Mr. Crouch came in. They argued among themselves about how such an incident could have occurred. Only Dumbledore calmly assessed the situation. He approached Harry and Jeanne, looked at them penetratingly over his half-moon glasses, and quietly asked:

Dumbledore raised his hand, calling for silence. He approached Harry and Jeanne.

"Did you throw your names into the Goblet?" he asked softly.

"No," Harry and Jeanne answered in unison.

"Did you ask someone else to do it for you?"

"No!" they replied again in unison.

Dumbledore sighed. As expected, they weren’t believed.

"This is outrageous!" Karkaroff shouted. "This is fraud! I demand..."

"Mr. Karkaroff," Dumbledore interrupted him, "I understand your indignation. But the Goblet has chosen these students. We cannot ignore its decision. Notice," he added, "the Goblet spat out one slip with two names. This... is unusual."

"We declare a boycott!" Karkaroff exclaimed.

"An empty threat, Karkaroff," Moody growled, appearing in the doorway. "You can’t withdraw your champion. They are bound by a magical contract. Whether they like it or not, they will have to participate in the Tournament. What, don’t agree?"

Moody entered the room, stopping abruptly as if he had hit an invisible wall. His magical eye spun restlessly, and his face twisted in a grimace... of either anger or fear.

"Two names?" he rasped. "On one slip? How... how is that possible?"

He scanned the room with his restless eye and began unraveling the motives of the possible culprit.

"Only the most powerful Confundus Charm could make the Goblet forget that three schools are participating in the competition!" Mad-Eye blurted out, then caught himself. "But why would anyone involve an obscure French girl? And how did two names end up on one slip? Does she even have parents? I’ve never seen her receive a single letter or even a newspaper at breakfast! This... doesn’t make sense."

Moody’s voice carried a tone of disappointment or bewilderment.

"This is sabotage!" Karkaroff yelled, his face turning purple. "Beauxbatons is to blame! They orchestrated this! I demand that my student also be allowed to participate! This is unfair!"

"Mr. Karkaroff, calm down," Dumbledore said calmly. "What’s important now is to decide what to do next. The Goblet has chosen five champions. And they will have to participate in the Tournament."

"It doesn’t sound too inspiring," Madame Maxime said doubtfully. "Such a student never studied at my school!"

"We don’t know how this could have happened," Dumbledore addressed those present. "But there is no other option. The Goblet chose three: Cedric, Jeanne, and Harry. And they have no choice..."

"But, Dumbledore..."

"Madame Maxime," Dumbledore turned to the headmistress of Beauxbatons, "do you have any other suggestions?"

Madame Maxime remained silent. There were no other suggestions. The directors and professors began to disperse.

***

Even Cedric, usually friendly, looked at Harry with distrust.

"You’re serious, Harry?" he asked, shaking his head. "Are you saying you didn’t throw your name into the Goblet?"

"I swear, I didn’t!" Harry replied, looking him straight in the eyes. "Why would I do that?"

Fleur and Krum exchanged glances but remained silent.

Harry and Jeanne were the last to leave the room.

The Great Hall was almost empty. They walked in silence, each lost in their thoughts. When they were almost at the exit, Jeanne stopped.

"Harry," she said softly, her voice serious, "are you sure you didn’t do this?"

Harry stopped and looked at her in surprise. In her eyes, he saw... distrust? Suspicion? He felt anger flare up inside him again.

"And you?" he asked sharply. "Did you throw your name into the Goblet?" Jeanne gave a faint smile. Her smile was cold and... a little frightening.

"If I wanted to draw attention to myself," she said, her voice ringing with metallic notes, "I would have found a more impressive way. Did you hear what they said about the Tournament? Champions... die." She paused and added, her voice almost a whisper: "Do you really think anyone in their right mind would agree to participate in this... spectacle?"

She turned sharply and left the hall. Harry watched her go, feeling that strange mix of fear and attraction wash over him again. He didn’t know what to think. Was she telling the truth? Was she also a victim in this strange and dangerous game?

***

The Gryffindor common room buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Students shouted, laughed, and discussed the unexpected turn of events. When Harry and Jeanne entered, they were met with a storm of applause and cheers. Some tried to pat Harry on the shoulder, others to shake Jeanne’s hand. But Harry just wanted to sink into the ground. He felt like he was being paraded as a laughingstock. There wasn’t a trace of a smile on his face. Jeanne, however, maintained her usual cold composure, but even in her eyes, Harry noticed... worry.

"Harry! Jeanne!" Fred pushed through to them. "You’re our heroes! Two champions from Gryffindor! This is incredible!"

"Now you’re celebrities!" George added, putting his arms around Harry and Jeanne’s shoulders. "Are you going to start handing out autographs?"

Harry freed himself from their embrace.

"Leave me alone," he muttered. "I’m not in the mood for jokes."

He turned sharply and headed toward the stairs leading to the dormitory.

When Harry finally reached the dormitory, he found only Ron there. Ron was incredibly upset with Harry, believing that Harry had conspired with Jeanne and betrayed him. It never occurred to Harry to tell his friend that he hadn’t thrown his name into the Goblet out of goodwill.

***

That night, there was a knock at the door of the headmaster’s office.

"Enter," Dumbledore said.

The door opened, and in came Filch, with... Jeanne Alter. She stood slightly behind the caretaker, her amber eyes studying the office intently. Dumbledore and Snape, who had been quietly talking by the fireplace, turned to them.

"Filch?" Dumbledore asked, surprised. "Is something wrong?"

"This girl, sir," Filch nodded toward Jeanne, "insisted on being brought to you. She said she has... important information regarding the Tournament."

"Hmm," Dumbledore looked at Jeanne with interest. "Very well, Filch, thank you. You may go. I’ll handle it."

Filch grumbled something under his breath and left, slamming the door loudly behind him.

"Please sit down, Mademoiselle d’Arc," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a chair by the fireplace. "Would you like some licorice wands?"

Jeanne shook her head and sat down. She looked tense.

"So," Dumbledore said, "what did you want to tell me?"

"I... I didn’t throw my name into the Goblet of Fire," Jeanne said, her voice soft and slightly trembling. "And neither did Harry Potter. I’m sure of it."

Snape, who had been silent until now, suddenly stood up sharply.

"You’re saying someone orchestrated this?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And of course, you know nothing about it?"

"I’m telling the truth," Jeanne said firmly, meeting Snape’s gaze. "I didn’t want to participate in this Tournament. I... I know how dangerous it is."

"Allow me to verify her words, Headmaster," Snape said, addressing Dumbledore. "Legilimency will quickly sort everything out."

"Only with her consent, Severus," Dumbledore replied calmly.

Jeanne looked at Snape. Her eyes narrowed.

"Want to peek into my mind?" she asked, her voice as cold as ice. "Be careful, Professor. You might find... something other than what you expect."

Snape raised his wand and pointed it at Jeanne.

"Legilimens!"

Snape aimed his wand at Jeanne. For a moment, she tensed with an awkward premonition. A second passed, and she saw herself standing in the flames of a pyre, clutching a small cross made of several tied sticks to her chest. She screamed in pain. At that moment, nothing existed for her except the greedy flames meant to take her life. Soon, there was no life left, and only charred ashes remained at the center of the pyre. Ashes from which she was destined to rise and reignite the fires. Gilles de Rais commanded her to rise from the grave, and now the new Jeanne d’Arc, the one the unjust court desired to see, donned armor. Her banner turned from yellow to black, and her speeches gathered different people for a new war against those who had betrayed her. She marched under a new banner, inexorably, irresistibly, as if embodying fate itself. No compromises—she had forgotten what they were and delivered her judgment on French soil. A thousand dead, ten thousand, a million, two million... It would never be enough for her; she would always crave vengeance. A nineteen-year-old girl in black armor with white hair and amber eyes stood in the middle of a burning village, hacking off heads with her sword. She washed her face with the spilled blood of her enemies, and her ringing, thunderous laughter echoed ominously across the land.

Snape lowered his wand. His face looked drained, but he didn’t lose his composure and knew exactly what he wanted to say. After giving Jeanne an appraising look, he turned to Dumbledore.

"Professor! I think this girl is not as simple as she appears."

"What did you see, Severus?" Dumbledore inquired.

"She didn’t approach the Goblet of Fire."

"I know. What else did you see, Severus?"

"Fragments of memories from such a distant past that only the ghosts of this castle remember it. If I understood them correctly, someone planned to turn everything upside down. No one grants the greatest evil in the world to aid in good deeds, even if it wishes to perform noble feats. And although the Dark Lord would be quite pleased with such an ally, I see—she’s not on his side. But if someone decided to give us her, should we assume that the Dark Lord hasn’t been denied a similar gift?"

Dumbledore thought for a moment, then replied:

"That’s a useful assumption, Severus," he then turned to Jeanne. "Tell me, Jeanne, do you have anything else to say?"

Jeanne looked at Dumbledore. He gazed at her kindly through his half-moon glasses and smiled. She couldn’t help but smile back.

Chapter Text

The morning sun rays filtered through the tall windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, gently touching Harry Potter's face with thin golden stripes. The boy stirred, waking from his sweet slumber, and his first thought was to reconcile with Ron. Harry sat up sharply in bed, ruffling his unruly locks, and glanced around at the empty beds of his classmates. Ron was gone.

Pulling on the first clothes he could find, Harry hurried to the common room, but his best friend wasn't there either. Could it be that Ron was still sulking at him because of that stupid argument? Harry frowned, feeling a pang of guilt. He should have made up with his friend immediately, not delayed.

During breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry was also surprised not to find Jeanne. It was strange; usually, this girl easily caught him with her keen amber gaze and began pestering him with biting jokes. Jeanne was capable of mocking everything, from Hagrid's mole coat and beard to Draco Malfoy’s latest ostentatious hairstyle or Trelawney’s talents. Sometimes Harry was even frightened by her perceptiveness, which seemed to miss nothing. He had already gotten used to her sharp tongue, and now the absence of her familiar smirk on her face at the Gryffindor table seemed odd to him.

Jeanne d’Arc possessed truly phenomenal learning abilities. She grasped any study material instantly, memorizing the most complex spells and potion recipes with amazing ease. Therefore, it was unsurprising that Harry and Ron consistently copied their homework from her.

However, the girl was capricious and willful. Jeanne reveled in her superiority, enjoying the opportunity to tease and torment her friends. She was so unyielding that the boys sometimes literally had to get down on their knees and beg for help with another essay. At those moments, mischievous sparks would light up in Jeanne’s eyes, as if she derived genuine pleasure from tormenting her friends.

“She definitely enjoys this,” Harry often thought, noticing her smug smirk.

Over time, however, the girl mellowed, tired of her own games with people. She became more willing to share her knowledge, shedding her former obstinacy. Her manner of interacting with others changed too—Jeanne clearly chose a group of favorites in Hogwarts, with whom she allowed herself to be more relaxed.

This girl was a peculiar blend of contradictory qualities. She combined noble, almost aristocratic refinement with lowly rudeness, deep erudition with playful impulsiveness. Jeanne could engage in intricate intellectual conversations on any topic, dazzling with her erudition and wit. But she could also sneak up on Draco Malfoy, grab him by the waistband of his underwear, and with a sharp tug pull them over his face to the laughter of those around.

This girl was capable of writing a magnificent essay, earning dozens of points for Gryffindor. But then she could recklessly squander them by sneaking into the Restricted Section at night in search of new knowledge. Jeanne consistently evoked mixed feelings in everyone—admiration for her talents and gifts mingled with revulsion from her biting sarcasm, which spilled forth from her overly sharp tongue, seemingly bestowed upon her by nature itself.

Harry couldn’t keep track of instances of her rude behavior and could only highlight a few.

Once, Jeanne sat impassively at a table in the library, engrossed in reading an ancient tome. Suddenly, a desperate cry rang out—it was Draco Malfoy, who had entered the library and discovered that someone had carelessly pinned a note mocking his hairstyle to his expensive cloak. Jeanne merely cast a condescending glance at the disheveled Slytherin and smirked slyly.

During Potions class, Jeanne flawlessly prepared yet another complex potion. But as soon as Professor Snape turned away, the girl stealthily added a few pepper slices to Crabbe’s cauldron. Moments later, a pungent cloud rose above his cauldron, bringing the Slytherin to tears and forcing everyone to hastily ventilate the classroom.

On one of her evening patrols through the school corridors, Jeanne stumbled upon Peeves himself. The poltergeist, giggling joyfully, was amusing himself by pouring some green potion over a practice dummy for Defense Against the Dark Arts. The potion hissed and smoked, corroding the fabric of the dummy.

“Quel gâchis. What a pity,” Jeanne muttered, her lips curling into a faint smile.

Noticing the girl, Peeves began performing elaborate somersaults in the air, singing bawdy ditties in French.

Jeanne accepted the challenge with a smug grin. With a swift motion, she drew her wand and, with one gesture, freed the dummy from the sticky substance, redirecting the powerful stream straight at the flying poltergeist. Peeves, spinning expressively, tried to dodge, but soon found himself completely entangled in green tentacles painfully squeezing his intangible body.

“Ahhh, you shameless brat!” roared Peeves, trying to break free from his confinement.

But Jeanne just laughed melodiously, inspired by his attempts. One after another, Peeves began to suffer various pranks from the girl—sometimes a pillow would fly out of nowhere and hit him right in the nose, sometimes a mop would wrap around his neck, and sometimes an old shoe would land squarely on his forehead.

Peeves fiercely resisted, hurling insults and threatening to unleash the wettest and smelliest catastrophe he had ever created upon Hogwarts. But the girl remained unfazed. Smirking, she delivered a deft revolver-like kick that sent the poltergeist tumbling across the floor. And when Peeves attempted to take flight again, he was met with a powerful jet of water from nowhere, throwing his bodiless form back against the wall.

And it began. Pillows flew through the air, old shoes fell from the ceiling, and mops wrapped themselves around Peeves' head. He screamed, cursed, and threatened to unleash a real flood in Hogwarts. But Jeanne was relentless. She danced amidst the chaos, reveling in her power over the poltergeist.

Finally, soaked, smeared, and beaten, Peeves couldn’t take it anymore. With a howl, he disappeared into the wall, vowing terrible revenge. Jeanne smoothed her hair and smirked smugly. She had won this battle. But not the war. She knew Peeves would return. And she would be ready.

There was no malice towards Peeves in her. Simply... she enjoyed breaking the order. She enjoyed introducing chaos into this too orderly and predictable world. It was... amusing.

A couple of days after their first encounter, Jeanne ran into Peeves again. The poltergeist flew out from around the corner, waving a torn stocking and humming some indecent tune. Seeing Jeanne, he abruptly braked in mid-air and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled. “What do you want, brat? Don’t tell me you want to...” He didn’t finish, as if unable to voice what she had done to him last time.

Jeanne smiled. Her smile was... neither friendly nor predatory.

“Don’t worry, Peeves,” she said, her voice ringing with metallic notes. “I come in peace. And... with a small gift.”

She pulled a small pouch out of her pocket and held it out to Peeves.

“What is it?” asked the poltergeist suspiciously.

“A small batch of stink bombs,” replied Jeanne, winking. “Fresh out of Filch’s office.”

Peeves’ eyes lit up with mischief. He snatched the pouch from Jeanne’s hand and peeked inside.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “That’s something! You... you’re a real daredevil!”

He pulled out one bomb—a small black ball—and sniffed it eagerly.

“Lovely!” he proclaimed. “Absolutely lovely! Well, partner, shall we get to work?”

Jeanne grinned even wider.

“With pleasure, Peeves.”

In the next few minutes, the corridors of Hogwarts were filled with a terrible stench and the screams of terrified students. Jeanne and Peeves, like two hurricanes, raced through the castle, scattering stink bombs everywhere. They worked smoothly and efficiently, like a well-rehearsed team. The professors were furious, but they couldn’t catch them. Jeanne easily slipped away from pursuers, and Peeves, as always, vanished at the most inconvenient moment.

Since then, they were often seen together. They became the true terror of Hogwarts, spreading chaos and panic. Students whispered behind their backs, and the teachers were enraged. Meanwhile, Harry, watching Jeanne, felt an increasing attraction to her. He was drawn not only by her audacity, with which she laughed in the face of professors and school rules, but also by something... magnetic. She never asked anyone for help, always relying solely on herself. She feared no one and nothing, not even Moody with his menacing demeanor and Unforgivable Curses. And in her eyes, when she looked at him, Harry saw... a challenge. A challenge to the whole world. And this challenge, this defiance... strangely fascinated him. He saw the gleam in her eyes, heard the metallic notes in her voice, and understood that she lived by her own rules. And these rules were incomprehensible to him, yet incredibly intriguing.

Jeanne’s popularity and her bold nature, which only intensified after the incident with the Goblet of Fire, irritated some of the students at Hogwarts. Especially indignant were the upperclassmen from other houses, who saw in her an upstart and a threat to their own popularity.

And so, a few days after the champion selection ceremony, a group of upperclassmen decided to teach Jeanne a lesson.

In the evening, Jeanne was returning from her Potions class. She walked along the deserted corridor, whistling a tune. Suddenly, five upperclassmen, among whom Harry recognized several Slytherins, jumped out from around the corner. Some hid behind a massive column, some behind a fluttering tapestry, and some crouched under a narrow window. Now they all leaped out from all sides, pointing their wands at her.

“Well, French girl,” one of them said, his voice filled with malice, “did you think you’d get away with everything? — he glanced at Harry and added briskly. — You’re next, Potter!”

Jeanne stopped and looked at them with a slight squint. There was no trace of fear on her face, only... boredom.

“What do you want?” she asked calmly.

“We’ll show you,” another upperclassman said and shouted: “Stupefy!”

A red beam of light shot out of his wand. But Jeanne didn’t even flinch. At the last moment, she slightly tilted her head, and the spell flew past, not even grazing her hair. "She’s incredibly lucky," Harry thought, involuntarily witnessing this scene. He was about to intervene but quickly realized that Jeanne didn’t need his help.

Before any of the attackers could utter another spell, Jeanne made several quick, almost imperceptible movements. She dodged another spell, kicked a wand out of one attacker’s hand with a precise kick, and simply tripped another. That one crashed to the floor with a loud thud. Everything happened so fast that the other upperclassmen didn’t even have time to realize what was happening. They stood there, mouths agape, looking at Jeanne with bewilderment and... fear. Meanwhile, she stood among them, slightly out of breath but completely calm. A faint smile played on her lips.

“Filthy Mudblood!” one of the Slytherins roared and, pointing his wand at Jeanne, shouted: “Serpensortia!”

A snake flew out of the tip of his wand, hissing as it lunged at Jeanne. But she didn’t even blink. She caught the snake mid-flight, squeezed it in her hand as if it were a rope, and threw it to the ground in disgust. The snake let out a pitiful squeak and disappeared.

“Do you really think this will stop me?” Jeanne asked, her voice as cold as ice. “It seems you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with.”

She moved forward sharply. Her movements were so fast and precise that the upperclassmen didn’t even have time to react. She dodged spells, knocked wands out of hands, and delivered sharp, painful blows. One of the Slytherins tried to punch her, but Jeanne grabbed his arm and twisted it sharply. A crack of breaking bone echoed. The Slytherin screamed in pain.

Within seconds, all five lay on the floor, moaning. Jeanne stood over them, her eyes blazing with cold fire. She approached one of the Slytherins, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him to the nearest bathroom door. She flung the door open and unceremoniously shoved his head into the toilet.

“This is your lesson,” she said coldly. “And tell your friends not to try messing with me again.”

She repeated this with each of the attackers, without uttering another word. Her movements were sharp and merciless. One by one, the rest of the attackers followed the first, gasping for air in horror as Jeanne, with sadistic delight, dunked them in the sewage water. When she finished, her hands and clothes were splattered with dirty water, and there was no trace of emotion on her face. Only... cold satisfaction.

Harry, who had been watching this from around the corner, felt chills run down his spine. He knew Jeanne was capable of cruelty. But he hadn’t expected her to be so... ruthless.

Leaving the bathroom, Jeanne shook her head as if shaking off dirt and blood. Traces of her work remained on her clothes and hands. She didn’t bother to wipe them off. Let them see. Let them know it’s better not to mess with her. She continued on her way to the Great Hall. There was no smile on her face. Only... cold composure. She walked steadily and confidently, her gaze fixed ahead. She resembled a... predator who had just finished her hunt.

Harry, still standing in the shadows, watched her go. He felt a mix of fear, admiration, and... something else. Something he couldn’t understand. He knew Jeanne wasn’t an angel. But at the same time, he couldn’t deny that he was drawn to her. Drawn with incredible force.

Her antics, of course, did not go unpunished. Points were regularly deducted from Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall was furious, while the twins were delighted. And Harry... Harry felt guilty. He knew many of her pranks were connected... with him. It was as if she was protecting him, deflecting attacks from those who didn’t believe in his innocence regarding the incident with the Goblet of Fire. And this guilt, mixed with admiration and mysterious attraction, made their relationship even more complicated and tangled. After several particularly vivid incidents, when Jeanne single-handedly dealt with a group of upperclassmen who tried to provoke her, people stopped approaching her. She became... feared. And this fear, mixed with respect, created a kind of vacuum around Jeanne. She became untouchable.

Only Harry, Ron, and Hermione could somewhat confidently say they knew Jeanne. Only with them was she... almost normal. Almost. Of course, biting remarks and jabs were never canceled, but with them, she at least didn’t resort to fists and didn’t turn life into hell. Unbeknownst to himself, Harry became a kind of lightning rod for her. He often became the target of her jokes and jabs, but at the same time, he felt that she didn’t want to harm him. Quite the opposite. Her sarcasm was like a game. Strange, a bit cruel, but still a game. And Harry, though not considering himself brave, participated in it. He was drawn to this dangerous proximity to the edge, this chance to peer into the abyss and... remain unscathed. Almost. With others, Jeanne was merciless.

It was as if she enjoyed being feared. She was rude to everyone, even those who tried to please her. Harry witnessed one such case. Draco Malfoy, puffing up his arrogant tail, approached Jeanne in the library. He put on his most charming smile and, with a theatrical bow, gallantly reached for her hand.

“Mademoiselle d’Arc,” he said, his voice sweet as molasses, “your beauty outshines the brilliance of all the stars in the sky. Allow me to…”

He didn’t get to finish. Jeanne interrupted him with a sharp, cold voice:

“Stick your compliments… you know where?” she said, her eyes flashing with anger. “You, Malfoy, remind me of... a brainless peacock. All self-important and pompous, but inside... emptiness.”

She pushed his hand away and turned back to her book. Malfoy, red with shame and anger, hastily retreated. Harry, observing this scene, couldn’t help but smile. He was... impressed.

Jeanne was like a natural disaster that had descended upon the peaceful and orderly Hogwarts. She was a whirlwind, a hurricane that swept away everything in its path, disregarding rules and authorities. She lived brightly, to the fullest, as if every day could be her last. And being near her was... scary. Scary and... interesting.

Harry, recalling her endless pranks, her daring antics, her merciless retribution against those who dared to oppose her, involuntarily pondered. Could it be that she orchestrated all this? Could it be that she made the Goblet of Fire spit out their names? This thought came to him more and more often. Who, if not Jeanne, with her thirst for danger and recklessness, perfectly fit the role of the Tournament champion? And her name... Jeanne d’Arc. A name shrouded in legends. A name that seemed to beg to be placed in the Goblet of Fire.

Even Professor McGonagall, usually so reserved and strict, once, after another of Jeanne’s antics, couldn’t hold back.

“Mademoiselle d’Arc,” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed anger, “you... you truly live up to your name! But, alas... not in the sense one would hope.”

Jeanne just smirked in response. And in her eyes, Harry saw... a challenge. A challenge to everyone and everything. A challenge to the world itself.

Harry closed his eyes, recalling that moment. The announcement of the names. The buzz in the Great Hall. And her gaze. He felt it on him, like a physical touch. In her eyes, usually so bright and cheerful, he glimpsed for a couple of moments... rage. Cold, burning rage. Like a bird of prey whose prey had been taken away. And in that moment, he understood. He had gotten involved in something... very dangerous. Something that was much bigger than just a school competition. He felt like he was being pulled into a rushing current, carrying him into the unknown. And he couldn’t do anything about it. He was just a passenger on this mad train, racing into the darkness. A train that was created... for her.

Jeanne d’Arc. She was the embodiment of this Tournament, with her recklessness, her thirst for danger, her unwavering confidence in herself. And he... he was just a shadow, a random reflection in her bright flame. He clenched his fists. He didn’t want to be a passenger. He wanted to control his destiny. But the Goblet of Fire had already made its choice. And now all he could do was obey.

Harry couldn’t help but stare at Jeanne. There was something... captivating about her. This petite, slender girl with white hair and amber eyes possessed a certain special, elusive charisma. She feared no one and nothing, easily getting into any fights and emerging victorious, her face invariably adorned with a self-satisfied smirk. Harry sometimes felt awkward around her. He had never been one for fights, and her recklessness both frightened and... fascinated him.

After the incident with the Goblet of Fire, the smirk momentarily disappeared from her face, replaced by confusion. But it didn’t last long. Soon it returned, as if nothing had happened. And Harry, looking at her, thought: “Is there really nothing that can erase that smirk from her face?”

He knew her temperament well. He knew she was bold, reckless, and utterly unpredictable. But at the same time, he understood that the Triwizard Tournament was her element. She was made for such trials. Should she fear danger? Courage, wild and unrestrained, flowed through her veins. And Harry was confident that even in the face of the most terrifying trials, that same smirk would shine on her face. The smirk of defiance. The smirk of a winner. And this confidence, this unwavering belief in herself... captivated him.

He imagined how she would face the trials, with what ease and grace she would overcome all obstacles. And he realized that he wanted... to see it. To be nearby. To... share in this dangerous game with her.

***

Today, Harry wrote a new letter to Sirius and took one of the school owls to send it. Sirius complained that Hedwig was too conspicuous and could easily be intercepted, so he followed his advice and left Hedwig in the owlery.

Dear Sirius,

As you requested, I’m letting you know the latest news from Hogwarts. You’ve probably already heard that this year the Triwizard Tournament will take place. Well, on Saturday evening, I was chosen as the fourth champion, representing Hogwarts. I have no idea who put my name in the Goblet; of course, I didn’t. The other champion from Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff. But there’s something strange: along with my name on the slip was the name of a new girl from Gryffindor, Jeanne d’Arc.

I hope everything’s okay with you and Buckbeak?

Harry

***

Harry hoped that the commotion surrounding his... and Jeanne’s unexpected championship would gradually subside. He was wrong. Monday started with a torrent of indignation directed at him. If he could endure Malfoy’s taunts—he was used to them—the cold disdain from the Hufflepuffs came as an unpleasant surprise. They looked at him reproachfully, as if he had personally offended their beloved Cedric. Even Professor Sprout, usually so good-natured, avoided eye contact when he passed by. And Harry understood that much of this was due to Jeanne. Her antics and defiant character had already turned half the school against her. And now this hatred reflected on him as well. He even caught himself thinking that he wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly heard about her... disappearance. Or something... worse. For example, a sudden death under unclear circumstances.

By the end of the day, only one person expressed words of support to them. Hagrid. He detained them after the Care of Magical Creatures lesson; his usually kind face was clouded with concern.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice deep and slightly hoarse. “Professor Dumbledore believes in you. He knows you couldn’t have put your names in the Goblet yourselves. And I believe in you.” Hagrid patted them on the shoulders; his hands, like large shovels, softly pressed against them, leaving a sensation of warmth and strength.

He sighed heavily and looked at Harry with concern.

“Just, Harry, be careful. The Tournament is no joke. I worry about you,” he scratched his beard, and his fingers, covered in scars and calluses, froze for a moment. “Something always happens to you. And this one...” he shifted his gaze to Jeanne, “she’s quite a piece of work too. Don’t rush into things, Jeanne. Both of you need to be more careful. The Tournament is cunning. It loves those who aren’t afraid to take risks. And the two of you are just like that.”

***

The days following the announcement of the champions dragged on for Harry, like molasses. The school buzzed like a disturbed hive. His name—her name—was constantly on everyone’s lips. In every look, in every whisper, he felt... envy, distrust, disdain. As if he had stolen something valuable from them. Something important. Jeanne, with her impenetrable armor and icy calm, was unfazed. It was as if she fed on this hatred, growing stronger from it. But Harry... Harry felt naked and defenseless under this onslaught of accusations. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it, but it was almost impossible. The school had turned into one big Cruciatus Curse.

Ron continued to sulk. He stubbornly refused to believe that Harry was innocent. And this was worse than any taunting. He had lost his best friend. There was also no word from Sirius, adding to his anxiety. Even the twins, usually noisy and cheerful, had quieted down and were now deeply immersed in their studies.

Only Hermione and Jeanne remained. Hermione, as always, tried to support him. She brought him newspaper clippings—mostly with pictures of Krum—and assured him that everything would work out. But her words sounded hollow and unconvincing. Jeanne, on the other hand... Jeanne continued to mock him. Her jokes became even more sarcastic, even more... cruel. It was as if she enjoyed his torment. But sometimes Harry noticed in her eyes... concern. Hidden, carefully masked, but real. And this made her even more mysterious.

At such moments, Harry felt like a starling locked in a tiny cage, whose bars kept tightening and tightening, cutting off any glimmer of light. The looks, the whispers, the alienation even from those close to him—any extra sound or movement painfully reverberated in the oppressive atmosphere of judgment.

Only Jeanne’s presence brought a peculiar note of recklessness to this exhausting situation. The girl behaved just as freely, not burdening herself with conventions. Her sharp remarks and jokes, sometimes vulgar but always accurately pointing out the ridiculous aspects of the situation, dispersed the oppressive atmosphere that enveloped everything around.

Harry thanked fate that during this difficult time for him, he had Jeanne d’Arc Alter by his side—a willful, freedom-loving spirit, cut from the same fiery cloth as himself. Together, it would be easier for them to endure the trials of the dark tournament that awaited them.

The next academic day before the double Potions lesson with the Slytherins began for Harry in a rather significant way. On the chests of the snake house students gleamed brand-new badges. At first, the Gryffindor curiously examined them, thinking it was a new campaign by S.P.E.W.—the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, organized by Hermione. However, upon closer inspection, he went cold at the malicious meaning emblazoned on the metallic discs:

We’ll support Cedric—he’s the real champion!

Potter and his girlfriend D'Arc — what a total dark!

Hardly had Harry read the taunting rhyme when he immediately looked around for Jeanne. And not without reason — a furious roar was already echoing down the corridor, heralding a new storm. D'Arc, upon seeing the offensive badges, lunged towards the Slytherins, but other Gryffindors quickly tried to stop her.

"You’ll get yours!" she shouted, her voice full of rage. "I’ll show you how to mock champions!"

Several Gryffindors rushed to restrain her.

"Jeanne, calm down!" Harry shouted.

"No! Let me go!" she snarled, writhing in their grasp. "I'll tear all their heads off!"

But containing this tempest of hatred was no easy task. Jeanne kicked and struggled fiercely, trying to bite anyone who dared hold her. She had already taken a couple of steps toward the huddled Slytherins when a whole cluster of classmates literally hung onto her. Even six boys couldn’t subdue this enraged fury.

But the Gryffindors held on tight. Six boys struggled to contain her anger. She kicked, scratched, and tried to bite their hands. The Slytherins, pale with fear, huddled together. They vividly remembered the consequences of her previous outbursts. The story of a classmate being hung by his underwear in the bathroom had already become legend. So after her explosion, Gryffindor would undoubtedly have to bid farewell to any remaining points.

Finally, with great difficulty, the Gryffindors managed to drag Jeanne aside. They saved the Slytherins from some unknown form of Egyptian punishment that the raging French girl had already envisioned for her tormentors. They tried their best to calm her down, but she was still boiling with rage. Her face was crimson, and her eyes burned with the fire of vengeance. She shot scorching glares at the Slytherins, as if promising them swift retribution. And Harry, watching her, understood that this was not the end.

A real fight erupted over Hermione when Malfoy once again distinguished himself by calling her a Mudblood. At that moment, anger boiled within Harry, and he hurled a spell at Malfoy, who retaliated with another spell. Neither hit their intended target but struck nearby students instead, causing Goyle to transform into a walking illustration from a poisonous mushroom guidebook, while Hermione’s teeth began growing uncontrollably. At that moment, Professor Snape entered the classroom. After carefully examining the victims, he sent Goyle to the school infirmary. Regarding Hermione’s continuing tooth growth, Snape sarcastically remarked that he saw only minor changes, and she ran out of the classroom in tears, hoping to reach Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary as soon as possible. Ron and Harry both cursed Snape for his treatment of Hermione. To their surprise, Jeanne's voice joined theirs. Fortunately for all three, the resulting echo prevented Snape from discerning exactly what they had said. But it didn’t stop him from deducting fifty points from Gryffindor and assigning detention to all three after class.

"Are your potions ready? Now carefully brew them. Then we'll choose someone and test their effects."

Snape’s gaze lingered on Harry. Catching it, Harry swallowed nervously, realizing his fate. He was spared by young Colin Creevey, who came running to fetch Harry and Jeanne. According to him, they were to be photographed for an article in the Daily Prophet dedicated to the Tournament. Exchanging glances with Jeanne, Harry headed toward the classroom exit. Jeanne followed him. Behind them, the Slytherins once again flaunted their badges. In response, Jeanne glared menacingly and drew her finger across her throat, causing the Slytherins to gulp audibly.

***

That day, Harry learned two curious secrets. The first was that none other than Rita Skeeter herself — the scandalous columnist from the Daily Prophet — had arrived at Hogwarts. It seemed this woman was scheming to extract the juiciest details about the upcoming Triwizard Tournament and present them in her signature exaggerated and sensational style.

The second secret was simple yet brilliant — Rita Skeeter twisted and embellished any facts without a twinge of conscience, turning them however it suited her. Upon learning these two straightforward truths, Jeanne d’Arc merely sneered contemptuously. She was utterly indifferent to any gossip or rumors.

Fortunately for both of them, their encounter was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Headmaster Dumbledore. He had come to observe an important procedure — the weighing of the champions’ wands.

"If that old hag writes any rubbish about us, I’ll kill you both," D’Arc cooed sweetly, though her eyes gleamed maliciously.

Jeanne chuckled softly, sending shivers down Harry’s spine. He was absolutely certain — this girl was fully capable of carrying out her threats if pushed to the limit. This overly combative Frenchwoman possessed a reckless temperament and fiery spirit that could not be tamed.

Whether by chance or design, Jeanne d’Arc became the third Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament. Her rebellious spirit and desperate courage simply could not remain on the sidelines of the upcoming trials.

When Harry returned to the dormitory, Ron was the only one there. He informed Harry about the owl waiting for him and mentioned the punishment Snape had assigned them — working in his classroom the next evening. Without looking at Harry once, Ron left the room. Harry briefly considered following him, but curiosity ultimately got the better of him, and he approached the window to retrieve the letter from the owl. It was a letter from Sirius. In it, he asked Harry to meet him at the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room at one o'clock in the morning between November 21st and 22nd for a personal conversation, as he hadn’t dared to write everything down, fearing the owl might be intercepted.

For two weeks, Harry lived in anticipation of meeting his godfather. These days turned into unbearable torment, dragging on slower than a turtle. Soon, Rita Skeeter’s article appeared in the Prophet, and Harry felt like disappearing into the ground because of it. Jeanne teased him occasionally for the first two days about crying over his parents at night and loved quoting the line about how they were watching over him from heaven, so nothing would happen to him during the Tournament. Eventually, she grew tired of it and stopped, for which Harry mentally thanked her, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to endure both Jeanne and the Slytherins. What Jeanne did thank Skeeter for, however, was the lack of speculation about her name, since the article focused on a supposed romance between Harry and Hermione.

The long-awaited meeting between Harry and Sirius was approaching, and on November 21st, Harry, along with Hermione, went to Hogsmeade. There, he hoped to relax a bit and, for extra comfort, donned his invisibility cloak. After relaxing at the Three Broomsticks and sipping some butterbeer, Harry unexpectedly made a discovery: Mad-Eye Moody’s magical eye could see through the invisibility cloak. As soon as Professor Moody arrived at the Three Broomsticks with Hagrid, this fact became clear. Seizing the opportunity, Hagrid invited Harry over that evening to show him something extraordinary. And he kept his promise. On the edge of the Forbidden Forest, experienced wizards led by Charlie Weasley were hard at work. They were taming four enormous dragons. Fifteen minutes remained until the meeting with Sirius.

Racing back to the castle like lightning, Harry burst into the Gryffindor common room like a gust of wind. Amidst the flames in the fireplace, Sirius’s head stuck out. Their conversation was fruitful but too short, and Sirius didn’t even have time to tell Harry how to defeat the dragon. But even from what they managed to discuss, Harry learned that Death Eaters had been unusually active lately, as if preparing for something. These events reminded Sirius of the past, of how the first war had once begun. A chill ran down Harry’s spine at the thought. The only thing Sirius didn’t understand was why the Goblet had spit out two names instead of one. Much to Harry’s disappointment, their conversation was interrupted by footsteps. Someone was descending from the Gryffindor dormitory into the common room. Sirius barely had time to disappear before a sleepy Ron appeared in Harry’s view.

Chapter Text

Harry's morning turned out to be unusually distracted. He had argued with Ron the night before and now couldn't gather his thoughts. The enormous dragons Hagrid had shown him kept wandering in his mind, somewhere far away in unreachable distant worlds where no dragon could ever reach. His courage, along with all his feelings, seemed to have traveled there too. Completely disheartened, he noticed nothing around him anymore, merely drifting with the current, carried by the river of time into the whirlpool of inevitability. Nothing gave him hope, nothing brought him joy, and he clung to every lived minute with all his might, unwilling to let go of this thin thread separating him from the dreadful hour when, amidst applause and cheers, he would step out to face the dragon.

Harry wanted to cry from fear but couldn't find tears. He wished to hide but didn't know where. He wanted to run and scream but found no relief in it. At this moment, when everyone had turned away from him and only Hermione tried to help, searching for a suitable spell in books, he felt like Atlas with the sky on his shoulders. He would have straightened his back, but there was no one left to carry this unbearable burden.

Even Jeanne, usually cold and nasty, was surprised by the absent expression on his face that Monday night when even sleep had betrayed him, leaving him alone until morning. She doesn’t know what awaits them. Maybe I should tell her? But if I tell her, I must also inform Cedric.

She sat in her usual place, unusually quiet and pensive. Her usual self-assured smirk was missing from her face. This was so unlike her that Harry involuntarily became worried. He approached her without a word and sat beside her. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"Jeanne," he began, but his voice betrayed him, turning into a hoarse whisper. "I... I need to tell you something."

He grabbed her hand. Her skin was cold as ice. He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear:

"In the first task, we will fight a dragon."

He let go of her hand and turned away, unable to look her in the eyes. A lump formed in his throat. The piece of bacon on his plate suddenly seemed especially... unappetizing. Since Hagrid showed him the dragons, Harry couldn't shake off the feeling that he was... trapped in the same enclosure with them. He could almost feel their heavy breathing, the smell of burnt earth, see their yellow, vertical pupils full of cold fury.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp blow to his face. He recoiled, grabbing his cheek. Before him stood Jeanne, her eyes blazing with fiery anger. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard.

"You said – a dragon?" she whispered, her voice full of disbelief.

Harry nodded.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked, loosening her grip.

Harry just shook his head in response.

Jeanne released his shoulders and stepped back. She bit her lip and frowned, as if trying to solve a complex puzzle. She remained silent, feverishly thinking about something. Harry saw flashes of... excitement? He didn’t know what she was planning, but he felt that... it would be interesting.

A little later, while pushing through the crowd of students in the corridor, Harry spotted Cedric. He was walking surrounded by his Hufflepuff friends and a group of giggling girls. Cedric looked... pleased. Too pleased. It irritated Harry. He couldn’t just approach and tell him about the dragons in front of everyone. He needed to... separate him. Harry squinted and discreetly pointed his wand at Cedric’s bag.

"Diffindo!" he whispered.

Cedric’s bag tore with a crack. Textbooks, parchment, quills... everything scattered on the floor. Two ink bottles broke, leaving purple stains on the stone. Cedric’s friends bustled, offering their help. But Cedric, frowning, waved them off.

"Go to class," he said. "I’ll handle it myself."

When everyone left, Harry approached Cedric.

"Hi, Cedric," he said. "Sorry for... this. But I needed to talk to you. Alone."

Cedric raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Harry? What... happened?"

"In the first trial... dragons," Harry said quietly.

Cedric’s face instantly paled. He crouched down and started gathering his things, his hands trembling.

"Dragons?" he repeated, his voice barely audible. "You... you’re sure?"

Harry nodded.

"Hagrid showed me," he said. "They... they’re terrible."

"But... how?" Cedric looked up at him, bewildered. "Why... dragons?"

"I don’t know," Harry replied, shrugging. "But we need to think of something."

Cedric fell silent again, staring at one point. Harry saw the gears of thought spinning rapidly in his head.

"Thanks for warning me, Harry," he finally said. "I... I need to think."

He stood up, picked up his torn bag, and headed to class.

Harry watched him leave. He felt a little better. He had done his duty.

Harry turned to go to class and immediately ran into Professor Moody. He was standing next to him, leaning on his cane, scrutinizing him carefully. His magical eye was anxiously rotating in its socket.

"Potter," he said in his raspy voice, "now come with me. We need to talk."

Moody turned and headed to his office, not waiting for an answer. Harry obediently followed him. He felt a slight anxiety. What did Moody want from him?

Moody’s office was... strange. It was filled with strange devices and mechanisms that ticked, whistled, and made other incomprehensible sounds. The air was filled with the smell of... metal and magical potions. Moody gestured for Harry to sit on a chair and sat behind his desk.

"So, Potter," he said, his magical eye still anxiously rotating, "I saw what you just did to Diggory. And I heard your conversation. Dragons, eh?"

Harry nodded, swallowing.

"Yes, sir," he answered.

"Did Hagrid blab to you?"

"Yes, sir."

Moody took a sip from his flask and smirked. His smirk looked ominous.

"Well, Hagrid has always been weak when it comes to chatter," he said. "But you did the right thing by warning Diggory. That’s... commendable. Now tell me, what’s your plan? How do you intend to deal with the dragon?"

Harry blushed.

"I... I haven’t figured that out yet, sir," he mumbled.

"Not figured it out?" Moody raised his eyebrows. "But time is running out, Potter. You need to hurry."

"I know, sir," Harry replied, feeling despair rising within him. "But... I don’t know what to do."

"What to do?" Moody smirked. "Think about it, Potter. What are you... best at? In what do you... excel others?"

Harry thought. He had never considered his... talents in this light.

"Well... I’m... pretty good at Quidditch," he mumbled.

"Quidditch?" Moody abruptly straightened in his chair. "And what exactly do you do best in Quidditch?"

"Fly, probably," Harry replied, shrugging. "On a broom."

"Exactly, Potter!" Moody slammed his fist on the table, making Harry flinch. "You fly! And you fly... well. Now think about how this can help you... in fighting the dragon."

Moody fell silent, watching Harry intently. His magical eye seemed to... drill right through him. Harry thought.

"But you can’t take a broom with you."

"But you can take your wand."

***

Inspired by Moody’s idea, Harry immediately set out to find Hermione. He found her in the library, as always surrounded by a mountain of books.

"Hermione," he said, "I need your help. Do you know anything about... Summoning Charms?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Summoning Charms?" she repeated. "Of course, I know. But why do you need it?"

"It’s... a long story," Harry replied, not wanting to go into details. "Just... teach me. Please."

Seeing his agitated state, Hermione agreed. She found the necessary book and began explaining the essence of the spell to Harry. They spent the whole day and evening practicing Summoning Charms.

They trained in the library, in empty classrooms, even in the Gryffindor common room. Harry was so absorbed in his task that he hardly noticed anything around him.

Even Trelawney’s prophecy about his imminent death didn’t make any impression on him.

"Death?" he snorted when Hermione told him about it. "Well, let it be. Just quick. I don’t want to suffer."

Even Ron, who was still sulking at him, couldn’t suppress a smile. For a moment, a spark of... former friendship seemed to flash between them. But it quickly faded. Harry was still angry at him for interrupting his conversation with Sirius. And for not believing him.

By two o’clock in the morning, Harry was exhausted like a squeezed lemon. But he didn’t give up. He continued training, repeating the wand movements and incantation over and over again. He knew his goal. He had to learn to summon his Firebolt. And he wouldn’t rest until he achieved it.

"Now I know what to do next time if some charms aren’t working for me," he said to Hermione, who was brightly shining from his success, "Scare them with a dragon."

He didn’t even notice how Jeanne’s behavior changed. She no longer lunged at offenders with her fists. She simply... wrote down their names in a small notebook she always carried with her. Her face was calm and inscrutable, but in her eyes, Harry saw... a cold flame. A flame that frightened him.

He also didn’t pay attention to the fact that Fred and George organized a betting pool on the outcome of the first trial. They were taking bets on which champion would last the longest. And, naturally, Harry was one of the favorites... to lose.

"Don’t worry, Harry," Fred told him, winking, "we’ll share the winnings with you. If you survive, of course."

Harry just waved it off. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Classes that day dragged on endlessly. Each minute felt like an hour. Time seemed to mock him, reveling in his torment. During lunch, he couldn’t swallow a single bite. There was a lump in his throat.

Finally, the hour arrived. Professor McGonagall approached him and Jeanne.

"Come on," she said sternly. "You’re awaited."

Harry and Jeanne followed her. They walked silently, each immersed in their own thoughts. In the tent, where Cedric and Fleur were already waiting, a tense silence reigned. Cedric nervously paced from corner to corner, Fleur sat on a chair, her face pale. Even Jeanne looked... unusually serious. Her self-satisfied smirk had disappeared.

Into the tent entered Ludo Bagman, holding a small red silk pouch in his hand. His face glowed with excitement.

"When the spectators gather, I’ll open this bag. Inside are replicas of those you’ll have to face. All of them are different. Each of you will take turns drawing who fate has assigned to you. Your task is to seize the golden egg."

***

"So," Bagman said, radiating the importance of the moment, "the rules of the first trial are simple. Each champion must... retrieve the golden egg from the dragon. Which specific dragon you get, you’ll find out now."

He extended the red pouch to Krum.

"Mr. Krum," Bagman said, "please."

Krum dipped his hand into the pouch and, after a bit of rummaging, pulled out a small figurine.

"Swedish Short-Snout."

Krum examined it closely, nodded, and put it in his pocket.

"Mademoiselle Delacour," Bagman gallantly offered the pouch to Fleur.

Fleur, with a pale face, drew her figurine.

"Welsh Green."

"Merci," she whispered.

Cedric drew the Chinese Fireball; his hands trembled slightly. He gripped the figurine so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Bagman glanced at Harry and Jeanne, and his smile became somewhat strained.

"Well, as for you," he said, "as I mentioned, one dragon... for both of you."

At that moment, Rita Skeeter emerged from behind Bagman, ready with her Quick-Quotes Quill and notebook.

"Just one dragon for both of you?" Rita Skeeter crooned with feigned sympathy, her Quick-Quotes Quill poised over the notebook. "How is that possible? It’s... outrageous! Poor Mademoiselle d'Arc! Surely, she must feel... abandoned to her fate. Or perhaps," she leaned closer to Jeanne, her eyes gleaming predatorily, "she’s just... hiding behind Potter? Afraid to step onto the arena alone? Or maybe," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "there’s something... more than just friendship between them? Perhaps that’s why their names ended up on the same parchment? Or," she added with a sneer, "maybe the Ministry of Magic simply couldn’t afford enough funds for a fifth dragon? Apparently, they lack the money even for decent competitions."

Jeanne’s face turned paler than chalk. Flames of rage ignited in her eyes, and real fire blazed around her left hand. Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He knew what was about to happen.

"Mrs. Skeeter!" Bagman barked, his face turning crimson. "That’s enough! Leave the tent immediately!"

"But..." Rita Skeeter began, but Bagman interrupted her.

"Out!" Jeanne shouted, jumping to her feet. "Get out of here before I..."

She didn’t finish. Harry and Cedric grabbed her arms and held her in place.

"Jeanne, calm down!" Harry said, trying to soothe her. "She’s not worth it."

"Let me go!" Jeanne growled, struggling in their grasp. "I’ll..."

Professor McGonagall, who had just entered the tent, grabbed Rita Skeeter by the arm and dragged her outside.

"And don’t let me catch you here again!" she shouted after the departing journalist.

Silence fell in the tent. Jeanne breathed heavily, her eyes still burning with anger. Harry and Cedric released her arms.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

"You’re welcome," Harry replied. "She... she crossed all boundaries."

Regaining his composure, Bagman extended the pouch to Harry.

"Mr. Potter, please."

Harry looked at Jeanne, then at the pouch. He felt his heart beat faster. He dipped his hand into the pouch and touched something... rough and hot. He pulled out the figurine.

"Hungarian Horntail."

Harry looked at Jeanne. She watched him with an inscrutable expression.

Silence reigned in the tent. Outside, the noise of the crowd, excited voices, and music could be heard. Jeanne sat back in her chair, whistling a tune with her eyes closed. Harry paced from corner to corner, trying to cope with his anxiety. He imagined the Hungarian Horntail but focused not on its sharp claws and fiery breath but on... the golden egg. On his goal. Cedric checked his wand, muttering spells under his breath. Fleur cast another beauty charm on herself, her face concentrated. Krum, as always, remained impassive. He sat upright, staring at one spot.

"Nervous, Potter?" Krum suddenly asked, his voice calm and steady.

"A bit," Harry admitted.

"Don’t be afraid," Krum said, giving a barely noticeable smile. "Dragons... they’re not as scary as they seem. The main thing is not to panic."

Harry was surprised. He hadn’t expected support from Krum.

"Thank you," he said.

Suddenly, a whistle sounded from outside. It was the signal for the first champion. Krum. He stood up, nodded to them, and exited the tent.

"See you on the other side," he said, smiling even wider.

The door slammed shut behind him, as if cutting them off from their... shared fear. The wait became even more unbearable. Now, through the noise of the crowd, they clearly heard the dragon’s growl. A deep, ominous growl that sent shivers down their spines. Then—screams, squeals, crashes, applause. Everything merged into an indistinguishable hum.

Finally, another whistle blew. The trial was over. The tent door opened, and... no one entered. Just the whistle and silence. Strange, ominous silence. Harry watched the door anxiously.

Fleur stood up. Her legs were shaking. She took a few difficult steps toward the exit and disappeared through the door. Again, the wait. Again, the growling. This time—more ferocious, more... close. Screams. Applause. Silence. And another whistle. Cedric rose from his seat. He looked shocked but quickly disappeared through the door, which immediately closed behind him.

The tension of waiting was no longer as oppressive as before. Harry focused on the plan he had developed with Hermione. He imagined how he would summon the Firebolt... and how he would achieve victory. Beside him, he felt Jeanne’s presence. Her closeness calmed him. He stole a glance at her. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her gaze was warm and full of support. She smiled. Surprisingly, without her usual arrogance, her smile unexpectedly gave Harry hope. Because someone who doesn’t believe in their victory can’t smile like that now. Harry responded with an encouraging smile.

A whistle sounded from outside. It was their turn. Harry looked at Jeanne. She stood up and approached him, then placed her hand on his.

"Well, partner," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "shall we show them how it’s done?"

Harry smiled.

"Let’s show them," he replied.

They exited the tent, facing the roar of the crowd and... the dragon’s fire.

A piercing whistle tore through the oppressive silence. Harry swallowed, feeling icy fingers gripping his throat. He took a step forward, then another. His legs felt as though they were filled with heavy lead. He clutched his wand tightly, as if it were his only salvation.

At the far end of the arena, behind a low stone ridge, flames raged. They burst out from behind the boulders, illuminating the platform with bright, pulsating flashes. Harry squinted, trying to make out... it.

And there she appeared. Slowly, majestically, like death itself, she crawled out from behind the rocks. The Hungarian Horntail. Her scales were matte black, as if charred. Sharp spikes, like blades, protruded from her back and tail. Massive paws with curved claws looked as if they could tear through steel. But the most terrifying part was her face. Elongated, predatory, with a gaping mouth full of huge, sharp teeth. Smoke billowed from her nostrils, and her yellow eyes with vertical pupils burned with a cold, inhuman fire.

Harry froze, paralyzed by fear. An unbearable heat emanated from the dragon, scorching his face. He smelled sulfur and... something else. Something... sweet and nauseating. The smell... of death.

He saw them. The eggs. Huge, whitish eggs, lying at the foot of the rocks. The dragoness restlessly shifted from paw to paw, guarding her offspring. She cast quick, angry glances at Harry, as if warning him not to approach. And at that moment, Harry understood what awaited him. He would have to fight not just a dragon... but a mother protecting her young. And that was... much scarier.

Jeanne d’Arc, like an embodiment of fiery determination, confidently approached the dragon. Her crimson cloak fluttered behind her like flames, and in her hand, she firmly gripped her wand, giving herself the appearance of a warrior ready for battle. Harry, holding his breath, watched her movements, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He couldn’t understand what she was planning.

When Jeanne approached the dragoness, she unexpectedly knelt down, bowing low to the creature that embodied ancient power. This was so unlike her bold and independent behavior that Harry was taken aback. The dragoness, tilting her head in confusion, sniffed her, smoke billowing from her nostrils, and a prolonged, guttural growl echoed in the mountains. Jeanne remained motionless, her head bowed as if in prayer.

Suddenly, the dragoness jerked back, spreading her enormous wings, raising a whirlwind of dust and stones. Harry realized this was not an attack but a challenge. A powerful column of fire erupted from the dragoness’s mouth, illuminating the arena with bright light. Harry squinted, expecting Jeanne’s scream, but instead heard only a ringing sound, as if someone were tossing coins onto the ground.

In amazement, Harry stared wide-eyed. Jeanne stood unharmed, enveloped in a golden glow, while her cloak shimmered only from the molten dragonfire splashes. It seemed she had melted an old metal ring in front of her. As if nothing had happened, Jeanne turned to face the stunned dragoness and bowed again.

The figure of Jeanne d’Arc froze in complete stillness, like a statue, despite the fierce torrent of flames that had just crashed upon her. The golden glow of the magical shield cast intricate reflections on the ground, resembling the play of sunlight on water.

The dragoness, who had been guarding her offspring from intruders all this time, perked up in astonishment. Her elongated head with a glassy gaze slowly tilted forward, approaching the human figure. The broad nostrils of the predator greedily inhaled scents, as if trying to discern the mysterious essence of this being.

Suddenly, Jeanne d’Arc’s chest heaved, as if on the verge of some sacred act, and her face, covered in soot and ash, turned once more to the dragoness. Harry froze in tense anticipation, gripping his wand so tightly that it emitted a faint creak.

“GREDDAHRE BRUDDARD ARWARA!” thundered from Jeanne’s lips in a deep, rumbling voice that could not possibly have come from the throat of an ordinary person.

The words sounded in an unfamiliar, primordial language, interspersed with guttural vibrations reminiscent of the roar of a working mechanism. Harry shuddered at these inhuman, grating sounds.

Jeanne paused briefly, during which the dragoness began to show signs of agitation, stretching her massive wings. However, with the next phrase, the gigantic lizard seemed to soften and sank to the ground, listening to the mysterious girl’s words.

“GREDDAHRA! BRUDDARD ARWARA!” Jeanne thundered again, hurling words in an unknown tongue into the space.

“What are you doing, Jeanne?” Harry couldn’t hold back, lost in conjecture. But his words hung in the air, ignored by his ally, completely absorbed in her peculiar activity.

Jeanne continued her enigmatic monologue before the dragon. Her speech grew louder and more confident, weaving into some primal hymn, spiced with curious insertions in the dragon’s tongue.

It seemed as if the very earth trembled in rhythm with this inhuman chanting, as if responding to an ancient call. Meanwhile, the dragoness fell silent, engrossed in Jeanne’s speech, though her drowsy gaze revealed nothing.

Then the dragoness stirred. Her colossal scaled body rose above the nest, crowned with a mighty head, like ancient limestone, jaws agape. A hum filled the air from the beating of sail-like wings, sweeping everything in their path.

Jeanne d’Arc raised her hand, signaling Harry to maintain complete silence. She cautiously moved forward, careful not to make sudden movements in the presence of the immense lizard.

The dragoness sensed potential danger and erupted in a roar, unleashing torrents of fire into the space. Blinding heat engulfed everything, making the very ground tremble. Jeanne recoiled, shielding herself with her cloak from the scorching tongues of flame.

“D'REDDAHRE!” the dragoness roared menacingly, lowering her snout to the warrior and her companion.

For a moment, Harry thought the beast would attack. But Jeanne reacted lightning-fast. She darted to the boy, crouching almost to the ground, and hurriedly whispered, scorching his face with her hot breath:

“Now we quietly retreat… Imagine you’re a tiny mouse…”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him along. Harry obediently followed, crouching low. He felt her hand in his—small but surprisingly strong.

They darted behind a rocky outcrop just as a new burst of flame crashed onto the spot where they had just stood. Harry felt his scar burn with heat.

“Damn it, how do we calm her down?” he hissed, pressing against the stone ridge and feeling small fragments rain down from above.

Jeanne, leaning her back against a massive boulder, furrowed her brow. Her gaze was fixed in the distance, as if pondering possible courses of action. Harry watched her, holding his breath. He noticed how tense her shoulders were, how rapidly her chest rose. Suddenly, he realized how… beautiful she was. Even covered in soot and ash, with tousled hair. He averted his gaze, feeling his cheeks flush.

Outside, silence reigned, broken only by the low growl of the dragoness. It seemed she was listening to something.

“What did you say to her?” Harry couldn’t hold back, breaking the silence.

Jeanne turned to him. A flicker of… regret? flashed in her eyes.

“I asked her to give us the egg without a fight,” she replied softly.

Harry snorted, trying to keep the sound soft:

“Yeah, and she replied that she won’t give it?”

A faint smirk appeared on Jeanne’s face:

“How did you guess?”

“You know, somehow I felt it in my gut!” Harry retorted.

At that moment, an earsplitting roar sounded, and a new burst of flame crashed onto the boulders behind which they were hiding. Harry and Jeanne pressed against the rock, feeling a wave of heat.

“You can’t pacify a dragon peacefully,” Jeanne hissed through gritted teeth as the roar subsided. “We need another plan.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something but froze. He noticed a golden chain peeking out from under Jeanne’s cloak. A small medallion hung on it, shimmering in the dim light like a tiny star.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, nodding toward the medallion.

Jeanne quickly tucked the chain under her cloak. Her face became inscrutable.

“Nothing,” she replied curtly. “Just… an ornament.”

“Do you have another plan?” Harry persisted, not taking his eyes off her.

Jeanne looked at Harry, her eyes gleaming with pride, but deep within them lay a plea. She remained silent, but in her barely perceptible nod, Harry caught not only resolve but also… something else. Something she desperately tried to conceal. With a swift motion, Jeanne pulled her wand from inside her cloak and gripped it tightly in her hand. Her face displayed a gamut of emotions—from reckless bravery to a thirst for righteous vengeance.

An intriguing wand… Bark from the ancient Fairy Tree in the French village of Domrémy, and metal from medieval French swords… An extremely extraordinary combination, Mademoiselle d’Arc. I’m sure the history of your famous namesake, who lived in the fifteenth century, means a great deal to you.

“I can burn her to ashes,” she hissed through clenched teeth, raising her wand like a blade. Malicious sparks flashed in her eyes.

Harry recoiled, pressing against the stone ridge. He recalled all of Hagrid’s stories about dragons and their savage power. The prospect of an enraged, scorched beast filled him with nothing but terror.

“Let’s avoid that,” Harry hastily objected, holding out his palms. “I don’t want to learn anything so new about dragons as the specifics of their behavior in flames with all the details. It’s much safer to hear about that from Hagrid.”

Jeanne narrowed her eyes, her chest heaving heavily. Fired up with combat fervor, she still clutched her wand, not lowering it. At that very moment, a new roar struck their ears, forcing both of them to press against the rock. A tornado of searing air whistled directly above their heads, leaving a wave of deadly heat in its wake.

“Jeanne, for heaven’s sake, don’t do anything stupid!” Harry desperately clung to her arm, trying to bring his classmate to her senses. “Think about it, you want to win the Tournament, not burn alive!”

Jeanne nodded convulsively, regaining her composure with difficulty. Her gaze focused, regaining clarity.

“You’re right,” she rasped, lowering her wand. “But then how do we get the egg?”

Harry listened to his intuition, brushing aside doubts. He glanced at Jeanne’s delicate figure and remembered how this girl effortlessly tossed around trained upperclassmen who towered over her. Her strength clearly didn’t match her petite build.

And yet, she’s talking nonsense. How can this fragile girl set a fifty-foot dragon ablaze? Five trained adult tamers struggle with it, and she suggests burning this monster.

A plan began to form in Harry’s mind. There was no time for deliberation—the dragoness roared again, catching the scent of humans. Harry whipped out his wand and summoned:

“Accio Firebolt!”

In an instant, it came hurtling through the air. Harry skillfully mounted it and nodded to Jeanne:

“Summon a broom too! Then we’ll split up and confuse the dragon.”

Jeanne looked at him in astonishment.

“Are you serious?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You think I play... Quidditch?”

“Of course not,” Harry thought. There was no time to overplay. He felt like an idiot. The dragoness roared again, approaching their hiding spot. Smoke billowed from her mouth.

“No time to explain,” Harry said, grabbing Jeanne’s hand and pulling her toward him. “Just... hold on tight.”

He seated her behind him on the broom. Jeanne clung to him, her arms wrapping around his waist. Her breath tickled his neck, and Harry barely suppressed a shiver that ran through him. At that moment, he sensed a fragility in her, hidden behind the armor of her pride.

“Hold on!” he shouted, launching the Firebolt into motion.

The Firebolt soared into the air, carrying them away from the enraged dragoness. The beast let out an earsplitting roar and reared up, trying to grab them with its enormous paws. Harry, weaving between streams of flame the dragoness unleashed at them, directed the broom toward the nest.

“Hold on tight!” he shouted to Jeanne, sharply changing direction.

They circled around the nest like two moths around a flame. The dragoness, driven mad with fury, thrashed around the arena, trying to grab them. Seeing that Jeanne had drawn her wand, Harry shouted:

“Now!”

A dazzling beam of light shot from Jeanne’s wand. It struck the dragoness directly in the eyes. The beast roared in pain and shook its head, losing sight of them.

“Accio egg!” Harry shouted, pointing his wand at the golden egg.

He strained all his might, pouring all his will into the spell. But... nothing happened. The egg didn’t even budge. It lay in the nest, shimmering in the firelight, as if mocking him. Harry understood. Of course, it was protected. Idiots! How could he have forgotten?

"It's not working!" Harry shouted to Jeanne. "It's... protected!"

"Then we fly closer!" she shouted back. "I'll hold her off!"

Jeanne cast several more blinding spells at the dragon. The beast roared and thrashed around the arena, unable to see its opponents. Harry directed his broom towards the nest. He descended slowly and carefully, trying not to get caught in the dragon's fire. When he was close enough, he abruptly braked the broom and jumped off.

He landed right next to the nest. The heat from the eggs burned his hands. He grabbed the golden egg and... felt a sharp pain shoot through his body. It was as if he had touched red-hot metal. He screamed and recoiled. But the egg was already in his hands.

"Harry!" he heard Jeanne shout. "Let's go!"

He looked up. Jeanne was already beside him on the broom. She reached out her hand.

"Faster!"

Harry grabbed her hand and jumped onto the broom. They shot sharply into the air. The dragon, having recovered, let out an ear-splitting roar and charged after them. But they were already far away.

At that moment, the dragon came to its senses again. It saw them once more and charged after them with a roar. Without wasting time, Jeanne cast several more blinding spells at it. The dragon roared and thrashed around the arena like a blind kitten.

Harry directed his broom toward the exit of the enclosure. The wind whistled in his ears, and his heart pounded in his chest like a hammer. He could see the stands, hear the roar of the crowd... and feel Jeanne’s hand, which was hugging his waist, trembling.

He looked at her. Her face was pale, but in her eyes, he saw a smile. A smile of pride and... admiration?

He crossed the finish line.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause as Harry and Jeanne landed on the arena, proudly displaying the golden dragon egg. Ludo Bagman, the competition judge, hurried over to the winners, gesturing enthusiastically.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he exclaimed, barely reaching the participants of the first round. "You were unmatched! True daredevils and innovators!"

Bagman turned his gaze to Viktor Krum, who stood with his teammates, looking disgruntled.

"Here, Mr. Krum, is a true example to follow!" the judge said instructively. "These young people not only claimed the egg faster than anyone else but also demonstrated incredible ingenuity by using flying magic!"

Krum frowned even more deeply. Harry, on the other hand, felt awkward from such loud praise. He knew that without Jeanne, he wouldn’t have succeeded.

Harry and Jeanne found themselves at the center of attention. They were surrounded by friends, classmates, and teachers. Everyone wanted to congratulate them, shake their hands, and ask about the details of the trial. Harry struggled through the crowd, trying to find... Ron and Hermione. But they found him instead. They pushed through the crowd toward their friend, their faces pale.

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed, rushing to embrace his friend. "We thought you were done for!"

"Oh come on, everything's fine," Harry tried to joke, but Ron just shook his head.

Hermione looked at Harry as if she was afraid to blink, fearing he might suddenly disappear. Hermione silently hugged Harry. Her hands trembled. Seeing her distressed face, Harry felt deeply guilty. Was his participation in the Tournament really making his friends worry so much?

"Harry," Ron finally said after a pause, speaking slowly. "Whoever put your name in the Goblet, I realize now: they want you dead!"

"Took you long enough."

Chapter Text

Harry accidentally woke Dobby on Christmas morning. The house-elf gazed into Harry's eyes with such attention and interest that Harry wondered if the elf had spotted some speck in his eyes. As it turned out, Dobby had come to give Harry a Christmas present, which turned out to be socks. Harry inadvertently woke Ron with his exclamation, but the friends didn’t falter and together gifted the house-elf two pairs of socks: Harry gave him his uncle Vernon’s old yellow socks, and Ron gave a burgundy pair. Both examined their gifts, among which Harry found a gift from Sirius — a folding penknife with lock picks for all locks and a needle that untangles any knots. Not long before this day, he had received a reply from Sirius to his letter, in which he congratulated his godson on successfully completing the task, admired the method Harry chose to defeat the dragon, and strictly warned him to stay alert: according to him, the conspirator behind Harry's entry into the Tournament was somewhere very close and would reveal himself soon. The enemy would undoubtedly strike at the first opportunity — Sirius warned. Sirius's gift looked more than symbolic — he surely anticipated that Harry might need such a universal tool to avoid or escape trouble. Harry understood this and felt immense gratitude towards his godfather for his care [[1]].

***

That evening, the Gryffindor common room transformed. Instead of their usual robes, students paraded in festive attire, excitedly chatting and adjusting their hairstyles. Music drifted from the Great Hall, where preparations for the ball had already begun. Everything was ready… except for Harry. He nervously paced the common room, trying to spot… Jeanne. She was nowhere to be seen.

Ron, who also dressed up — as much as was possible for Ron — anxiously searched for Hermione.

“Where is she?” he muttered, adjusting his tie, which stubbornly kept sliding to the side. “She promised…”

“Who are you going with, Ron?” Harry asked, trying to distract him from his anxiety.

“Parvati,” Ron replied with a sigh. “No one else agreed.”

At that moment, Fleur Delacour passed by them on the arm of Roger Davies. She looked… dazzling. Her silvery hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her blue dress accentuated her otherworldly beauty. Even Harry, who was preoccupied with thoughts of Jeanne, couldn't help but notice her.

“Lucky guy, that Davies,” Ron mumbled.

Following them were Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Malfoy, as always, looked like he had just stepped off the cover of *Witch Weekly*. Pansy, well… Pansy was Pansy.

Harry felt increasingly awkward. The ball was about to start, and Jeanne still hadn’t appeared. He began to think that she… had changed her mind. That she decided not to go. And at that thought, he felt… sad.

"Participants of the Triwizard Tournament!" Professor McGonagall’s loud, clear voice rang out. "Please proceed to the center of the hall!"

Harry flinched and turned toward the entrance to the Great Hall. And then he saw… Hermione.

She was stunning. In a long, sky-blue dress that accentuated her figure and made her almost unrecognizable. Her hair was neatly styled, and a happy, slightly shy smile lit up her face. Viktor Krum, upon seeing her, gaped in astonishment. His fan club — a crowd of girls who had been swarming around him until now — glared at Hermione with undisguised hatred. Pansy Parkinson hissed something indistinct. And Draco Malfoy… Draco Malfoy simply stood there, as if petrified, looking at Hermione with an expression as though he had seen the eighth wonder of the world.

And then… Jeanne appeared.

She seemed to have waited for a dramatic pause to make the maximum impact. She stood in the doorway, illuminated by the soft candlelight. Her dress — long, made of heavy, dark blue velvet, with a deep neckline trimmed with lace and a daring slit up to mid-thigh — hugged her slender figure, accentuating her high bust and slim waist. A long, semi-transparent train embroidered with silver patterns resembling stylized lilies flowed from her shoulders. Black satin gloves reaching her elbows added a touch of elegance to her appearance. Her white hair, styled in soft waves, cascaded down her back, adorned with small purple flowers. Around her neck hung a delicate silver chain with a tiny cross pendant. Her face… was flawless. Perfectly even skin tone, bright red lips, and eyes. Amber eyes that burned with a mysterious, slightly predatory fire. A light, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips.

The hall momentarily froze. All eyes were fixed on her. Then came admiring sighs. Boys — students and teachers alike — couldn’t take their eyes off her. The girls… watched her with a mix of envy and admiration. Even Professor McGonagall couldn’t help but smile. Ron, who had been eagerly searching for Hermione, now stood with his mouth agape, staring at Jeanne. And Draco Malfoy, who just moments ago couldn’t stop admiring Hermione’s transformation, now struggled to swallow, his eyes greedily roaming over Jeanne’s figure.

She slowly approached Harry, as if dancing. Her movements were smooth and graceful, as though she were… not human, but some beautiful, otherworldly being. There was something innocent and pure about her… yet at the same time, something dark, dangerous, and forbidden. She looked… like a queen. Not just the queen of the ball, but… the queen of the entire world. Authoritative, cold, unapproachable.

Jeanne slowly walked up to Harry. She stopped in front of him and looked up at him from under her brows, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Hello, Potter,” she said in a ringing, slightly sharp voice. “Ready to dance?”

Harry felt his cheeks flush. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

“I… I… of course,” he stammered.

“Great,” Jeanne said, her smile widening. “Then let’s go.”

She took him by the arm. Harry felt her light, almost imperceptible touch… and his heart began to beat faster. He blushed and mumbled:

“And… and I’m glad to see you too, Jeanne. You… uh… look amazing.”

Jeanne quickly scanned him with an appraising glance. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Something resembling… tenderness?

“Thank you, Potter,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

Unexpectedly, she squeezed his hand and leaned toward him. Her warm breath brushed against his ear.

“Just don’t get any ideas,” she whispered, her voice high-pitched and metallic. “Or I’ll break all your fingers so Madam Pomfrey won’t be able to help.”

Harry stopped in surprise.

“What?” he asked, looking at her in confusion. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t planning to…”

“And your legs too,” she interrupted him, her eyes sparkling with playful flames. “Step on my foot… and you’ll learn to walk again.”

She smiled, and that smile was… almost shy. Harry felt his heart beat faster again. He didn’t know what to say. He just… stared at her. Admired her beauty. Her strength. Her… recklessness.

“Let’s go already,” Jeanne said sharply, turning and pulling him along. “We’re already late.”

Harry obediently followed her. He felt the heat radiating from her… like from a fire. Heat that drew him in.

For the first time, Harry led Jeanne in a dance. The music flowed like a velvety stream, carrying them into a whirlpool of smooth movements. Harry’s heart raced as he met her large amber eyes. In their blazing depths reflected the entire festive hall with its shimmering lights, as if they were gates to another, more beautiful world.

“Well, what do you think, Harry?” Jeanne asked with a sly smirk. Her lips curved into a seductive grin. “Was it scarier to ask a girl to dance than to defeat a dragon?”

Harry involuntarily admired her. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and her long lashes fluttered in time with the music. She was… beautiful. There was so much life, so much energy… so much fire in her.

“In any case,” he replied, smiling, “both are… behind us now.”

Jeanne laughed. Her laughter was ringing and infectious. Harry felt his tension melt away. He relaxed and… began to enjoy the dance. Enjoy… her company.

“It couldn’t have been otherwise, Harry,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “We are… champions.”

Harry twirled with Jeanne in the dance, and it felt as if he were flying. The music lifted them up into a vortex of sounds and movements, carrying them away from all problems and worries. He inhaled the scent of her perfume — light, citrusy, with hints of something spicy and incredibly intoxicating. Her hand in his was warm. It was as if she held a small, pulsating flame in it. And that flame… warmed him, dispelling the cold and fear that had lived in his heart for so long. He looked into her eyes, those endless amber lakes, and it seemed to him that he saw… the entire universe. Thousands of stars, distant galaxies, unexplored worlds… And he realized that this moment was unique. That it would never happen again. That with no one else would he feel… this way. This calm.

They spun in the dance, like two moths drawn to the light. The candle flames blurred around them in a golden haze, turning the Great Hall into a magical cave full of mystery and enchantment. The music grew louder, more insistent, like the pulse of his own heart. Harry forgot everything. The dragons. The Tournament. Rita Skeeter. Everything in the world. There was only the dance. And her. Jeanne. Her closeness. The warmth of her body. The scent of her perfume. The light, almost imperceptible touch of her hair against his cheek.

He pulled her closer, afraid that she would disappear. That this moment was just a dream. She didn’t resist. On the contrary, she seemed to dissolve in his arms. And at that moment, Harry realized that he didn’t want this dance to ever end. He wanted the music to play forever. For them to keep spinning in this magical waltz… endlessly.

He leaned down and lightly brushed her hair with his lips. It smelled… of sunshine and… rain. And something else intangible. Something magical. Jeanne closed her eyes. A smile appeared on her face. Not the sarcastic, self-satisfied one he was used to. But another. Soft, gentle, almost… shy. At that moment, he felt something inside him tremble in response, as if his heart had opened to embrace a new, unknown feeling. Harry understood that this sense of closeness with Jeanne meant much more to him than just a dance — it was the beginning of something special, something that could change his entire life [[2]]. 

Even the argument between Hermione and Ron, which erupted immediately after the ball, couldn’t erase from Harry’s memory that magical dance with Jeanne. He still felt her closeness, her warmth, the scent of her perfume. He still saw her eyes, which looked at him with… what? Interest? Amusement? Tenderness? He shook his head, trying to drive these thoughts away. It was strange, incomprehensible. He shouldn’t be thinking about her this way. She was different. Not like the other girls he knew. Braver. More independent. More mysterious. And that scared him. And at the same time attracted him. He felt awkward around her, as if he wasn’t worthy of her.

He went out into the castle courtyard with Ron, who kept grumbling and complaining about Hermione.

“What an idiot she is!” Ron fumed. “Who did she go to the ball with? That… sixth-year moron? He’s… he’s not good enough for her!”

Harry remained silent. He wasn’t focused on Ron and his problems. He was still under the impression of the dance with Jeanne. Suddenly, Ron stopped.

“Look!” he whispered, grabbing Harry’s arm. “Isn’t that… Snape and Karkaroff?”

They hid behind a column and started observing. Snape and Karkaroff were standing nearby, quietly talking. Their voices were barely audible, but Harry noticed how Karkaroff nervously glanced around, as if afraid someone was eavesdropping. And on Snape’s arm… Harry saw… the Dark Mark. It was pale and blurry, but… he couldn’t be mistaken. He had seen it before. On the night after the Quidditch World Cup.

“What are they planning?” Ron whispered, his eyes wide with horror.

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know. But he felt that it… wasn’t good.

At that moment, they noticed another couple. Madame Maxime and Hagrid. They were walking down the alley, quietly conversing.

“Wow!” Ron exclaimed. “Hagrid and Madame Maxime! Who would have thought!”

Harry turned his attention from Snape and Karkaroff and looked at Hagrid and Madame Maxime.

They were standing near the stone stag that guarded the entrance to the castle. Hagrid was animatedly telling Madame Maxime something, gesturing with his enormous hands. Harry noticed that on the stag’s neck… sat a beetle. A small, golden beetle. It shimmered in the moonlight, like a precious gem. Harry considered mentioning it to Ron but changed his mind. Some beetle… what difference did it make?

“…and my mom was also…” they heard Hagrid’s voice. “And you?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hagrid?” Madame Maxime asked.

“Well… you’re a half-giant… it’s obvious from afar.”

“I’m big-boned,” Madame Maxime retorted. “And I… have a sturdy build. There were no giants in my family.”

She abruptly turned and walked away. Hagrid watched her leave with a bewildered and… slightly hurt expression.

Harry and Ron emerged from behind the column.

“What was that?” Ron asked, shocked.

“No idea,” Harry replied. “But it seems like Hagrid just got rejected.”

They continued walking, discussing the strange behavior of Hagrid and Madame Maxime. When they entered the castle, Harry ran into Cedric. He was standing by the fireplace in the Great Hall, thoughtfully gazing into the flames.

“Harry,” he said, seeing him, “can you spare a minute? I need to talk to you.”

Harry apologized to Ron and approached Cedric.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I wanted to thank you for helping with the first task,” Cedric said, lowering his voice. “Have you figured out what to do with the egg?”

Harry shook his head uncertainly. All his and Jeanne’s attempts to get a hint from the egg had failed.

“Open the egg… underwater,” Cedric said. “In the prefects’ bathroom. There… you’ll understand.”

“In the prefects’ bathroom?” Harry repeated. “Uh… how do I get there?”

“The password is ‘Pine Freshness,’” Cedric said. “The entrance is on the fourth floor, behind the portrait of the mermaid bathing. Just tickle her belly.”

***

Upon returning to the Gryffindor common room, Harry found… a battlefield. Pillows were scattered on the floor, books were strewn across tables, and tension hung in the air. Ron sat in a chair by the fireplace, his face darker than a storm cloud. He nervously twirled some trinket in his hands. Hermione stood opposite him, her cheeks flushed with anger, tears glistening in her eyes.

“…And I’m telling you that you… you…” Hermione began, but her voice broke into sobs. “You didn’t even… you didn’t invite me!”

“And you… you could’ve said something!” Ron shouted, jumping out of his chair. “You know that I… I…” he trailed off, unable to find the right words.

“What about you?” Hermione asked through tears. “Why are you stuttering? You didn’t even… you didn’t even notice! Next time, invite me to the ball first!”

She abruptly turned and ran to the girls’ dormitory. Ron stood clenching his fists, breathing heavily. He looked as if he’d been hit over the head. He noticed Harry and turned to him. Guilt and despair were written all over his face.

“Girls…” Ron muttered, watching her leave in confusion.

Harry wanted to say something but thought better of it. He knew that any words would be superfluous at the moment. He simply patted Ron on the shoulder and walked past him, heading to the dormitory.

***

A young woman in black armor stood before a hunchbacked man. The man’s eyes looked in different directions from his nose. He laughed loudly, holding a golden chalice in his hands, in which a rainbow flame was slowly fading. The light of the multicolored flame in the trembling chalice following his shoulders distorted him. In the past, he had been a tall, handsome man of noble blood.

The dream shifted. The girl looked at her exact double, clad in polished armor with a blue cloak. Their resemblance was absolute. It seemed as if she stood before a mirror admiring her false reflection. With each passing second, the face of the girl in black armor became more distorted with hatred and rage.

“I hate you!” she screamed and brought her fists crashing down on her duplicate, but it remained motionless.

In an instant, the girl in black armor lay on the floor, and her copy stood over her, looking down with regret.

“I just wanted to prove who the real Jeanne d’Arc is!”

“Is that so?” her duplicate asked.

The dream abruptly changed again. Now the girl, leading a small group of loyal soldiers, engaged in battle against an innumerable army. Behind her, a banner with black symbols fluttered; in her hand, she wielded a pitch-black sword, and her blood-splattered, smug face shone with a smile. Around her, the city burned. In the squares, pyres rose with people tied to stakes, some with multiple individuals bound together. A scream echoed over the city, and Harry saw a swarm of wyverns. They set houses ablaze and snatched people away. Cries rang out, children sobbed somewhere, dogs barked and growled having broken free from their chains, and battle cries sounded fiercely from both sides. Upon closer inspection, Harry discerned the most intense hatred and, at the same time, indescribable fear in the eyes of the raw youths. Boys who had taken up swords for the first time rushed into battle — to defend their homeland, their homes, and their families.

The bold and extremely self-satisfied girl in blood-stained black armor ran over the bodies of townspeople, mercilessly beheading anyone who crossed her path. Her strikes were precise, her movements agile and swift. Quite unlike the unfortunate boys who dared challenge her. One swung his sword and stumbled, another tripped over a bump, a third slipped on smooth stones, a fourth was carried off by a wyvern, and a fifth was as close to victory as he was to death, tempting fate itself. One swing of the black sword — and Death claimed him.

Harry watched in horror, mentally pleading to escape this nightmare, but waking up felt astronomically far away.

In the end, Harry witnessed the heroine of his nightmare enter a house where a family of three was hiding. First to die was the father, who stood to protect his loved ones. He shouted something to his wife, who grabbed the child and fled to the next room. He picked up a sword and swung it several times. His opponent advanced resolutely, unwavering in her intent. A peal of laughter rang out. Steel clashed, and he fell at the threshold, the smoke-filled sky reflected in his eyes. The deadly girl silently stepped over him. With one kick, she smashed the massive oak door. The woman stood by the cradle, whispering something to the baby. When the door flew off its hinges, the mother knelt before the cruel warrior, folding her hands in front of her. Sobbing, she begged for mercy. The villainess laughed in response. With one effortless gesture, the defenseless woman cried out briefly. She slammed into the wall, slid down softly, and fell silent. The infant began to cry. The villainess glanced at the cradle. For a moment, she stared at the crying baby, then approached and raised her sword to strike.

“Harry, wake up!” Ron’s voice jolted him awake, and Harry felt tears streaming down his face, his entire body trembling uncontrollably.

Chapter Text

"Harry," began Ron, as soon as they stepped over the threshold of Dumbledore's office, "he saw something today... well, in short, he had a nightmare. About Jeanne."

Dumbledore, who was sitting at his desk and sifting through some papers, raised his head. His eyes behind half-moon spectacles were serious.

"A nightmare?" he repeated, looking at Harry. "Tell me more, Harry."

Harry swallowed and began recounting his dream: about the massacre, the wyverns, Jeanne in black armor, who was killing everyone in her path. He tried to speak calmly, but his voice trembled, and his hands involuntarily clenched into fists. When he finished, silence hung in the office. Dumbledore was silent, thoughtfully stroking his beard. Ron nervously fidgeted in his chair.

"Minerva," Dumbledore finally said, addressing Professor McGonagall, "please invite Mademoiselle d'Arc. And... arrange some tea with biscuits for us. It seems we have a long conversation ahead."

McGonagall nodded and left the office. Dumbledore turned to Harry.

"Harry," he said softly, "are you sure you saw exactly... Jeanne?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "I... I couldn't be mistaken. It was... her. But... different."

Dumbledore thoughtfully nodded.

A few minutes later, McGonagall and Jeanne entered the office. Jeanne was wearing her usual school uniform, but even that couldn't conceal her uniqueness. Her white hair, braided, seemed almost luminescent in the dim light of the office. And her amber eyes... they sparkled with a special, incomprehensible fire.

"Mademoiselle d'Arc," Dumbledore said, "please, take a seat."

Jeanne silently sat at the table next to Harry and Ron. Dumbledore waved his hand over the table, and tea and biscuits appeared on it. While Ron happily munched on the sweets, Jeanne curiously examined the portraits on the walls.

"Do you know why we invited you, mademoiselle?" Dumbledore asked, pouring himself some tea.

Jeanne turned her gaze to him. A hint of irony flashed in her eyes.

"Well," she began, her voice ringing with metallic undertones, "if you decided to interrogate me in the middle of the night, then, of course, I'm puzzled. But," she shrugged, "I always welcome surprises."

Dumbledore smiled.

"Don't worry, mademoiselle," he said. "We're not going to interrogate you. We just want to talk. About your friends."

"My friends?" Jeanne repeated, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing," Dumbledore replied. "I just noticed that you've settled into Hogwarts quite quickly. And found common ground with some of our students."

"Did you doubt my abilities?" Jeanne asked, her eyes flashing.

"Not at all, mademoiselle," Dumbledore smiled. "I'm just curious how you managed it. After all, you haven't been in our world for long."

"I learn quickly," Jeanne replied with a shrug. "And I know how to connect with people."

"Even poltergeists?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes sparkling.

Jeanne smiled.

"Especially poltergeists," she replied.

Jeanne happily began to enjoy the treats, seemingly oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the office. She elegantly picked up a biscuit and, before taking a bite, paused for a moment as if savoring its aroma.

"So, Jeanne," Dumbledore began, observing her over his half-moon glasses, "Harry told us about a rather unusual dream he had last night. And, imagine this, you played a key role in it."

Jeanne raised her gaze, her eyebrows slightly arched in polite interest.

"Oh really?" she repeated, and her ringing voice carried metallic notes. "And what exactly was I doing in this... dream?"

"You were depriving people of their lives," Dumbledore said, attentively watching her reaction.

A mysterious smile touched Jeanne's lips.

"Interesting," she responded in a calm, steady voice. "And whom exactly did I... kill?"

"An entire family," Harry quietly said, not taking his piercing gaze off her. "A man, a woman... and a child."

The smile instantly disappeared from Jeanne's face. Harry noticed how her eyes widened, filling with something incredibly deep—perhaps pain, perhaps horror, or maybe both at once. She looked at him, and in her gaze, he saw something that pierced him to the very heart. It was genuine, real pain. But not only that. In her eyes, he discerned something familiar, something he had once seen in his own, recalling that fateful night—the night his parents died.

Harry held his breath. He had always perceived Jeanne as an unbreakable warrior, capable of enduring any trials. But now before him stood not an invincible heroine, but simply a girl—frightened, broken, and seemingly utterly defenseless. This revelation confused him, making him look at her completely differently for the first time.

"It’s… just a dream, Harry," she said barely audibly. "It’s not worth… attaching too much significance to it."

"But…" Harry began.

"Professor Dumbledore," Jeanne interrupted him, "surely you don’t seriously think this… nightmare has anything to do with me?"

Dumbledore smiled gently.

"I’m not asserting anything, Mademoiselle d’Arc," he said. "I’m merely… gathering information. As you know, dreams… can sometimes be quite enlightening."

Jeanne nodded thoughtfully, mechanically reaching for another biscuit. Her fingers hovered momentarily over the plate before selecting the smallest one. She brought it to her lips but didn’t rush to take a bite, as if seeking comfort in this simple act.

He opened an ancient folio that he held in his hands and presented to their view an exquisite illustration. It depicted a golden chalice adorned with precious stones of unparalleled beauty.

"Are you familiar with the legend of the Holy Grail?" Dumbledore inquired.

Ron and Harry studied the image with genuine interest. Jeanne, however… Her gaze seemed fixed on distant, unseen horizons.

"The legend states," Dumbledore continued, "that the Grail possesses the power to fulfill any wish of its owner. Any… even the most unattainable."

"Any?" Ron repeated, and a spark of hope ignited in his eyes. "Even… so that all homework completes itself?"

Dumbledore smiled gently.

"Even that, young Weasley," he replied. "However… there is one important condition. To obtain what you desire, you must… sacrifice something priceless."

"For example?" Harry asked.

"For example… yourself," Dumbledore said quietly. "To gain eternal life… you must die to this world. Renounce… everything that ties you to earthly existence. Your desires, your passions, your… very essence."

Silence reigned in the office, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Harry looked again at Jeanne. She continued to gaze somewhere far away, as if not listening to their conversation. Her face was pale and… detached. Harry suddenly realized she was lost in deep thoughts. About something… incredibly important. And he… felt an irresistible desire to understand the workings of her mind.

"Imagine the wonders a person who has gained immortality could perform," Dumbledore continued. "But also imagine… the calamities they could bring upon the world. Fortunately," he added with a barely noticeable smile, "there will always be those who… will correct their mistakes. Those who… remain in the shadows."

Ron frowned, trying to comprehend what he had heard.

"This… somehow… unfathomable," he muttered. "Why would anyone want eternal life if it means… losing one's self?"

"Not all deaths are equal, young Weasley," Dumbledore enigmatically replied. "Sometimes… death is not the end, but… a transition. A transformation. A rebirth."

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Jeanne.

"And what do you think, Mademoiselle d'Arc?" he asked. "Is eternal life… worth such… an exorbitant sacrifice?"

Jeanne slowly turned her gaze to Dumbledore. Her eyes were… inscrutable. But Harry thought he caught a glimmer. A glimmer… of understanding?

"It all depends on… the essence of the desire," she replied quietly, and in her voice sounded… a hidden sorrow? "And on what… you are willing to renounce for it."

"Wisely spoken," Dumbledore nodded. "But what if the desire… isn't yours? What if you… are forced to sacrifice yourself… for the salvation of the world? For… the future of humanity? There are such desires, Jeanne," Dumbledore said quietly, "that… transform the universe. And sometimes… someone is destined to make a sacrifice so that these desires… come true."

Jeanne sharply inhaled and averted her gaze. Her hands, resting on the table, clenched into fists. Harry noticed how a lone tear… rolled down her cheek. He was deeply shaken. Jeanne d'Arc Alter… crying? It seemed… unbelievable. He felt a strong urge… to touch her hand. Just… to express support. But he didn't dare.

Dumbledore sighed.

"People, my dear Harry," Dumbledore began, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses, "often strive for the most diverse goals. Wealth, power, fame… even immortality. However, they rarely consider the consequences of their desires, the price they will have to pay for fulfilling their dreams." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "Sometimes these desires can be extremely dangerous, capable of disrupting the very balance of the world. In such moments," he continued quietly but firmly, "intervention becomes necessary. Someone must take responsibility for correcting these mistakes, even if it requires… the ultimate sacrifice."

"Professor, how is that possible to achieve?" Ron wondered.

"That is precisely what I am talking about, young Weasley," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but full of deep meaning. "It is a goal beyond ordinary understanding. Unless… you are ready to believe in miracles. Ancient tales speak of beings… of a different nature. Not humans. Not beasts. Of something… ineffable. They are embodiments of our dreams, our fears, our… legends. They are called Servants. Summoned from the depths of time and space, they come to serve… those who summoned them. They are reflections of real historical figures who lived in all eras and of all legends, songs, and myths about them. Mighty warriors, wise men, sorcerers… Their power and intellect surpass the capabilities of any wizards. And they… can be summoned to participate in the War of the Holy Grail."

"War?" Ron repeated, his face paling, and his voice trembling. "What war are you talking about?"

"The war… for the right to possess the Grail," Dumbledore replied, his tone becoming even more serious. "For the right… to shape the fate of the world. Sometimes," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "in this confrontation, not only humans and their Servants participate. But also… the Grail itself. It…" The headmaster hesitated for a moment, choosing his words, "…it may choose its… protector. To restore balance. To… protect the world from… itself."

Dumbledore's gaze turned to Jeanne. She sat motionless, her face appearing like an impenetrable mask. But Harry noticed how her hand, holding the teacup, was trembling. He saw how in her eyes… a shadow of fear flickered.

"But, sir," Harry addressed the headmaster, his voice sounding serious and thoughtful, "even if we assume the existence of the Holy Grail… doesn’t it seem to you that it should become… the object of universal aspirations? Something that people are ready to unleash… a devastating war over?"

"Professor," Harry said, "and… what if someone attempts to use the Grail… for evil? For instance… Voldemort?"

Ron and Professor McGonagall flinched. Jeanne sharply raised her head and fixed her gaze on Harry. In her eyes, he saw… not fear. Not anger. But… disdain.

"Voldemort…" she whispered, as if tasting the name. "He… is undoubtedly dangerous. But… I doubt he knows about the existence of the Grail. And if he does…" she shrugged, "he is unlikely to be able to seize it. He craves power over… people," Jeanne continued. "And the Grail… the Grail grants power over… the very fabric of existence. These… are incomparable concepts. There are desires that can… turn the world to dust. And someone must… prevent that."

"Why do you think so, mademoiselle?" Dumbledore asked, and his eyes sparkled.

"Just… intuition," Jeanne replied, averting her gaze.

"And what if he… finds out?" Harry asked. "What if he… attempts to find it?"

"Then…" Jeanne turned her gaze back to Harry, and in her eyes, he saw… unyielding determination. "Then he will have to deal with me."

Silence reigned in the office again, broken only by the soft crackling of candles. Harry felt his heart pounding heavily in his chest. He looked at Jeanne, and it seemed to him that he… understood her. Understood her pain, her fear, and… some secret hidden deep in her eyes.

"Harry," Dumbledore broke the silence after a long pause, "you said that in your dream… Jeanne was clad in… armor?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "In black armor. And… with a sword in her hands."

"Curious," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Very curious."

He sank back into his thoughts, stroking his long silvery beard.

"Well, my friends," Dumbledore finally said, "I’m afraid our conversation has dragged on. It’s already quite late. Minerva, could you escort the students to their dormitories?"

Professor McGonagall rose and nodded sternly at the students. Harry and Ron hastily stood up. Jeanne also rose, but slowly, as if reluctantly. Her gaze remained distant and contemplative.

"Goodnight, professor," Harry and Ron said in unison.

"Goodnight, boys," Dumbledore replied with a gentle smile. "And… pleasant dreams."

Jeanne silently nodded and headed for the door. Harry and Ron exchanged glances and followed her.

In the corridor, Jeanne unexpectedly stopped.

"Potter," she said quietly, "can I have a word?"

Harry nodded. Ron looked at them quizzically but said nothing and walked on.

"What is it, Jeanne?" Harry asked when they were alone.

Jeanne averted her gaze, as if feeling awkward.

"This dream…" she began, her voice low and somewhat sharp. "It… scared you?"

Harry was surprised. He hadn’t expected her… to ask such a question.

"Yeah… a little," he admitted. "It was… pretty creepy."

"Hmph," Jeanne snorted, "and what did you expect? Sweet dreams of unicorns and rainbows?" She looked at him again, and a hint of concern flickered in her eyes. "Just… forget about it. It… doesn’t mean anything."

"But…"

"Forget it, I said!" Jeanne sharply cut him off, and her voice carried steely notes. "And don’t you dare talk about it."

She abruptly turned on her heels and rushed toward the exit, as if driven by invisible demons. Harry, feeling a pang of hurt, instinctively moved forward. At that moment, Jeanne froze, as if hitting an invisible barrier. Without turning around, she subtly shuddered. Slowly, as if overcoming internal resistance, she raised her hand and… lightly touched his palm. That touch, barely perceptible, like a breath of wind, pierced Harry to the core. It burned him, like red-hot iron, conveying something ineffable, something that cannot be expressed in words.

A flash.

And before Harry’s inner vision unfolded a panorama of horror:

Ravenous flames consuming a fragile silhouette on a pyre. Heart-wrenching screams of pain and despair. Amber eyes, filled with fierce hatred and madness.

Blood, streaming down arms. Blood, flooding everything. And a chilling void in the soul, swallowing all feelings except an insatiable thirst for destruction.

Loneliness. Endless, all-consuming. Not a single soul ready to extend a helping hand, to console in grief. Only impenetrable darkness, enveloping the mind like a shroud.

The visions faded like morning mist, leaving behind only the bitter taste of ash on his lips. Harry blinked, returning to reality. He looked at Jeanne, standing motionless opposite him, like a statue. Her face appeared as an impassive mask, almost indifferent, but deep within her amber eyes raged a true storm of emotions. Fear, pain, despair—all these feelings were too familiar to him, like old unwelcome friends.

He took a step forward, extending his hand in a silent offer of support, but Jeanne recoiled, raising her hands in a defensive gesture. Her shoulders tensed, like a taut bowstring, and her lips pressed into a thin, almost imperceptible line. It seemed she was ready to bolt at any moment and flee like a frightened deer.

Harry froze in indecision, unsure of what to do. His heart was torn by the desire to comfort her, to support her in a difficult moment, but he wasn’t sure his help would be welcomed with gratitude. After all, who was he? Just a boy with a scar, with no less pain and loss behind him than she had herself.

To retreat now would mean betraying that elusive but precious bond that had formed between them. Harry remained still, offering Jeanne a gaze filled with gentle understanding. He didn’t utter a word—any words would have seemed inappropriate now, false notes in a symphony of silence.

Instead, he looked at her, striving to convey with his gaze all that filled his soul: empathy, acceptance, readiness to support and comfort.

Moments stretched into eternity as they stood, separated by an invisible barrier. Then Jeanne, as if overcoming internal resistance, slowly lowered her hands. Her shoulders slumped, and in her eyes flickered an inexhaustible weariness—an echo of endless struggle and loneliness.

Harry extended his hand, palm up—not demanding, but offering. Offering the only thing in his power—his presence, his friendship. And though it seemed small on the scale of the universe, sometimes even a spark of warmth is enough to melt the strongest ice.

After a tense wait, Jeanne stepped forward, placing her palm in his. Her fingers were cold and trembling, but Harry only squeezed them tighter, trying to share his warmth.

They stood side by side, hand in hand, and the world around seemed to recede, dissolve. Only they remained—two lonely souls finding solace in each other.

"Stop looking at me like that," Jeanne muttered, averting her gaze. "I’m perfectly fine. And I don’t need a guardian."

Harry looked at her, bewildered by the sudden change. Just a moment ago they had been so close, and now a wall of estrangement had risen between them again.

"Jeanne, I…" he began, but the girl sharply turned and rushed away.

"Forget it," she threw over her shoulder. "Just get it all out of your head."

And she disappeared around the corner, leaving Harry alone. The young man sighed heavily, watching her go. Much about this mysterious, prickly girl remained unfathomable to him. But he firmly knew he wouldn’t give up trying to break through her armor.

Because behind that armor lay something amazing. Something worth all the effort in the world.

***

"Harry, did you see her eyes?" Ron asked when they returned to the dormitory. "She clearly knows something about this Grail."

"Maybe," Harry replied thoughtfully. "But what could she know that Dumbledore doesn’t?"

"Harry…" Ron lowered his voice. "What if… she has seen the real Grail?"

Harry shivered. He didn’t fall asleep until morning that night.

Chapter Text

After the Christmas holidays, Harry couldn't sit still. Dreams about Jeanne wouldn’t leave his mind. He increasingly returned in thought to his conversation with Dumbledore about the Holy Grail and the price one has to pay for having wishes granted. These reflections involuntarily intertwined with the image of Jeanne — her mysterious behavior, the hidden pain in her eyes, and the secrets that seemed to envelop her like an invisible cloak.

At those moments, Jeanne embodied mystery itself, a living paradox. For her, talking about the Grail was evidently not just a discussion of ancient legends. Her eyes, every movement conveyed deep, almost tangible knowledge, as if the Grail for her was not a myth but a reality she had faced head-on. This elusive connection between Jeanne and the ancient artifact escaped Harry’s understanding, leaving him trapped in conjectures and assumptions. He felt that behind her restrained answers and meaningful pauses lay a whole world of unfathomable mysteries yet to be uncovered by him.

The more Harry reflected, the stronger his desire became to understand Jeanne, to help her. He sensed that beneath her outward detachment hid a soul yearning for redemption and possibly liberation from some unknown curse. Deep down, Harry understood that unraveling the mystery of Jeanne and the Holy Grail could be the key to something much greater than he could imagine.

Harry kept recalling Dumbledore's words and Jeanne's expression when he asked her if the Holy Grail existed. Deep inside, Harry knew that the answer to this question could affect not only their lives but also all of humanity.

The first days after the Christmas holidays turned out to be utterly disheartening because Rita Skeeter struck a blow. Harry could have calmly endured an article about himself. If Rita had written an article about Jeanne, he would have asked the cuckoo how much longer she had to live. But Skeeter acted in the worst possible way by writing the most malicious article about Hagrid. Because of this article, Hagrid stopped teaching Care of Magical Creatures classes, and Professor Grubbly-Plank replaced him in the teaching position. Only the Slytherins, led by Malfoy and his cronies, occasionally sneered, uttering hurtful phrases about Hagrid. Even worse for Harry was seeing in the text an interview with them full of lies.

"Where did you get that Hagrid is 'hated'?" Harry pointed at Crabbe. "And what nonsense is written about him? When did his worm bite him? Worms don't even have teeth!"

Crabbe, pleased with himself, chuckled.

"I hope they kick that idiot out now," Malfoy glared maliciously. "Just imagine, a half-giant! And I thought he accidentally drank a bottle of 'Skele-Gro' as a child... Now mommies and daddies will fuss: what if this monster eats their kids... ha-ha-ha..."

He suddenly stopped. Harry noticed how Jeanne's expression changed. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaws clenched. She abruptly stood up, drawing the attention of nearby students.

Jeanne moved towards the Slytherin table with quick, resolute steps. Malfoy, engrossed in his speech, didn't immediately notice her approach. Crabbe and Goyle, sitting next to him, exchanged confused glances, unsure how to react.

Watching what was happening, Harry felt his muscles tense. He knew something unpleasant was about to happen but couldn't predict exactly what.

Jeanne stopped right in front of Malfoy. He raised his eyes and, seeing her, stumbled mid-sentence. For a moment, silence reigned in the Great Hall.

"Repeat what you said," Jeanne spoke quietly but clearly.

Malfoy tried to maintain a self-assured look, but Harry noticed his lips quiver.

"I just told the truth about..."

He didn’t finish. Jeanne swiftly swung her hand, and her fist met Malfoy's jaw. A dull thud echoed. Malfoy recoiled and fell off the bench, losing consciousness.

Noise erupted in the Great Hall. Students jumped from their seats to get a better view of what was happening. Teachers rushed to the scene of the incident.

Jeanne stood over the fallen Malfoy, breathing heavily. Her gaze was fixed into the void. Pushing through the crowd, Harry noticed a mix of emotions in her eyes: anger, pain, and something else he couldn’t quite define.

When Harry approached, Jeanne turned to him.

"He won’t dare again," she said softly, as if to herself. "I... won’t allow it."

She glanced back at Crabbe and Goyle, raising her fist in the air with a menacing face and flicked her finger across her chin. Spinning on her heels, she quickly walked towards the exit of the hall. Harry watched her go, feeling a mix of surprise and concern. Something about this situation seemed strangely familiar to him, but he couldn’t figure out what.

Still, something about this matter didn’t add up. The friends were troubled by the mystery of how Skeeter found out all this.

"Maybe she overheard his conversation at the ball with Madame Maxime?" Hermione suggested. "She wasn’t in the park," Ron replied. "They don’t let her onto the school grounds. Hagrid says Dumbledore forbade it…"

"Or maybe she used an invisibility cloak?" Harry suggested, taking a piece of chicken out of the pot, angrily plopping it onto his plate so that splashes flew everywhere. "Hid in the bushes and eavesdropped, shamelessly."

"How about you and Ron?" Hermione noted.

"Or maybe she used transfiguration?" Jeanne suggested.

Hermione snorted in response, but her glance told Ron and Harry — she wasn’t dismissing this version.

Unfortunately, Hagrid didn’t open the door when they came to visit their friend to support him morally. All the guys could do was stubbornly knock on the door of the gamekeeper’s lodge, shouting requests to open the door, but all this was in vain.

In mid-January, the gang went to Hogsmeade to unwind and relax. In Hagrid’s favorite pub, “The Three Broomsticks,” the gamekeeper was nowhere to be found. Instead, they met Ludo Bagman, surrounded by many goblins. Leaving his companions, Ludo addressed the gang, and from their conversation, Harry learned several things: Bartemius Crouch had disappeared and hadn’t been seen for two weeks; Bertha Jorkins, who vanished last summer, was still missing. Quietly, Bagman shared his thoughts with Harry about the apparent conspiracy surrounding their and Jeanne’s participation in the Tournament, even offering his help in passing the tournament trials, which the boy refused. It wasn’t proper for him to make deals with the judges. Lastly, Bagman asked Harry about his progress with deciphering the egg. But soon after the duel with the dragon, Harry had abandoned all attempts to solve this riddle. Cedric’s hint to open the egg underwater in the prefects’ bathroom hadn’t gotten through to him. So now, Harry had to lie unconvincingly, saying that he was about to crack the mystery. Just needed to double-check something… Hermione, in response, snorted skeptically. Nothing gets past her. Only Jeanne stood with an extremely thoughtful look.

"What are you thinking about?" Ron asked her.

"Remember, we saw Krum swimming in the lake on our way here?"

"This..." Ron, judging by his face, barely restrained himself from bursting into angry curses at the recently beloved Quidditch player. During the Christmas holidays, Harry found a tiny arm under Ron’s bed, torn off, judging by the color of the uniform, precisely from Krum’s figurine.

"And so what?" Ron angrily asked. "Let him drown in the lake, what do I care?"

"That’s what," Jeanne answered impartially. "I think he’s already figured everything out and knows what will be in the new task. Looks like he wasn’t swimming there by chance, was he, Harry? You definitely know why he decided to take a dip there?"

She gave Harry a barely noticeable wink. He looked into her eyes and completely lost his composure. Jeanne saw his confusion. Her face smoothly changed its expression from slight hope to absolute disappointment, then imperceptibly approached something subtly hinting at the blazing anger inside her. Seeing her expression, even Ludo Bagman tried to shrink in size so as not to reveal anything to her. An awkward pause hung. Everyone around froze, and it seemed to Harry that time itself stopped, scared of the possible consequences.

Trying carefully to choose his words so that the lurking bogeyman inside Jeanne didn’t come out and tear him apart like the British flag, Harry responded, trying to pick his words as quickly as he could:

"Oh, come on, who doesn’t know we’ll have to take a dip in the lake?"

At that very moment, Jeanne’s facial expression changed to a more favorable one. Everyone around sighed in relief and returned to their affairs and conversations. Ron wiped the sweat from his face as if he had just answered their friend’s question.

"So, you have a plan of action, I assume?" Bagman asked Harry. Instead of answering, he just choked on saliva and quickly mumbled something incomprehensible. In fact, he didn’t know what he would do in the lake. He even uttered the words about the lake without knowing what he was talking about or the essence of the task. The probing gaze of unwavering amber eyes, as if trying to penetrate deep into his soul, quickly brought one thought to Harry’s mind.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve almost solved this problem. We… in Hogwarts have a big library… and there are many different interesting books…”

At this moment, as if in reaction to his words, several goblins at the nearest table covered their eyes with their hands.

“I’m sure I’ve found the recipe for an interesting potion that will help me…” Harry tried to wriggle out.

At this moment, Hermione couldn’t bear it, joining the club of goblins covering their eyes. She perfectly knew how skilled Harry was in potion-making and realized that if he brewed anything for the Tournament, his participation in the second task would end before it began.

“…or I’ll consult Professor Sprout… I heard there are a couple of plants that will definitely help me… read that such plants exist…”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Bagman, smiling radiantly again. “I’m betting everything on your victory!”

Harry didn’t see any optimism in his eyes.

***

Leaving “The Three Broomsticks,” the gang ran into Rita Skeeter. As always, with her faithful photographer, she was clearly in a good mood and prepared to write a fresh article about each of them, full of nasty remarks.

“How about an interview, Harry? Tell me about Hagrid, you know him well. What’s hiding behind that mountain of muscles? And your unbelievable friendship? What’s behind it? Is he replacing your father?”

Hermione jumped up, clutching a mug in her hand like a grenade.

“You vile woman!” Hermione hissed through clenched teeth. “For your disgraceful articles, anything and anyone will do. Even Ludo Bagman…”

“Sit down, silly girl, and don’t talk about what you don’t know,” Skeeter coldly retorted, looking at Hermione with contempt. “I know something about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair stand on end. Though you don’t need that…” she added, glancing at Hermione’s bushy hair.

“Harry, Ron, Jeanne! Let’s go from here,” Hermione called. The trio, under the gazes of the entire pub, headed for the door. On the threshold, Harry turned around. Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill was rapidly darting across a piece of parchment. The friends exited onto the street and hurried towards the castle.

“She’ll write about you too now,” Ron said cautiously.

“Let her try! I’ll show her ‘silly girl,’” Hermione trembled with anger. “I’ll find a way to settle scores with her. First with Harry, then with Hagrid…”

“You shouldn’t provoke Rita Skeeter,” Ron warned. “She won’t forget this…”

“My parents aren’t wizards, they don’t read the ‘Prophet,’ so I’m not going to hide.”

Hermione walked so fast that the boys could barely keep up. Only once in Harry’s memory had she been this angry. When she slapped Malfoy.

“And Hagrid won’t be afraid of her anymore. He found something trivial to worry about! Why are you dragging your feet? Let’s hurry!”

And Hermione ran as fast as she could to the castle gates with two winged boars on the pillars and straight to Hagrid’s hut. Harry and Ron hopped along behind her. Jeanne ran alongside Hermione, so fast that the boys could hardly keep up with them.

The curtains on the windows of the gamekeeper’s hut were still drawn, and Fang’s barking could be heard from inside. After pounding on the door, Hermione shouted:

“Hagrid! Hagrid, open up! You’re home! Who cares if your mother was a giantess. Forget that scribbler Skeeter. Open up, Hagrid, you…”

The door opened.

“Well, finally…” Hermione faltered mid-sentence.

Instead of Hagrid, Albus Dumbledore stood at the threshold.

“Good day,” he greeted them warmly.

“We came to see Hagrid,” Hermione stammered.

“I assumed as much,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Shall we come in?”

“We shall… probably,” Hermione agreed.

That day, the gang devoted themselves to comforting Hagrid together with Professor Dumbledore. At the end of their conversation, Hagrid asked Harry how things were going with the dragon’s egg.

“Great!”

Hagrid’s tear-streaked face broke into a smile.

“There you go! Show them all, Harry, show them! Become the champion.”

Lying to Hagrid – it was nothing like lying to others. Throughout the evening in the castle, Harry saw the happy bearded face of Hagrid, who believed in his victory. The unsolved mystery of the egg weighed heavily on his heart: it was foolish to be mad at Cedric, tomorrow he would try using his advice. Perhaps he should prepare for the Second Task together with Jeanne.

***

When Harry returned to the Gryffindor tower after classes on Thursday, Jeanne was sitting by the fireplace, engrossed in a book. He approached her, feeling a slight excitement.

“Jeanne,” he began, sitting down next to her. “I have an idea about solving the mystery of the egg.”

She raised her eyes, interest flickering in them.

“Cedric suggested visiting the prefects’ bathroom,” Harry continued. “I think there might be a clue there.”

“The prefects’ bathroom?” Jeanne repeated, closing the book. “Sounds… intriguing. When do we go?”

“Tonight,” Harry replied, lowering his voice. “The later, the safer.”

“Excellent,” Jeanne said, her eyes gleaming. “I was just planning to… take a walk.”

Harry felt shivers run down his spine at her tone.

“Convenient that you’re so…” Harry started, but Jeanne sharply turned to him.

“Potter,” she said threateningly, though mischievous sparks danced in her eyes, “one more word about my… height… and I’ll… drown you in this bath.”

Harry laughed, feeling the tension ease.

“All right, all right,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll be quiet.”

On the way to the bathroom, they froze several times, hearing Filch’s footsteps or Mrs. Norris’s meowing. During these moments, Harry acutely felt the warmth of Jeanne’s body next to him and her quickened breath.

Harry and Jeanne reached the prefects’ bathroom without incident. Upon entering, Harry carefully hung the Invisibility Cloak on a hook by the door. Before them lay a spacious room, stunning in its luxury. The walls were adorned with paintings of mermaids and other sea creatures lazily splashing in painted waves. In the center of the room was a large pool filled with warm, inviting water. From numerous taps flowed colorful foam, filling the air with a sweet aroma.

Jeanne exhaled in admiration:

“Incredible! Now this is real luxury.”

She kicked off her shoes and, taking the golden egg from her bag, sat on the edge of the pool. Carefully dipping her legs into the water, she began playfully kicking them, creating fountains of splashes. Harry watched her with a smile, suddenly realizing how much he liked seeing Jeanne this way – relaxed, without her usual mask of sarcasm and cynicism.

“You know, Jeanne,” he said, “you’re not at all like how you seem at first glance.”

Jeanne gave him a mysterious smile:

“And how do I seem?”

“Hard to explain,” Harry replied, slightly embarrassed. “Just… different.”

“Different?” Jeanne laughed melodiously. “And how am I different?”

“Well…” Harry hesitated, descending into the pool, “you’re fearless. You’re not afraid of dragons, professors, or…,” he blushed, remembering the recent scene in the Great Hall, “…even Malfoy. You always act as you see fit, without looking back at others. And… you’re very beautiful.” He fell silent, surprised by his own boldness.

Jeanne looked at him attentively. Surprise flickered in her eyes, and it seemed, a spark of joy.

“You flatter me, Potter,” she finally said, her cheeks slightly pink. “But I like it.”

Harry, feeling his heart pounding wildly in his chest, opened several taps, adding water and colorful foam. He swam a few laps around the pool, trying to gather his thoughts.

“So,” Jeanne said, bringing them back to the purpose of their visit, “what are we going to do with this?” She held up the golden egg.

Harry swam to the edge of the pool and took the egg. He opened it, but instead of a hint, they heard only a piercing screech. Harry hastily closed the egg, and the sound stopped.

“Well,” Jeanne sighed, “it seems we haven’t made any progress.”

Harry thoughtfully looked at the egg.

“Wait a minute,” he said, suddenly struck by an idea. “What if…”

He took a deep breath and dived underwater, opening the egg. To his amazement, instead of a screech, he heard beautiful singing. Surfacing, he exclaimed enthusiastically:

“Jeanne! Underwater! We need to listen to it underwater!”

Jeanne’s eyes lit up.

“Brilliant, Harry!” She quickly shed her outer clothing, remaining in her underwear, and gracefully slid into the water.

For a moment, Harry froze, admiring her, but quickly snapped out of it. They dove together, opening the egg. The melodic voices of the mermaids filled the water:

Seek us where voices soar beyond earth’s sound,
To mortal ears unheard, yet beauty-crowned.
You must pursue what stirs your soul’s desire,
But trust your quest will not dissolve in fire.
One hour’s granted to unriddle fate—
Delay, and lose what waits beyond the gate.

“Mermaids!” Harry breathed. “The second trial will take place in the lake, with mermaids!”

Jeanne nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“And we have only an hour to find something important to us underwater.”

They began discussing possible strategies for breathing underwater for an hour and what might be hidden at the bottom of the lake. Time flew unnoticed. Suddenly, Jeanne paused mid-sentence and looked at Harry with a sly smile.

“You know, Potter,” she said, swimming closer, “we’re breaking so many school rules right now.”

Harry felt his heart beat faster.

“Yes, probably,” he muttered, unable to tear his gaze from her shining eyes.

“And what are we going to do about it?” Jeanne whispered, now very close.

Harry swallowed, feeling heat spread through his body. Slowly, he reached out and gently touched her cheek.

“I think…” he began, but at that moment, they heard approaching footsteps in the corridor.

Harry and Jeanne froze, hearing the approaching footsteps. They quickly exchanged glances, realizing they needed to act immediately.

“Quickly,” Jeanne whispered, getting out of the water. “We need to get out of here.”

Harry followed her, hurriedly grabbing his clothes. Jeanne was already pulling on her school uniform, not caring that water was dripping down her body. For a moment, Harry admired the graceful lines of her figure, but quickly caught himself, realizing this was no time for such thoughts.

“The Marauder’s Map,” he remembered, taking out the parchment. “I’ll check who’s coming.”

Quickly activating the map, Harry saw the approaching mark of Filch.

“It’s Filch,” he whispered. “We have a few seconds.”

Jeanne nodded, quickly gathering the remaining items.

“Follow me,” she said, grabbing Harry’s hand. “I know a secret passage from here.”

Throwing on the Invisibility Cloak, they slipped out of the prefects’ bathroom through a small door hidden behind a tapestry, just as Filch’s footsteps sounded very close. Both their hearts were racing as they ran down the narrow corridor.

Emerging into a safe place, they stopped to catch their breath. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off Jeanne — her wet hair clung to her neck, her eyes shone with adrenaline, and a mischievous smile played on her lips.

“That was close,” Harry exhaled.

“Yes, but wasn’t it fun?” Jeanne winked.

Harry smiled back, feeling an invisible thread of understanding and shared adventure stretching between them.

“We’d better return to the common room,” he said, still holding the Marauder’s Map.

Jeanne nodded, and they headed towards the Gryffindor tower. Along the way, Harry continued to glance at the map to avoid new encounters. Suddenly, his gaze caught some strange movement in Snape’s office.

“Wait,” he said, stopping. “Look at this.”

Jeanne leaned over the map, and her eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Barty Crouch? In Snape’s office? But isn’t he missing?”

Harry nodded, his thoughts racing.

“This could be connected to everything that’s happening,” he whispered. “With the Tournament, with our names in the Goblet…”

Jeanne bit her lip thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing.

“We need to tell Dumbledore about this,” she said decisively. “But not now. In the morning.”

***

Morning caught Harry off guard. A deafening crash shook the wall of his bedroom, showering his hair with fine plaster dust. He instantly knew who was behind this unexpected wake-up call. Jeanne. Only she could possess such supernatural strength.

Harry hurriedly jumped out of bed, tangled in the blanket and frantically pulling on his clothes. He knew that if he didn’t hurry, the next blow from this incredible girl might just break through the wall and drag him out by his legs, regardless of propriety.

Rushing out of the bedroom, he saw Jeanne impatiently tapping her foot at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes burned with determination.

“Finally,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Come on, we need to talk to the headmaster.”

On the way to Dumbledore’s office, Harry tried to sort out his thoughts. The events of the previous night now seemed unreal, but Jeanne’s presence reminded him that it had all actually happened.

Standing before the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s office, they hesitated for a moment.

“What do you think the password is now?” Harry asked.

Jeanne merely shrugged and, to Harry’s surprise, simply knocked on the stone wall next to the gargoyle. To his even greater astonishment, the gargoyle came to life and stepped aside, revealing the passage.

“How did you do that?” Harry whispered as they ascended the spiral staircase.

“I have my methods,” Jeanne smiled mysteriously.

Dumbledore greeted them with his usual calmness, as if expecting their arrival. His piercing blue eyes behind half-moon glasses studied both students attentively while Jeanne recounted what they had seen on the Marauder’s Map.

“Very interesting,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully, examining the map. His long silver beard almost touched the parchment as he leaned over it. “And you’re sure it was indeed Barty Crouch?”

“Absolutely,” Harry nodded. “We both saw it.”

At that moment, the office door burst open, and Professor Snape entered. His black cloak billowed behind him like the wings of a huge bat. His dark eyes immediately fixed on Harry, narrowing with suspicion.

“You summoned me, Headmaster?” he asked sharply, shifting his gaze to Dumbledore.

“Yes, Severus,” Dumbledore nodded. “An interesting situation has arisen concerning your office. You see, Severus, our students are extremely observant. They just informed me that, lingering in the Gryffindor common room last night, they saw with the help of this Map,” the headmaster nodded at the Marauder’s Map, “an uninvited guest in your office. The guest’s name is Barty Crouch.”

As the headmaster briefed Snape, Harry observed the Potions Master’s reaction. Snape’s face changed from disbelief to anger as he examined the Marauder’s Map.

“So this is what that artifact is!” he exclaimed, snatching the map from Jeanne’s hands. “I should have guessed earlier!”

“This map has been verified by Professor Lupin and is absolutely safe,” Dumbledore interrupted Snape firmly in a gentle tone. “It contains not a trace of dark magic. Moreover, it always shows the truth, although it does not reveal all the secrets of the castle and its surroundings.”

Snape, frowning, continued to study the map. His face expressed deep thoughtfulness mixed with distrust.

“But what could Barty Crouch be doing in Moody’s office?” he muttered, more to himself than to the others.

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Perhaps Barty just dropped by for advice. However,” he paused, “I believe we should verify everything ourselves. Today we will carefully monitor our… dear friend’s office.”

Harry and Jeanne exchanged glances. In the girl’s eyes, impatience was evident, as if she was ready to personally track down Crouch immediately.

“As for now,” Dumbledore turned to them, his eyes softly gleaming behind his half-moon glasses, “the map stays with me.”

Harry felt a pang of disappointment but realized arguing was pointless. Jeanne seemed to want to say something but restrained herself.

“You may go,” Dumbledore said, addressing the students. “And remember: not a word about what you saw. Not even to your friends.”

When Harry and Jeanne left the office, Snape turned to the headmaster:

“Albus, do you really believe this story?”

“We have no reason to doubt, Severus,” Dumbledore replied. “But we must proceed cautiously. If Barty Crouch is indeed here, it could mean…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Snape understood. A shadow of concern passed over his face.

“I’ll be on guard,” he said, heading for the exit.

Left alone, Dumbledore looked at the map once more. His usually calm face expressed deep concern. Events were taking an unexpected turn, and time for deliberation was running out.

Chapter Text

Without delay, Harry, on Hermione's initiative and under her strict supervision, rushed to write to Sirius. After sending the owl, he barely made it to class on time, but to his relief, the day’s lessons went smoothly.

"And you said you solved the riddle!" Hermione reproached Harry.

"Yeah, I knew right away you didn’t believe me," Harry muttered back.

"It’s good that we have almost a month until February twenty-fourth! We’ll have time to come up with something for you."

"But what ideas do you have? How will Harry last an hour underwater?" Ron wondered.

"I’m more interested in how Jeanne will manage to stay underwater that long. Do you have any ideas, d’Arc?" Hermione asked.

Jeanne shrugged.

"I’ve got everything under control," she replied with her usual smirk.

"‘Everything under control’?" Ron repeated in confusion. "What does that even mean? Did you turn into a mermaid or something?"

"Maybe," Jeanne answered with a light smirk. "And you, Weasley, wouldn’t mind finding out, would you?"

Ron mumbled something indistinct in response, vaguely resembling "I’ve got everything under control." What exactly she had under control and to what extent, Harry had no idea since they had only learned the content of the riddle the previous night, and Jeanne had been with them all morning. What she could have possibly devised in that short time was beyond him [[1]].

"Well, unless you know how to hold your breath for a whole hour or have a scuba set…" Ron responded to Jeanne.

"Scuba set!" Harry picked up on the thought. "What if I summon a scuba set from the nearest Muggle town to help me? I did summon my broom last time."

"Good thinking, Harry!" Hermione smiled. "But as soon as you pass the trial, you’ll be expelled from Hogwarts with a bang for violating the Statute of Secrecy. Do you know how many Muggles would see a flying scuba set? Did you think about that?"

"Oops…" Harry deflated instantly.

He hadn’t thought about that, of course.

***

Soon, Hagrid was reinstated as the Care of Magical Creatures professor, and life at Hogwarts seemed to return to its usual rhythm. However, for Harry, each day was filled with anticipation: he hoped to hear from Sirius, though thoughts of Barty Crouch gradually receded to the background.

Now, Harry, Ron, and Hermione took every opportunity to dive into the library, searching for new spells or potions that could help in the upcoming trial. But despite all their efforts, nothing truly useful came their way.

Jeanne also spent a lot of time in the library but preferred to work alone. She rarely shared information about the books she was studying, which only fueled Harry’s curiosity. Several times, he noticed Snape accompanying Jeanne to the Restricted Section, raising even more questions in Harry’s mind. What was she looking for there? What secrets was she trying to uncover? Harry was burning with desire to learn more, but he didn’t dare ask Jeanne directly, fearing her reaction.

Meanwhile, unexpected changes occurred in Professor Moody’s behavior. One day, he appeared before the students noticeably exhausted and thinner, and his magical eye moved with obvious difficulty. Surprisingly, around the same days, Snape seemed to soften a bit. Mad-Eye, on the other hand, became even more suspicious but began treating the students with more warmth and care. His favorite phrase now echoed in every lesson:

"Constant vigilance!"

In the Great Hall, Moody ate noticeably more than usual for about two weeks, with such enthusiasm that even the most avid eaters were amazed by his appetite.

During one of the classes, Moody addressed Harry:

"So, Potter? Have you come up with a plan of action?"

"Sir, we’ve already searched the entire library, except for the Restricted Section, and…" Harry began. "I thought about your advice to use Summoning Charms, but what should I summon? A scuba set is out of the question, and I don’t even know how to swim with one…"

Moody momentarily looked surprised at Harry’s words.

"I advised you to do that? Really?" He chuckled. "So, you already know the essence of the second task. Then let me advise you of something else. Sometimes you need to trust your friends, including those you might not take seriously."

Harry frowned thoughtfully, trying to understand what Moody meant.

"Who is it that I don’t take seriously?" Harry pondered aloud.

"Think hard about this question, and do it quickly," Moody insisted, his magical eye spinning faster than usual. "Time won’t wait for you."

***

The days leading up to the second task dragged on excruciatingly slowly for Harry. Every morning, upon opening his eyes, he felt as though the previous day had lasted an eternity, and the coming day promised to be even longer. Harry mechanically attended classes and then sat in the library until late at night, only to be kicked out by the relentless Madame Pince.

Harry’s thoughts oscillated between fear and despair. What if he simply told Bagman that he wasn’t ready? The whole school would laugh at him, and Fleur would surely comment: "I knew it; he’s just a little boy." Sometimes Harry thought it would be better to endure the laughter than to humiliate himself during the actual task. After all, hadn’t he already faced the Hungarian Horntail?

But then Harry remembered Jeanne. She was his age! What if she succeeded and he didn’t? Then no one would find any excuses for him. How could he explain why a fragile girl, shorter than him, completed the task while he didn’t even try?

These thoughts drove Harry to dig even more frantically into dusty tomes. He feared not just embarrassing himself in front of the school but becoming a laughingstock for the entire wizarding world. Harry imagined newspaper headlines: "Famous Harry Potter, who defeated Voldemort, loses to his classmate."

Meanwhile, Ron and Hermione, seeing their friend’s state, didn’t sit idly by either. They helped Harry search for the necessary spells, spending hours with him in the library. Hermione compiled lists of possible charms and potions, while Ron tried to encourage Harry, reminding him of his past achievements.

Jeanne also often appeared in the library but kept to herself. Harry noticed how intently she studied some ancient manuscripts, which only heightened his anxiety. It seemed like everyone except him knew what to do.

At night, Harry often woke up in a cold sweat, haunted by nightmares of drowning in the Black Lake, surrounded by other champions who easily breathed underwater and mocked his helplessness.

Moody informed them of the date of the next trip to Hogsmeade.

That was Sirius’s reply. Not a word more, not a word less. Seeing such a short letter, Harry immediately fell into despair. He had hoped for at least a word of encouragement from his godfather.

"Not until the weekend," Hermione said.

A couple of quick strokes of the quill on parchment, and the owl was already carrying Harry’s reply to its recipient, leaving him in bewilderment and sorrow. Two days remained until the second task.

Harry, immersed in desperate searches, didn’t notice when the Weasley twins burst into the library. Their sudden appearance made him flinch. Fred and George, barely catching their breath, reported that Professor McGonagall urgently summoned Ron and Hermione. Exchanging puzzled glances, his friends hastily left the hall, leaving Harry alone with piles of books and growing anxiety.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the silence of the library was disturbed by the soft rustle of a cloak. Raising his eyes, Harry saw Jeanne silently glide behind the opposite table. Without a single word, she opened an imposing tome and immersed herself in reading. Harry couldn’t help but notice how skillfully her fingers turned the fragile pages of ancient manuscripts. His curiosity grew with every second as he covertly observed the concentrated expression on the girl’s face.

"What are you reading?" he finally asked, unable to contain himself.

Jeanne raised her gaze to him.

"What’s it to you, Potter?" she asked with her usual mockery.

"Just curious," Harry replied, shrugging. "Maybe you found something useful? About the second task?"

"Perhaps," Jeanne answered, her eyes gleaming. "Or maybe not. And now," she returned to her book, "don’t disturb me. I have little time."

Harry frowned. Her words only fueled his curiosity. What was she hiding?

At night, when Madame Pince was kicking them out of the library, Harry called out:

"Jeanne, wait."

She stopped and turned to him.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I… I don’t know what to do," Harry said, his voice trembling slightly. "I’m… scared."

Jeanne frowned.

"Scared?" she repeated with a hint of irritation. "What are you afraid of, Potter? Mermaids? Or," she smirked, "maybe you’re afraid of getting wet?"

"I… I’m not sure I can…" Harry began.

"Stop doubting," she sharply interrupted him. "You’re not a child anymore. You’re Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. You’ll manage." She looked at him, and something besides irritation flickered in her eyes… concern? "And… I’ll help you. If needed."

She gently squeezed his hand and turned away. Harry watched her, feeling an unexpected warmth and gratitude.

As they parted ways towards the Gryffindor tower, Harry felt panic rising within him. He couldn’t leave now without finding a solution! Suddenly, an idea struck him.

Under the cover of the Invisibility Cloak, Harry returned to the library. In the silence of the night, the rustling of pages seemed deafening. "The next book will definitely have something," he convinced himself, moving from one volume to another. Hours flew by unnoticed, his eyes drooped, but Harry stubbornly continued his search.

He didn’t notice when he fell asleep right at the table, surrounded by mountains of books. Morning caught him off guard when a familiar squeaky voice and small hands began shaking him.

"Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter must wake up!"

Harry opened his eyes with difficulty and saw a worried Dobby in front of him. The house-elf looked at him with huge, anxious eyes full of concern and determination.

"Dobby?" Harry mumbled, trying to focus his gaze. "What are you doing here?"

"Sir, there are ten minutes left until the second task…" Dobby murmured.

"Ten minutes?" Harry exclaimed in horror. "How ten?"

He couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep over the books without finding a way to last an hour underwater.

"Sir Harry Potter must go to the trial," the house-elf insisted.

"No options, Dobby. I’m done for! I don’t know how to last an hour underwater without air! And you, how can you help me? You don’t even know what the second task is about…"

"Dobby knows how to help Sir Harry Potter!" Dobby replied. "Sir Harry Potter must dive into the lake and save Weasley, sir! Dobby knows that Harry Potter didn’t find the right book, but Dobby did!"

"Well, tell me, what did you come up with!" Harry said skeptically.

He couldn’t forget the closed barrier on platform nine and three-quarters, and the incident with the Bludger during the Quidditch match was still fresh in his mind.

"Harry Potter must eat this," Dobby squeaked, reaching into his shorts pocket and pulling out a clump of some slimy, gray-green rat tails. "These are gillyweed, sir. Eat them and dive into the lake."

"And what are they for?" Harry looked at the slimy clump with distrust.

"They will help you breathe underwater, sir."

"Dobby, are you sure?" Harry asked desperately.

"Dobby is sure, sir," the elf nodded his head vigorously. "Dobby hears a lot, sir. Dobby lights the castle lights and washes the floors, Dobby heard Professors McGonagall and Moody talking about the next trial… Dobby won’t let Harry Potter lose Weasley!"

It was clear: they had taken Ron. Harry jumped up, threw off the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his backpack, snatched the seaweed from Dobby, shoved it into his pocket, and dashed out of the library. The elf followed him, hopping along.

"Dobby must go to the kitchen, sir," Dobby squeaked in the corridor. "Dobby will look for him. Good luck, sir."

Harry had already sprinted down the corridor and, taking the stairs three steps at a time, shouted:

"Thanks, Dobby! See you!"

Never before had Harry run so fast. It seemed that if he raced against Jeanne, he wouldn’t lag behind in speed. Arriving ("I’m late!" — the single thought echoed loudly in Harry’s head) at the lake, he braked sharply and accidentally splashed mud onto Fleur’s cloak.

"Where have you been?" Percy Weasley snapped angrily. "The trial is about to begin."

Harry only then noticed that Percy was standing in place of Barty Crouch.

"Are you alright, Harry?" asked an approaching Ludo Bagman. "Do you know what to do?"

Harry nodded convulsively. His breath was caught after the difficult run, and his side ached. Producing any sound in such a state seemed like a great achievement to him.

"Well, our participants are ready for the second task," Ludo Bagman’s voice boomed. "We’ll start on my whistle. In an hour, they must find what has been taken from them. So, on the count of three: one… two-three!"

Harry stood on the shore of the Black Lake, shivering from the cold and nervous tension. Around him gathered the other champions, each preparing for the task in their own way.

Victor Krum looked focused and confident, stretching his muscles in his red swim trunks. Cedric Diggory nervously adjusted his yellow-and-black swimming shorts, trying to hide his anxiety.

Fleur Delacour wore an elegant silver-blue swimsuit that accentuated her graceful figure. She appeared calm, but her eyes betrayed tension.

Jeanne drew everyone’s attention with her unusual attire. She wore a black swimsuit with bright red inserts, which looked more like a combat suit than beachwear. Her long silvery hair was tied into a high ponytail, and her eyes burned with determination.

Harry took a deep breath and began undressing, removing his cloak and shoes. They would only get in the way underwater. He took out the gillyweed, grimacing at the slimy seaweed. Gathering his courage, he shoved it into his mouth and began chewing, wincing at the rubbery taste and texture.

Entering the icy water, Harry continued chewing, trying to ignore the noise from the stands. The Slytherins were particularly loud in their jeers, their taunts echoing in his ears. "Some moral support," he thought bitterly.

Suddenly, everything changed. Harry felt gills open on his neck, his lungs emptied, and his face seemed covered with an invisible mask. Submerging into the water, he felt a surge of strength and newfound abilities. His arms and legs elongated, webbing appeared between his fingers, allowing him to effortlessly cut through the water. Now he could move with incredible ease and speed.

Looking around, Harry noticed that the other champions had also submerged. Viktor Krum partially transfigured himself into a shark, his head taking on a pointed shape, and his body becoming more streamlined. Cedric used a Bubble-Head Charm, surrounding his head with a transparent sphere of air.

Fleur gracefully sliced through the water, enveloped in a silvery glow — evidently the result of some French spell. Jeanne, to Harry’s surprise, seemed to need no additional help to breathe underwater. She moved with incredible speed, leaving a trail of bubbles behind her.

Harry plunged deeper into the lake, feeling the cold water flow around his body. The deeper he went, the darker it became. Seaweed swayed at his feet, and small fish scattered at his approach.

Suddenly, a sight he had never imagined opened before him. At the bottom of the lake sprawled a real mermaid city. Numerous stone houses, adorned with glowing seaweed and colorful corals, formed winding streets. Mermaids and tritons bustled about, going about their daily routines.

For a moment, Harry marveled at the spectacle but quickly reminded himself of the purpose of his dive. He couldn’t afford to waste precious time sightseeing.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar song — the very one that had played from the golden egg. The sound beckoned him, showing the way. Harry swam toward the voice, trying to move as quickly and efficiently as possible.

As Harry swam through the seaweed, he suddenly felt someone’s presence. Turning around, he saw the translucent figure of Moaning Myrtle floating nearby.

"Hello, Harry," her voice sounded strangely distorted by the water. "I decided to see how you’re coping."

Harry was surprised and somewhat relieved by her appearance. Myrtle pointed toward the center of the lake:

"If you’re looking for the mermaids, go that way. I saw them take something… or someone."

Harry nodded gratefully. Myrtle’s presence somewhat calmed him — a familiar face in this alien underwater world.

"Good luck, Harry," Myrtle said, winking at him. "And don’t forget to visit me in my bathroom when all this is over."

With those words, she dissolved into the dark water, leaving Harry to continue his journey to the center of the lake, where he now knew his trial awaited.

Encouraged by Moaning Myrtle’s hint, Harry surged in the indicated direction. The mermaids’ song grew louder, and soon he saw a huge statue of a mermaid towering in the middle of an underwater square.

Harry quickly swam to the mermaid statue, where he found four figures tied to its tail: Ron, Hermione, Cho Chang, and a little girl resembling Fleur. All of them appeared to be in a deep sleep.

Harry immediately freed Ron. Looking around and seeing no one else, he began to worry about the fate of the other captives. Attempting to free Hermione with a sharp stone, he was stopped by a group of armed tritons.

"Only one captive!" they declared.

"But she’s also my friend!" Harry protested.

Soon Cedric arrived with an air bubble around his head.

"I got lost!" he said. "Fleur and Krum will arrive soon!"

Harry felt immense relief when Cedric appeared. He quickly took out a penknife, cut Cho’s rope, and swam away with her.

Soon Krum arrived, his head transfigured into a shark’s. He tried to gnaw through Hermione’s rope with his sharp teeth but failed. Harry handed him a sharp stone, with which Krum freed Hermione and, without looking at Harry, swam up with her.

Unexpectedly, Jeanne appeared, moving with incredible speed like a torpedo. She easily tore Neville’s rope with her bare hands and swiftly swam away with him. Harry was surprised to see that she had neither a bubble around her head nor signs of transfiguration. "Could it be gillyweed too?" flashed through his mind.

Realizing time was running out and Fleur still hadn’t appeared, Harry decided to act. He pointed his wand at the duty tritons, but they only laughed. Using a spell that created jets of boiling water, he drove them away, quickly cut the ropes with a spell, grabbed Ron and Fleur’s little sister, and began resolutely ascending to the surface.

As he ascended, the effect of the gillyweed began to wear off. Harry felt his gills disappearing, and breathing became increasingly difficult. With a final desperate effort, he broke the surface, greedily gulping air.

The crowd erupted in applause as Harry, exhausted but satisfied, swam to the shore where his friends, the judges, and Madam Pomfrey with warm towels awaited him.

***

"You reckless idiot!" Jeanne exclaimed, but beneath her anger, a note of concern could be heard. "Did you really think Dumbledore would let anyone drown?"

Harry noticed how her gaze softened for a moment before she frowned again.

"I… I couldn’t take the risk," he replied, meeting her eyes. "What if something went wrong?"

Jeanne paused for a second, clearly wrestling with conflicting emotions.

"You could have finished first!" she finally said, though less aggressively. "Why did you linger there?"

"Hey," Ron interjected, "he showed nobility and earned extra points. Is that bad?"

Jeanne made an irritated sound, but her gaze darted back to Harry.

"You know," Hermione began cautiously, observing this exchange of looks, "your historical namesake would probably approve of his actions."

Jeanne shot her such a withering glare that Hermione involuntarily recoiled, feeling a chill run down her spine.

"Don’t compare me to her," Jeanne snapped, though without her previous fervor.

"W-well, at least," Hermione stammered, trying to change the subject, "the third task won’t be such a secret."

"Exactly," Ron chimed in. "At sunset on June twenty-fourth... And the participants will be informed of the details a month in advance."

He trailed off, noticing Jeanne’s face darken.

"Listen, d’Arc," Ron said, "after all, you were offered to save…"

He stopped, noticing how Jeanne tensed.

"Though," he added hastily, "I’d be surprised if you didn’t find something to nitpick about."

"Interesting, where do you get these complexes from?" Hermione mused. "You excel in your studies, perform better than anyone in the Tournament trials. What are you always dissatisfied with? With your talents, you should be enjoying every moment."

Jeanne froze, her gaze meeting Harry’s eyes again. For a moment, it seemed she wanted to say something, but then she shook her head.

"You don’t understand," she said quietly, but there was no anger in her voice, only weariness and something else Harry couldn’t quite define.

She turned to leave, but unexpectedly, Harry grabbed her hand.

"Jeanne, wait," he said. "I… I didn’t mean to upset you."

She looked at his hand, then back into his eyes. For a moment, her face softened, and Harry saw something in it he hadn’t noticed before — vulnerability.

"I know," she replied softly. "Just… be more careful next time, okay?"

With those words, she gently freed her hand and walked toward the girls' dormitory, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione in thoughtful silence.

Harry watched her go, feeling a strange mix of emotions. He turned to his friends, who looked equally puzzled.

"What was that?" Ron asked, scratching the back of his head.

Hermione looked thoughtfully at Harry.

"I think," she said slowly, "that Jeanne was more worried about you than she wanted to show."

Chapter Text

Ron took on the role of Münchhausen and was now boasting about his supposed involvement with Harry, enthusiastically recounting tales of battles with hordes of grindylows and tritons. Each time he told the story, the details changed, but the brave finale remained constant, where he would triumph at the last moment.

"And then you snored furiously at them!" Hermione once remarked during another of his stories, after which Ron stopped boasting about things that never happened.

Jeanne was discussed more actively, or rather her attractive swimsuit in which she swam in the lake. Most discussions revolved around either the simplicity and elegance of its appearance or solving the mystery of its color: blue with red details or black with lilac. It seemed only Harry and the professors were interested in how she managed to stay underwater for a whole hour. Questions about her incredible endurance and swimming talent, despite coming in after Harry (Harry sometimes wondered where she had been all that time), didn’t interest anyone.

On Friday, Sirius's reply arrived. He wrote briefly:

Be at the pass near the turn to Hogsmeade (from the side of "Dervish and Banges") at 2 PM on Sunday. Bring plenty of food.

Had he returned to Hogsmeade? Harry felt a chill at the situation’s horror but could do nothing about it. The biggest trial for the friends was waiting until the Sunday trip to Hogsmeade, especially since that day a new article by Rita Skeeter came out, dedicated to Hermione, portraying her as the biggest hunter of famous boys. However, the article didn’t bother Hermione at all, and she set herself the goal of solving yet another mystery no matter what. How did Rita Skeeter find out the most intimate details of events she couldn’t personally witness? Surely Krum didn’t tell this journalist anything about his private conversation with Hermione by the lake. During Snape’s lesson, he was unusually kind and didn’t even pay attention to the chatter among the Gryffindors. His face wasn’t glowing, but it showed a note of optimism and for the first time gave Harry hope for success.

Midway through the class, Karkaroff came in for an urgent talk with Snape. Durmstrang’s headmaster couldn’t wait for the end of the lesson, didn’t check if all students had left the classroom, and showed Snape something on his wrist while Harry was packing his things. Snape didn’t react and impassively asked Harry:

"Potter! Why are you still here?"

"I’m packing my things into my bag, Professor," Harry replied indifferently.

After finishing his packing, he bolted out of the classroom, wondering what Karkaroff had shown Snape and why it couldn’t wait.

***

On Sunday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed to Hogsmeade. They decided not to warn Jeanne about where they were going — no need for her to know about Sirius. After all, who knows what she might think upon seeing him. Along the way, Harry pondered how well-known Sirius’s case was among French wizards. Suppose she sees Sirius. What would his face tell her? Surely, the peculiarities of their meeting would reveal much more… In any case, she needed thorough preparation before meeting Sirius.

At the same time, sitting in the Gryffindor common room reading books, Jeanne also thought about going to Hogsmeade. The stories from the Weasley twins about the joke shop "Zonko’s" and "Honeydukes" sounded too beautiful and interesting. She really didn’t want to stay at Hogwarts knowing she could have a good time nearby. Putting the books aside, Jeanne got up from the armchair by the fireplace and headed towards the exit.

A small village with houses tightly pressed against each other, gathered into irregularly shaped streets — so cozy and resembling those numerous postcards meant to congratulate recipients on New Year’s or Christmas. Alas, this scenery didn’t impress Jeanne, and she might call such postcards overly sweet and pitiful, showing no interest in them at all. What did people find in these drawings of snow-covered cottages?

So she entered Hogsmeade — with a gray and gloomy face, expressing nothing but a slight shadow of bewilderment and confusion lost amidst usual complacency. She quietly and barely noticeable as a shadow slipped among the residents and visitors of the village — cheerful and sad, young and old, pensive and simple. All of them were doing something, talking about something, and Hogsmeade as a whole lived its own life, gradually revealing the secrets of the magical world to Jeanne.

"Honeydukes" didn’t impress Jeanne and was memorable only because two Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans out of a whole handful turned out to be strawberry and pistachio ice cream on whipped cream. The third delighted her with a vomit flavor, after which she completely lost any desire to try anything else in Honeydukes, and with an angry shout, she ran out the door, trying with all her might to spit out the clinging nastiness. Madame Rosmerta consoled Jeanne, inviting her into "The Three Broomsticks." Compassionate Madame Rosmerta treated her to butterbeer on the house, recognizing her as one of the youngest participants of the Triwizard Tournament.

"So how did such a young witch manage to get into the Tournament?" asked Madame Rosmerta. "And endure two trials already!"

"I have no idea how I got into the Tournament," answered Jeanne. "They just told me when I wanted to refuse that refusal wasn’t an option. And why should enduring be difficult for anyone?

I haven’t done anything special..."

"But there was a dragon at the first trial..."

"Dragon? They belong under my feet!"

Leaving Madame Rosmerta deep in thought, Jeanne moved on.

"Zonko’s" interested Jeanne slightly more than "Honeydukes." Here she had a lot of fun imagining how she could use dungbombs and other pranks. At that moment, she was only thinking about the practicality of such purchases — in the end, she could cause no less damage to her opponents with her own powers.

Deciding to explore Hogsmeade thoroughly, she walked around the village and surrounding area until she stumbled upon a grotto at the foot of the mountain where Hogsmeade was located. Approaching the grotto, she heard the voices of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. There was also a fourth person, judging by the tone — an adult man.

"So that’s how it is. Crouch thought everything was in his hands, and look how it turned out," said a male voice.

"Moody told me Crouch is simply obsessed with catching dark wizards," Harry said after a very long pause.

Jeanne crept closer and saw the three friends, and nearby a dark-haired, disheveled, and very thin man with a worn-out face dressed in rags. Nearby, a hippogriff gnawed on chicken bones, which Hermione was petting.

"Yes, I’ve also heard he chases dark wizards like a madman," the man nodded. "It seems to me he still thinks that if he catches even one Death Eater, people will treat him the same as before."

"That’s why he broke into Snape’s office!" Ron exclaimed triumphantly, looking at Hermione.

They talked for a long time, and from the man’s words, Jeanne gradually understood — everything happening now closely resembled past events when the mysterious Dark Lord was powerful.

"Wait, someone’s here!" the man said. From the conversation, Jeanne already understood that his name was Sirius and that he was, at least, not dangerous. She calmly came out to them and greeted them.

"Jeanne?" Ron was dumbfounded. "What are you doing here? How did you find us?"

"I wanted to walk around Hogsmeade and explore the surroundings," Jeanne replied indifferently. She looked at Sirius and said:

"Hello."

He looked at her intently. Unlike Harry and Ron, he kept a calm face. Apparently, he didn’t care that their classmate found them. More than that — it was precisely Jeanne whom he wanted to see after hearing about her participation in the Tournament.

"Hello, Jeanne," Sirius politely greeted her. "I’m Sirius, Harry’s godfather. So you’re the girl whose name the Goblet of Fire spat out along with Harry’s?"

Jeanne nodded affirmatively. For a few more seconds, Sirius studied her attentively, then said:

"What’s your full name again?"

"Jeanne d’Arc," she replied.

A look of boredom and disgust flashed across her face.

"Don’t like questions?" guessed Sirius.

"Not such banal ones," Jeanne replied.

"Alright. Let me ask a non-banal question. Tell me, how did you manage to stay underwater for an hour during the second trial? Did you use some spell, potion, or eat a plant?"

"What’s so hard about staying underwater? I just swam," she muttered.

"And what did you plan to do during the first trial? Remind me? Harry, do you remember what she did?"

"She said something incomprehensible," Harry thoughtfully said.

"You mentioned she studies very well and single-handedly beat ten upperclassmen..." continued Sirius.

Sirius paused for a second, then looked at Jeanne.

"A long time ago, I read about similar people capable of such feats. You must be somewhat extraordinary. And the fact that you found us here and now is another sign…"

A grim but still present smile appeared on his face. He cast an admiring and astonished glance over the trio of friends, then asked:

"Why didn’t you bring such an amazing friend with you?"

Harry and Ron were immediately flustered, and Hermione only gasped in response.

"What do you mean, Sirius?" Harry asked, puzzled, but he remained silent, continuing to study Jeanne’s complacent face.

***

The very next morning, the kids sent Sirius a package full of food with Ron’s Scabbers and school owls. They didn’t want to think about how hard it was for him — eating only rats and occasionally stealing, always living in the form of a big black dog. Not much time passed before Hermione received several threatening letters during breakfast. Another letter she opened resulted in painful burns on her hands. A yellow-green liquid with a distinct smell of gasoline seeped from the envelope.

"Undiluted bubotuber pus," Ron guessed.

A forced visit to the hospital wing prevented Hermione from attending Care of Magical Creatures, but even a couple of minutes at the end of the lesson were enough for all four of them to learn from Hagrid — during the lesson when he demonstrated nifflers, he used leprechaun gold, which disappears after some time, to show their abilities. Ron was very upset to learn this, as he thought he had repaid Harry for the gifted hat during the Quidditch World Cup.

"I hate poverty," Ron muttered hopelessly.

Hermione was very surprised by Hagrid’s story about numerous threatening letters written to him by readers of the "Daily Prophet" and pouring down on him after that unfortunate article came out.

"And don’t open the letters, throw them in the fire — and that’s that."

Throughout the following week, Hermione continued to receive similar letters. But now she followed kind Hagrid’s advice and threw the envelopes into the Gryffindor common room fireplace. Sometimes the letters she threw into the fire would flare up brightly, strongly igniting the flames and hissing unpleasantly. Some students flinched at this, and only Jeanne watched the burning envelopes with admiration, as if deriving some secret pleasure known only to her from the sight.

***

Time flew quickly. Harry himself didn’t notice how the awaited day approached. Ludo Bagman gathered all the Tournament champions and led them to the Quidditch field. The entire field was filled with strange bushes and wild overgrowth.

"Well, what do you think this is?" Bagman asked.

"A maze," Viktor guessed first.

The participants were surprised by the necessity of navigating a maze in the third trial, but Bagman calmed them down by explaining the multitude of obstacles — creatures, traps, and spells that would undoubtedly be placed inside the maze before the trial began.

"Well, if there are no questions, let’s go back to the castle; it’s getting chilly..."

He hurried past Harry to the stadium exit. Barely had Harry thought that Bagman would offer help again when Viktor grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Can we talk?"

"Well... yes," Harry was surprised.

"Let’s take a walk."

"Alright."

Bagman, noticing this, became alarmed.

"Harry, should I wait for you?"

"No, Mr. Bagman, thank you," Harry replied, suppressing a smile. "I’ll be back soon."

Viktor led Harry towards the Forbidden Forest.

"Why are we going there?" Harry became alarmed.

"I don’t want anyone to overhear us."

"What is it you want to talk to me about?" Harry asked when they stopped at the edge of the forest.

"I want to know what’s between you and Herm-Ivonna?" Viktor asked.

That was all. Harry was pleased to resolve the situation by telling Viktor the truth about his friendship with Hermione. Viktor’s face lit up after this conversation. Oh, that Rita Skeeter!

"And you fly well," Viktor suddenly praised him. "I saw it at the first trial. And riding a broomstick together..."

"I saw you at the Championship. You flew amazingly too, and that Wronski Feint..."

The boys didn’t have time to fully admire each other when an inexplicable crackling sound came from the nearby bushes. Harry pushed Viktor aside, knowing firsthand what monsters could inhabit the Forbidden Forest. To their mutual surprise, Mr. Crouch emerged from the bushes. He was ragged, his clothes and shoes worn out, and a crazed expression froze on his scratched face.

"I must... tell... Dumbledore! The Dark Lord... stronger... Harry Potter... Weasley, bring me tea..."

Dumbledore himself saved the situation, approaching them accompanied by Snape, McGonagall, and Moody. Together they came to the forest, and Dumbledore held the Marauder’s Map in his hands.

Chapter Text

The news about Mr. Crouch instantly spread throughout the school. Harry was already anticipating an article from that hack Skeeter when Professor McGonagall entered the Gryffindor common room.

"Potter, d'Arc. The headmaster requests your presence."

Harry, who had been playing wizard chess with Ron, was very surprised by the arrival of the head of the house, but he didn't object. Jeanne, who was surrounded by books, sprang up from her chair as if on command.

"I'm ready, Professor."

To their great surprise, McGonagall led them to the hospital wing. There, sitting on a hospital bed, was Mr. Crouch. He was fully in his right mind and drinking tea, occasionally casting a confused glance at those around him. Near him were Snape and Moody; Madam Pomfrey was bustling with medicines at his bedside, and at the foot of the bed on a small stool sat Dumbledore himself, looking at Crouch with eyes full of regret.

"I've brought the students, as you requested," McGonagall reported.

Dumbledore gestured for Jeanne and Harry to sit nearby.

"Forgive me, boy," Crouch addressed Harry. "It's my fault that you're participating in the Tournament against all the rules. And your friend also ended up in the Tournament because of me. I am very sorry."

"Did you put our names in the Goblet?" Harry asked in surprise.

Crouch just waved his hand.

"No, but what happened is tantamount to me having done it myself. It was my son. He was one of the Death Eaters, captured and sentenced right in the Wizengamot hall. My wife begged to save him from Azkaban."

Crouch took a deep breath, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

"I shouldn't have done it, I shouldn't have let her make that sacrifice. Once, we went to Azkaban to visit him, and I allowed her to stay there in his place. We did it using Polyjuice Potion. She spent the rest of her life taking it so no one would uncover the switch."

"And now your brat sneaked into Hogwarts and spent several months brewing Polyjuice Potion with my hair to pretend to be me," Moody remarked. "My eye still doesn’t spin properly after that."

After hearing this, Harry felt like Barnabas the Barmy after his attempts to teach ballet to mountain trolls. He couldn’t understand anything anymore.

"Professor! Are you saying that..."

"For the first few months, you were taught by an impostor!" Moody barked. "And he was responsible for your safety and that of all the other students!"

"Now, now, don't get worked up, Alastor," Dumbledore calmed him. "That’s all in the past now."

Moody grunted in dissatisfaction but silently agreed with Dumbledore.

"But why did your son do all this? And where is he now?" Jeanne asked Crouch.

"I’m more interested in how her name ended up on that slip of paper," Harry interjected. "Do you know anything about that?"

"He’s currently under lock and key," Crouch replied briefly. "Now he won’t harm anyone. And he did all this on the direct order of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Voldemort?" Harry’s eyes widened. "So he’s alive?"

Everyone flinched—except Dumbledore and Jeanne. She didn’t understand why they feared the name of the infamous dark wizard. Crouch responded with a very sad smile.

"Tell me, boy, is there anyone in the world who truly believes in his unconditional defeat and death on that night? No, boy, he wasn’t an ordinary man. Few can match him in the dark arts. The darkest wizard of our time..."

Crouch took another sip from his cup and set it on the bedside table.

"There’s some part of him that survived that fateful night. That small part still yearns to return and avenge its defeat. He wants to perform a ritual, for which he needs a father’s bone taken without consent, the flesh of a servant given willingly, and the blood of an enemy... taken by force."

At these words, Crouch paused and looked meaningfully at Harry.

"My blood," Harry guessed. "But why?"

"To become stronger. He remembered your previous encounter. It happened here, at Hogwarts, three years ago. He couldn’t touch you and wants to fix that."

"But how?"

"You are protected by your mother’s sacrificial love. If he is resurrected from your blood, you won’t have any advantage over him. That’s what he thinks."

"Mr. Crouch… I’m still tormented by a question. You didn’t answer how Jeanne’s name got into the Goblet?"

Crouch thought for a moment.

"Honestly, my boy, I don’t know the answer to that question. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wanted only you to participate in the Tournament. My son was supposed to help you pass all the trials and eliminate competitors in the third, subjecting whomever possible to curses and removing them from the game in various ways. He intended to use the Triwizard Cup as a portal to the ritual site where no one could help you. For the Dark Lord, and even more so for my son, your friend’s participation is a big mystery. What do you think, Albus?"

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry asked, frowning, "how did Jeanne’s name get into the Goblet? That’s... impossible."

Dumbledore thoughtfully looked at Jeanne over his half-moon glasses.

"Indeed, Harry, this is quite an unusual situation," he said calmly. "A mystery we still need to solve. However..." he slightly lowered his voice, "I believe Mademoiselle d'Arc might shed light on this incident."

He stared intently at Jeanne. She met his gaze with calm composure, though a hint of challenge could be seen in it. At that moment, Harry felt that Dumbledore, as always, was right in his assumptions.

Crouch, clearly troubled, turned to Dumbledore:

"What do you mean, Albus? Could some unknown force have interfered in the Tournament, putting forward its own candidate alongside Mr. Potter?"

Dumbledore merely smiled enigmatically, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

"Barty, in the world of magic, there is always room for mysteries. And sometimes these mysteries come to us in the most unexpected forms."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. His gaze swept over the faces of those present, lingering on Harry and Jeanne. Then he took a deep breath and spoke, his voice becoming more serious:

"I cannot say for sure, but I am absolutely certain of one thing. In this world, there are forces far more powerful than Tom Riddle, who seeks to regain his former strength and power. We should not disregard the wisdom of the ancients, even if it seems to some like outdated fairy tales. But who would have thought that such diligence once resided in a former Head Boy? Ultimately, there is only one thing left to say: this time, the stakes are much higher. But you already know that perfectly well without me."

These words hung in the air, filling the room with heavy silence. Harry felt a chill run down his spine, and Crouch visibly paled. Jeanne, however, seemed to be the only one who remained unfazed, her eyes gleaming with something akin to understanding.

"What do you mean, Albus? What force decided to interfere in the Tournament and put forward its own candidate alongside Harry?"

"Yes!" Moody snapped. "Who knows what other spy is walking around Hogwarts?"

"I suggest we all keep our composure and allow ourselves to observe further events," Dumbledore proposed. "Whoever or whatever it is, that side will inevitably reveal itself. As for Tom Riddle, I must increase security measures. His plans have been disrupted, and he never liked that, so he will undoubtedly try to retaliate. If necessary, the Dark Lord will resort to open actions, for he has nothing left to lose. His agent has been found, and his plans uncovered. However, I fear the further we distance the Dark Lord from his goal, the more ruthless he will become, and the more terrible the consequences that may await us all."

Crouch sat in thought for a moment, then raised his head and began to speak.

"That’s true, and in the face of a constantly growing threat, we all need to unite, which is why the Triwizard Tournament is necessary."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement, his half-moon glasses conspiratorially gleaming.

"Make it unforgettable. And we will take care of everything else."

***

Harry trained more and more, following Hermione's recommendations, and under the vigilant guidance of Moody during extracurricular hours, he practiced new spells. The professor never tired of repeating that the older participants of the Tournament had a significant advantage over him—they knew and could do more, so Harry had to catch up. When Moody couldn’t train with Harry, Hermione and Ron took over, while Jeanne preferred to master everything independently, flatly refusing outside help or advice. The protection of Hogwarts and its surrounding area was strengthened, noticeable through various protective spells and the presence of Aurors on the grounds.

Harry and Krum sometimes went out to the Hogwarts courtyard together to fly on brooms, racing and competing. They couldn’t hide it, and as a result, students from all three schools came out to cheer for both boys, loudly chanting their names. Even Karkaroff came to support his school’s student from an improvised spectator stand. To Harry’s great disappointment, they couldn’t manage to play Quidditch together, and all attempts to arrange a friendly match with Madam Hooch failed.

Time again rushed like an arrow toward the final trial of the Tournament. Days melted away like burning candles, and each evening Harry increasingly dreamed of turning back time and reliving the day anew. Each new dawn greeted him with hope to learn as much as possible and experience as much as possible, and each new sunset saw him off with the hope of fulfilling tomorrow all the plans unfulfilled today.

One day, shortly before the third trial of the Tournament, Harry, Jeanne, and Ron attended Divination class. The classroom was stuffy, sweet herbal scents lingered in the air, steam swirled above teacups, and faint silhouettes flickered in the crystal ball...

Harry was flying on the back of an owl across a clear sky toward an old ivy-covered house perched on the slope of a high hill. A pleasant wind blew in his face. They descended lower and lower and finally flew through a broken window on the upper floor of the house. They passed through a dim corridor, flew through a door at the end of the corridor, and found themselves in a dimly lit room with boarded-up windows. Harry dismounted from the owl's back. There was a fireplace in the room, and by the fireplace stood a chair, its back turned to the door. The owl flew across the room, dove straight into the chair, and disappeared. On the floor next to the chair moved two dark figures. One belonged to a large snake, the other to a man. The man was small, bald, sharp-nosed, tears streaming from his eyes. He lay curled up on a rug in front of the fireplace, sobbing and wheezing.

"Lucky you, Wormtail," came an icy voice from the depths of the chair where the owl had settled. "Very lucky. You made a grave mistake, but I’m feeling generous today."

"Master," the man on the floor managed to utter. "My Master, I… I am so glad… forgive me…"

"Nagini," continued the icy voice, "you’re unlucky today. I won’t let you eat Wormtail yet. Never mind, never mind, you’ll feast on Harry Potter."

The snake hissed, and Harry saw its flickering tongue.

The nightmare ended with Wormtail being tortured by his unseen converser for amusement. Upon waking, Harry felt intense pain in his scar and, after briefly excusing himself to Trelawney, rushed out of the classroom, eager to tell Dumbledore about his dream. Within minutes, he stood before the headmaster.

"Voldemort received a letter by owl post. He said, it seems, that Wormtail’s mistake hadn’t been corrected. He added that he wouldn’t feed Wormtail to the snake… there was a large snake near his chair. And he also said… said that instead, he’d feed me to the snake. Then he cast the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail… and that’s when my scar started hurting. I woke up immediately—it was unbearable."

Dumbledore silently gazed at him.

"That’s all…"

"I see," Dumbledore said quietly. "I see. Tell me, has your scar hurt any other time this year besides that time last summer?"

"No… How did you know my scar hurt last summer?" Harry exclaimed in astonishment.

"Not only you correspond with Sirius," Dumbledore replied. "I’ve also been in contact with him since his escape from Hogwarts. It was I who suggested he hide in that cave in the mountains. The safest place!"

Dumbledore stood up and began pacing behind his desk. Several times he touched his temple with his wand, extracting a memory and dropping it into his Pensieve. The memories swirled faster and faster, merging into a pearly blur—impossible to decipher.

"Professor," Harry finally ventured to remind him of his presence. Dumbledore stopped and looked at him.

"Forgive me," he said and sat back down at his desk.

"Do… do you know why my scar hurts?"

Dumbledore looked intently at Harry.

"I have one hypothesis, just a hypothesis. Your scar starts hurting when Lord Voldemort is very close and harbors particularly strong hatred for you."

"And… why?"

"Because you are connected by a curse that didn’t work," Dumbledore answered. "Your scar isn’t ordinary."

"So… you think… it wasn’t a dream… It really happened?"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore replied. "I would even say it’s quite likely. Harry, did you see Voldemort?"

"No," Harry replied. "Only the back of the chair. But… but there was nothing in the chair anyway. He doesn’t have a body. But how could he hold a wand?" Harry slowly said.

"Indeed, how?"

Both were silent for several minutes. Dumbledore, staring into space, occasionally brought his wand to his temple and added another silvery strand to the swirling opalescent mixture in the vessel. From the subsequent conversation, Harry learned much of what Dumbledore had been thinking about recently and what he had learned from Mr. Crouch. It turned out that Bertha Jorkins, who had gone missing last year, was dead and had been killed precisely where Voldemort’s last refuge was located.

"And what about Mr. Crouch’s son? How and why was he imprisoned?"

Dumbledore looked meaningfully at Harry, then asked, inadvertently letting his half-moon glasses slip to the tip of his nose.

"Has your classmate Neville ever told you why he lives with his grandmother?"

Harry shook his head negatively. Not once in his life had he even tried to ask Neville how it came to be. To him, it seemed self-evident.

"His father Frank was an Auror, like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured, trying to find out where Voldemort was. Among those involved in this cruel torture was Mr. Crouch’s son."

"And they died?" Harry asked softly.

"No. They lost their minds," Dumbledore’s voice carried a bitterness Harry had never heard before. "They are both now at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Neville, I suppose, visits them with his grandmother during holidays. But they don’t recognize him…"

Harry sat, stunned. How could he not bother to ask after four years…

"Respected people, admired by all," Dumbledore continued. "This happened after Voldemort’s fall, when everyone thought they were safe. The attack caused an unprecedented wave of anger. The Ministry was pressured to find the criminals immediately. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms’ testimonies weren’t entirely reliable—they were in a terrible state. But now, from Mr. Crouch’s son himself, we know the truth."

Harry pondered what he had heard for a minute before stepping away from the Pensieve and heading toward the doors.

"Good luck to you in the third task."

Chapter Text

On the very day of the third task, another article by Rita Skeeter came out. In it, she recounted how Harry had recently dozed off during Divination class and woke up with a pain in his scar. The article included an interview with Draco Malfoy, who eloquently spoke about Harry's ability to speak Parseltongue and how Justin Finch-Fletchley was almost eaten by a snake on Harry’s command. Harry remembered that moment from their Dueling Club meeting when he and Malfoy faced off. He snorted at Malfoy’s hypocrisy because it was Malfoy himself who summoned the snake. Since then, Harry thought everyone had forgotten about that incident, but now... Upon reading those lines, Jeanne took the newspaper from Harry's hands. Her attentive gaze scanned the text of the article several times up and down.

"Do you remember how he yesterday 'radioed' like it was some sort of broadcast?" she asked.

"Oh, just drop your nonsense already!" Hermione exclaimed. "How many times do I have to remind you — these things don’t work in Hogwarts!"

"What if it was a magical device?"

"But how did she find out that your scar hurt during Divination?" Ron asked.

"The window was open. I opened it to get some air because it was stuffy in the classroom."

"But how?" Hermione puzzled. "Unless..."

At that moment, it dawned on her. She ran her fingers through her hair, then put her hand to her mouth as if speaking into a radio. A second later, she jumped up from her seat and ran off.

"Hey!" Ron shouted after her. "We have a History of Magic exam in ten minutes! Well, this is something," he muttered, turning to Harry. "That Skeeter really gets under her skin; she even forgot about the exam. What are you going to do during Binns’ exam — read?"

Harry, like all the Tournament participants, was exempt from exams. He simply sat at the back desk and searched books for new spells that could help him.

"Yeah, probably," Harry replied.

But at that moment, Professor McGonagall approached them.

"Potter, all Tournament participants are gathering in the room adjacent to the Great Hall after breakfast."

"But the competition starts in the evening!" Harry exclaimed, fearing he had mixed up the time, and dropped a piece of scrambled egg on his cloak.

"Of course, Potter. Families of the participants have gathered in the room. They are invited to watch the final challenge. And today you can spend the whole day with your family."

With these words, she walked away from the table. Harry watched her leave, his mouth agape.

"Does she really think the Dursleys will come here?" Harry asked Ron, bewildered.

"I don’t know," Ron shrugged.

"Well, I’m late for Binns. See you!"

Harry and Jeanne entered the room adjacent to the Great Hall, where an animated gathering of champions and their families awaited them. Suddenly, Harry felt his heart tighten. Families. He didn’t have a family. He glanced furtively at Jeanne. Her face seemed impassive, but he noticed how she clenched her fists. He understood that she was also alone. And strangely enough, this brought them closer together.

There was joy all around. Champions and their relatives were chatting, laughing, taking photographs. Harry felt out of place. He stood aside, watching them with sadness in his eyes. Cedric was hugging his parents, Fleur was kissing her younger sister, and Krum was talking with his father. Harry couldn’t help but envy their happiness, their family warmth.

"Harry, dear!" a familiar voice called out.

He turned around and saw Mrs. Weasley. She was walking towards him, beaming with joy. Bill was beside her. Harry felt a warm wave of gratitude wash over him. Though they weren’t his blood relatives, the Weasleys had become his true family.

Jeanne stood a little apart, clearly feeling awkward in this situation. Her confused gaze wandered around the room as if she didn’t know what to do with herself.

"How glad we are to see you!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, enveloping him in a hug. "We’ve been so worried about you!"

"It’s alright, Mrs. Weasley," Harry replied with a smile. "I managed."

"We know, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, her eyes glistening. "We’re so proud of you."

"Hello, Harry," Bill said, shaking his hand. "You were brilliant."

Harry looked at Jeanne. She stood not far away, observing them with a barely noticeable sadness in her eyes. He approached her.

"Your family didn’t come?" he asked cautiously.

"My family..." Jeanne paused, choosing her words. "They are very far away."

"I’m sorry," Harry said sincerely, feeling a surge of sympathy.

Jeanne looked at him, and a flicker of gratitude appeared in her eyes.

"It’s fine," she quietly replied. "I’m used to it."

"You have us," Harry blurted out without thinking.

Jeanne smiled. For the first time in a long while, her smile was genuine.

"Thank you, Harry," she said warmly.

They spent the day together: walking around the school and its surroundings, talking, and joking. Molly and Bill joined them, sharing news from home and funny stories. Harry happily observed how Jeanne gradually relaxed in the company of the Weasleys, as if she too had become part of this big, loving family.

As the sun began to set, Mrs. Weasley firmly declared:

"Well, young Gryffindor champions, you absolutely need to get some rest before the trial."

"But, Mrs. Weasley..." Harry began.

"No objections!" she cut him off, though her eyes shone with warmth. "I’ll personally make sure you rest well and promise to wake you up early."

Despite weak protests, Molly insisted and escorted them to the Gryffindor common room. She conjured soft pillows and warm blankets, settling Harry and Jeanne comfortably in cozy armchairs by the fireplace.

"Good night, dears," Molly whispered, adjusting the blankets. "Tonight, you’ll show everyone what true Gryffindors are capable of."

After she left, Harry and Jeanne exchanged glances filled with gratitude and light amusement.

"Is she always this caring?" Jeanne asked softly with a smile.

"Always," Harry replied, feeling warmth spread in his chest. "That’s Mrs. Weasley."

Lulled by the warmth of the fireplace and the coziness of the common room, Harry and Jeanne sat silently for a while, lost in their thoughts.

"You know," Jeanne softly said, looking at the fire, "I never thought I’d find such support here at Hogwarts."

Harry turned to her, noticing the gentle reflection of the flames in her eyes.

"The Weasleys have a way of making everyone feel like part of the family," he replied with a smile. "Even if you’re originally a stranger."

Jeanne nodded, her face expressing gratitude mixed with slight melancholy.

"Harry," she suddenly said, "whatever happens tonight... I’m glad we’re in this together."

Harry felt his heart tighten. He reached out and gently squeezed Jeanne’s hand.

"Me too," he sincerely replied. "We’ll handle it. Together."

They sat like that for a while, enjoying the silence and warmth, as twilight slowly deepened outside the window.

Jeanne stole a glance at Harry, quickly averting her eyes when he noticed. Her cheeks slightly pinked, which she tried to hide by staring at the fire.

"Hey, Potter," she finally said, trying to sound indifferent. "You’re not planning to do anything stupid tonight, are you?"

Harry smiled, already accustomed to her way of showing concern.

"Don’t worry, Jeanne. I’ll be careful."

"Who said I’m worried?" she huffed, but her eyes betrayed concern for a moment. "I just don’t want you to ruin everything with your clumsiness."

Harry chuckled softly, earning a disapproving look from Jeanne, which quickly softened.

"You know," he said, "I’m glad you’re here. With you, I feel... more confident."

Jeanne sharply turned to him, her eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, she was speechless, unsure how to react to such directness.

"N-nonsense," she mumbled, looking away. "You can manage without me."

But Harry noticed the corners of her lips slightly lifting into a barely noticeable smile.

Suddenly, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, and Professor McGonagall entered.

"Potter, Mademoiselle d’Arc, it’s time," she said.

Harry and Jeanne stood up, exchanging glances. Jeanne briefly placed her hand on Harry’s shoulder, quickly withdrawing it as if burned.

"Don’t mess up there, Potter," she said, but her voice carried support rather than threat.

"Don’t worry," Harry replied with a smile. "We’ll handle it together."

***

"Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes I will invite you to the Quidditch field, where the third and final challenge of the Triwizard Tournament will begin. Now, I ask all participants to follow Mr. Bagman to the stadium."

"How are you, Harry? Ready for the challenge?"

A memory flashed in his mind: the imprint of a dirty dog’s paw on a sheet of parchment. Magical formulas flashed before his eyes, the words of spells echoed in his ears, along with the kind wishes of friends and teachers, Hagrid’s happy face, and Cedric’s friendly smile. Today, everything would go well.

"We’ll patrol from the outside. If anyone gets into trouble and feels they need help, send up red sparks, and we’ll come to your aid immediately. Is that clear?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final challenge of the Triwizard Tournament begins! Allow me to remind you of the current standings. In first place, tied, are Mr. Cedric Diggory, Miss Jeanne d’Arc, and Mr. Harry Potter, all from Hogwarts, each with eighty-five points!"

Cheers and applause woke the birds in the Forbidden Forest, and they rose into the dark night sky with anxious chatter.

"In second place, Mr. Viktor Krum from Durmstrang Institute, with eighty points!" More applause erupted.

"And in third place, Miss Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons Academy!"

Harry spotted Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione in the stands. They politely applauded Fleur. He waved to them, and they excitedly waved back.

"So, Harry, Jeanne, and Cedric, start on my whistle!" Bagman boomed. "Three… two… one…"

He blew the whistle sharply, and Harry and Cedric dashed into the maze.

They parted ways at the first turn. Both had no clear idea of what awaited them ahead. They crossed paths a few more times later. The first time happened when Cedric was fleeing from Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts. After warning Harry about their size and endurance, Cedric ran to the next turn and disappeared. Moments later, Jeanne whizzed past Harry, shouting something in French. Ten seconds later, Fleur raced by with burning hair and threw herself headfirst into the first hedge wall she encountered. Seeing this, Harry merely shrugged. He had learned during Hagrid’s lessons that it was best to avoid Blast-Ended Skrewts altogether. Just in case, he decided to quicken his pace, fearing that the Skrewts might have escaped their designated area.

A Dementor appeared in his path, but as soon as Harry conjured his Patronus, the opponent got tangled in the folds of its cloak. Harry had never seen a cloak hinder a Dementor, so he quickly figured it out and dispelled the Boggart with a spell. For the next ten minutes, Harry ran through dead ends. Turning in the right direction, he stumbled upon a Blast-Ended Skrewt. The creature resembled a three-meter scorpion and tried to shoot at Harry from its nozzle. Harry managed to dodge the line of fire and, on his third attempt, disabled the opponent by hitting its unprotected belly. He wandered and ran through various nooks and crannies of the maze for a long time until the darkness thickened completely around him. It hinted to him that the center was very close.

On a long, straight stretch of the path, there was a rustling again, and the light of his wand illuminated a creature he only knew from a picture in "The Monster Book of Monsters." It was a sphinx with the body of a giant lion, the head of a woman, heavy clawed paws, and a long yellow tail with a brown tuft at the end. As Harry approached the lioness-woman, she turned her mighty head towards him and stared with large almond-shaped eyes. Harry hesitantly raised his wand. But the lioness with the woman’s face didn’t crouch to leap; instead, she paced back and forth across the path, blocking the way.

"You are close to your goal," she said in a low, raspy voice. "The shortest path lies right here."

"Maybe… maybe you’ll let me pass?" Harry asked, guessing what the answer would be.

"Of course not," she replied, not stopping. "Solve my riddle, and I’ll let you pass. Solve it on the first try, and the way is clear. Fail to solve it, and I’ll attack. Say nothing, and you’ll go back the way you came."

Harry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach: solving riddles was Hermione’s forte. He weighed the risk. If he couldn’t solve the riddle, no big deal—he’d stay silent, and the sphinx would let him go, and he’d find another way to the Cup.

"Alright," he said. "Let me hear your riddle."

The lioness-woman settled in the middle of the path and recited this verse:

First think of the person who lives in disguise,

Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies.

Next, tell me what's always the last thing to mend,

The middle of middle and end of the end?

And finally give me the sound often heard,

During the search for a hard-to-find word.

Now string them together and answer me this,

Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?

"Could… could you repeat that, just a bit slower?" Harry politely requested.

The sphinx blinked, smiled enigmatically, and repeated the riddle.

"So, from the hints, it forms a creature that I’d rather die than kiss?" Harry asked.

The sphinx smiled benevolently. Harry took it as an affirmative response and began to think frantically. There were plenty of creatures he wouldn’t kiss even if his life depended on it. For example, a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But the sphinx’s riddle clearly referred to someone else. Perhaps he should start with the clues. What was the first syllable, quick? Fast, speedy… Alright, he could think about that later.

"Uh… could you repeat the next line?"

She repeated it.

"Circles of decisions…" Harry repeated. "Its lawful relation with the diameter… what nonsense. Could I get the last hint again?"

The sphinx repeated it.

"An abstractly named man…" Harry muttered. "Man, man, he… Ah! It’s 'he'!"

The sphinx smiled at him.

"So, the first syllable is fast, meaning speed… okay. Speed… he… Speed… he," Harry repeated, pacing the path. "A creature I wouldn’t want to kiss… Scorpion!"

The sphinx beamed, stood up, and stepped aside.

"Thank you!" Harry exclaimed, amazed at his own cleverness, and dashed forward. He must be near the goal, surely… his wand confirmed it, he was on the right track… If nothing scary happened, he had won…

Just a little further, and he’d reach the goal. One turn, another, a fork… And there it was! Just a little more running, and he’d claim the Cup!

A moment later, Cedric appeared ahead. Some kind of monster was hot on Cedric’s heels, but Harry couldn’t make out what it was.

"Cedric! Turn around!" Harry shouted.

Cedric turned just in time—barely avoiding the monster’s nose, he rounded the corner and evaded a collision! But as if someone tripped him, Cedric stumbled and fell flat on the ground at full speed. His wand flew out of his hand. Immediately, a huge spider emerged from around the corner and advanced toward Cedric.

Harry cast several spells at the spider, but they only irritated the creature rather than harming it.

"Get away!" Jeanne shouted behind his back and fired a spell at the spider.

She slid several meters on her high heels before stopping. At the end of her slide, she lost balance, but Cedric quickly caught her. Three voices cried out a spell in unison, and the spider collapsed to the ground. Harry and Cedric caught their breath for a few more seconds.

Harry, Cedric, and Jeanne stood before the glowing Triwizard Cup, breathing heavily after the fight with the giant spider. The maze around them fell silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation of the finale.

Jeanne, trying to regain her balance after sliding on the grass, irritably brushed off her robe. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and annoyance.

"Blasted heels," she muttered, giving a grateful glance to Cedric, who helped her stay on her feet.

Harry, still holding his wand ready, looked at his competitors.

"How are you, Cedric?" he asked with genuine concern.

Despite his fatigue, Cedric smiled. "I’m fine. And you, Harry?"

"Alive, intact, eagle," Harry replied, trying to lighten the tension.

Cedric turned to Jeanne.

"And you, d’Arc?"

Jeanne snorted, lifting her chin.

"Never better. So what, a spider. I’ve seen worse."

Her gaze darted to the Cup, and all three involuntarily exchanged glances. The air between them seemed electrified.

"So what now?" Jeanne broke the silence, her voice challenging. "Whose Cup? Which of you gentlemen is ready to yield to a lady?"

Cedric, displaying true nobility, turned to Harry.

"Take the Cup, Harry. You won; you’re closest to it. Honestly, you deserve it more than anyone."

Harry shook his head, his green eyes shining with sincerity.

"No, Cedric, you take it. You’ve helped me so many times; I’ll never forget it. Without you, I wouldn’t have made it here."

"No way!" Cedric objected, his face showing determination. "You’re younger than me, but you’ve proven yourself a true champion."

Jeanne rolled her eyes, her patience clearly wearing thin.

"You’re both driving me crazy!" she snapped. "Can we stop playing at chivalry?"

Cedric unexpectedly smirked.

"A lady’s word is law!" he said with a playful bow toward Jeanne.

"What?" Jeanne stared at him, clearly not expecting such a twist.

Harry, looking from Cedric to Jeanne, suddenly beamed.

"I have an idea. Let’s take the Cup together!" he suggested enthusiastically. "This isn’t just my victory, or yours, or hers. It’s a victory for all of Hogwarts. Our shared victory."

Jeanne snorted, but a hint of approval flickered in her eyes.

"Not something I thought I’d say, but... not a bad idea, Potter," she said, trying to suppress a smile.

Cedric nodded, his face lighting up with a broad grin.

"I agree. That would be fair. We all deserve it."

Together, they slowly approached the pedestal where the Cup stood. Its silvery glow reflected in their eyes, filled with a mixture of excitement, pride, and anticipation.

Harry took a deep breath, feeling his heart pounding.

"On the count of three, okay?" he suggested, looking at his companions.

Cedric and Jeanne nodded, their hands hovering a few centimeters above the Cup.

"One!" Harry began, his voice trembling with excitement.

"Two!" Cedric continued, his eyes shining with anticipation.

Jeanne, contrary to her usual demeanor, couldn’t suppress her excitement.

"Three!" she shouted, and their hands simultaneously touched the cold surface of the Cup.

In that instant, the world around them spun. Harry felt the familiar tug of a Portkey; his feet left the ground. His hand, firmly gripping the Cup, wouldn’t let go, as if glued to the metal. The Cup carried them somewhere through the howling wind and a kaleidoscope of colors.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Jeanne and Cedric flying alongside him. Jeanne’s face showed a mix of surprise and wariness, while Cedric looked puzzled and slightly frightened.

"What’s happening?" Cedric shouted through the wind noise.

"It’s a Portkey!" Harry answered, feeling fear rising inside him. "But where is it taking us?"

Jeanne, gritting her teeth, shouted:

"Wherever we’re going, be ready for anything!"

They continued to hurtle through space, holding tightly to the Cup and to each other, not knowing what awaited them at the end of this unexpected journey. The triumph of winning the tournament quickly gave way to anxiety in the face of the unknown [[1]].

Chapter Text

The moonlight seeped through the treetops, casting eerie shadows on the old abandoned cemetery. Harry looked around, trying to comprehend where they had ended up.

"What is this place?" he asked, frowning. His voice was filled with confusion and anxiety.

Cedric, usually very confident, just shook his head, his hair tousled by the wind.

"Did no one warn you that the Cup was a portkey?" he said with a nervous laugh.

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Jeanne d'Arc, the warrior with an icy gaze, cut him off:

"This can't possibly be the next stage of the task. It looks like an ordinary abandoned cemetery," her voice sounded as hard as steel.

Cedric nodded and reached for his wand.

"Better get ready, just in case..."

But Jeanne suddenly noticed movement ahead — a figure approaching them from among the distant graves.

"Look, someone's coming," she warned, drawing her own wand.

At that moment, the scar on Harry's forehead flared with unbearable pain. The wand slipped from his fingers, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his head. Jeanne quickly grabbed the fallen wand and tucked it into her belt.

"Cedric, Harry — quickly behind that bush!" she commanded in a sharp tone that brooked no argument.

They hastily dragged the writhing Harry into hiding and froze, peering into the darkness, wands at the ready. Suddenly, the ringing silence of the cemetery was shattered by a piercing, cold voice:

"What happened?" it rang out threateningly, making Jeanne and Cedric shudder.

"M-my lord... There’s no one here, only a portkey appeared from somewhere!" stammered a timid, trembling voice. "I don’t understand how this could have happened..."

"Find him!" the same chilling voice barked. "I sense the boy is nearby, and he’s not alone! Kill all the extras!"

Cedric whispered, leaning towards Jeanne:

"Seems like they’re not going to treat us kindly. Or maybe it’s just some dumb joke?.."

Jeanne glanced at him askance, her usually impassive face twisted into a bitter smirk.

"And the dragon in the last trial, do you think that was a joke too?" she sneered, and Cedric shuddered, recalling the scorching breath of the scaly beast. "Handlers were watching over it, but did that stop you from getting roasted again?"

Cedric opened his mouth to reply but seemed to reconsider and fell silent, frowning. It was hard to deny the truth in her words. It seemed this time they were about to face a far more serious danger than a fire-breathing dragon.

"I think this definitely isn’t part of the trial anymore," Jeanne muttered through gritted teeth, her face contorted with rage.

Cedric stared at her with wide eyes, refusing to believe.

"What do you mean? Could it be... someone orchestrated all this?"

"And what do you think?" Jeanne snapped with an air of superiority. "Someone clearly played their game, staging this dangerous farce!"

"But... another conspiracy right within Hogwarts walls?" Cedric shook his head, brushing back strands of hair stuck to his forehead. "It’s impossible! And who would dare such a thing?.."

Jeanne gave him a withering look.

"Maybe you’ll finally start thinking? Why do you think Harry and I ended up as participants in this cursed Tournament?"

"But... I thought after Moody-the-Death-Eater’s arrest..."

"Dumbledore warned us!" she interrupted with a growl. "You-Know-Who went all-in, and one of his followers enchanted the Cup on his orders!"

"But... why?" Cedric managed to stammer, shocked.

Jeanne snorted again, looking like someone explaining the obvious to a complete idiot.

"What do you think, why? He wants to return, wake up already!" she jabbed a finger angrily into his chest.

Cedric recoiled, clenching his fists. His face turned to stone, and his eyes swirled with undisguised horror at her words. The thought that Hogwarts, the safest place, could turn into a den of traitors and You-Know-Who’s minions was unbearable. But even more terrifying was the prospect of the Dark Lord’s resurrection. Jeanne cast a questioning glance at Cedric; her eyes shimmered with cold resolve.

"Ready for an unplanned duel?" she grumbled, gripping her wand tighter.

Cedric didn’t answer immediately, but when he spoke, there was no hint of a joke in his voice:

"They made a mistake if they think we’ll give up without a fight. I fought a dragon in this tournament and I’m not afraid of some assassins!"

His face twitched for a moment, as if he fully realized for the first time the forces they were dealing with. But the next instant, Cedric’s eyebrows resolutely furrowed, and a fiery blaze ignited in his eyes.

"Whoever stands behind this... Whatever they’re plotting... I swear on everything sacred to me — I’ll do everything to thwart their plans!" he said through clenched teeth, raising his wand in a battle stance. "Even if it costs me my life!"

A barely noticeable shiver of admiration ran down Jeanne’s spine. There it was — the true Gryffindor spirit, courage so rare in this world.

"Then let’s go," she nodded, stepping out of cover first.

Cedric responded with a decisive nod, a cold warrior’s smile touching his lips. He turned to Harry, still writhing in pain:

"Can you walk, Harry?"

Harry clenched his teeth and nodded, battling another wave of agony searing his scar. Cedric supported him by the elbow, helping him to his feet. At that moment, Harry’s gaze fell on a short figure in a tattered cloak wandering among the tombstones. The person pushed back their hood, looking around... Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He stared at the short figure with eyes wide in horror.

"It’s... Wormtail," he gasped, shuddering all over.

Cedric turned to him with a puzzled look:

"Do you know this person? From where?"

"A long story," Harry replied through gritted teeth, holding back another surge of pain in his scar. He squinted, closing one eye.

Jeanne shot him a scorching glare:

"So who is he, Harry? Spill it!"

Harry took a breath and muttered:

"Peter Pettigrew... Wormtail. He was one of You-Know-Who’s followers."

Cedric shuddered, his eyes widening further.

"But... Didn’t the Prophet write that he was dead?"

A bitter smirk twisted Harry’s face.

"No, it’s a lie! He framed my godfather Sirius to hide that he betrayed my parents to Voldemort! Pettigrew was their Secret-Keeper! And he’s an Animagus who hid for years with the Weasleys, disguised as their rat Scabbers!"

Cedric listened, holding his breath and slightly open-mouthed. It seemed he was starting to understand. Seeing his reaction, Harry continued:

"And last year, Professor Trelawney made a prophecy... That to Voldemort, his servant will return and help him rise again."

Cedric turned as pale as a sheet and clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles whitened. His face turned to stone, becoming a mask of horror and confusion. The cozy, familiar world he lived in had just shattered into pieces. Jeanne frowned, watching Wormtail scurrying around:

"But why is he here? What’s he up to?"

For a moment, her face lost its usual mask of indifference, revealing bewilderment. Harry shook his head:

"I don’t know, but it’s definitely nothing good... Wormtail has always been just a puppet in Voldemort’s hands."

Jeanne averted her gaze, as if pondering something.

"Mr. Crouch, formerly a prisoner of the Dark Lord, mentioned that for his resurrection, he needs the flesh of a servant, the blood of an enemy, and the bone of an ancestor," she finally said coldly. "It seems all the ingredients are here, and he’s just waiting to get your blood, Harry."

Cedric paled and involuntarily squeezed Harry’s hand.

"But why specifically his blood?"

Jeanne shrugged:

"Wanna ask the Dark Lord yourself when we meet him? I only know it’s related to some immunity his mother bestowed on him by sacrificing herself. I don’t know the details."

Cedric nodded, his eyebrows resolutely furrowing.

"It doesn’t matter; he won’t get Harry’s blood," he snapped. Turning to his friend, he shook him by the shoulder: "Harry? Did you hear me?"

But Harry didn’t respond; his gaze was fixed on the part of the cemetery where Wormtail was darting about. Suddenly, that same chilling voice rang out:

"Don’t delay, Wormtail! Begin the preparations. The prey will come to the hunter itself. And if it doesn’t, Nagini will find him."

Cedric shuddered and followed Harry’s gaze. Among the gravestones slithered a huge snake, searching for prey.

Wormtail brought a large stone cauldron and placed it near a statue depicting skeletal Death with a scythe. Beside it, he laid a mysterious bundle, inside which something faintly stirred. Seeing the bundle, Harry and Cedric guessed — it contained a baby, so much did it and its movements resemble a newborn. Wormtail lit a fire under the cauldron. In less than five minutes, the liquid in the cauldron boiled and began spitting crimson sparks upward, as if it had caught fire.

"Hurry!" urged the piercing voice from the bundle.

The boiling surface of the liquid transformed entirely into sparks and sparkled, as if encrusted with diamonds.

"Everything’s ready, master."

"It’s time..." uttered the icy voice.

Wormtail unwrapped the bundle without lifting it from the ground; what he revealed would have torn a piercing scream from Harry’s chest if Cedric hadn’t promptly pressed a hand to his lips. For a moment, it seemed as if Jeanne muttered a curse, but he couldn’t make out what he heard. As if tripping over a stone, Wormtail unearthed it, and underneath was something like a slippery blind worm, no, a million times worse. The creature Wormtail brought to the cemetery resembled a hunched infant. But only in outline; in every other way, it bore no resemblance to a human child. A scaley, hairless body the color of raw meat, weak thin arms and legs, and a face — no child ever had such a face — flattened like a snake’s, with gleaming red slit-like eyes.

The creature seemed almost helpless. It stretched its arms toward Wormtail, hugged his neck, and Wormtail lifted it. At that moment, Harry saw extreme disgust on Wormtail’s pale face. Wormtail raised his burden above the cauldron, and the dancing sparks on the liquid’s surface momentarily illuminated his flat, malevolent face. Wormtail lowered the creature into the cauldron, and it disappeared with a hiss. Harry heard the soft thud of its body hitting the stone bottom of the cauldron. Let it drown, let it drown, pounded in Harry’s head. His scar was tearing apart with unbearable pain... Please... Let it drown... And then Wormtail spoke. His voice trembled, betraying sheer panic. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and with difficulty pronounced:

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, renew thy son!"

The earth near the ominous statue of death split open, and a thin stream of ash fluttered out, diving into the boiling liquid at the wand’s command. The sparkling surface hissed, burst, and scattered to the sides, and the liquid in the cauldron turned poisonously blue. Whimpering in terror, Wormtail pulled a long, thin silver dagger from under his cloak and spoke again, each word accompanied by a hysterical sob:

"Flesh... of the servant... willingly given... revive... thy... master!"

He extended his right hand in front of him, the one missing a finger, firmly gripped the dagger in his left, and swung. At that moment, Jeanne leaned forward, covering Cedric and Harry’s eyes with her hands, but even without seeing what was happening, Harry heard a mad scream that pierced his heart as if Wormtail had stabbed him with the dagger. Something hit the ground with a thud, Wormtail breathed heavily, and immediately a splash of potion caused Harry a wave of dizziness. He couldn’t open his eyes... but even through his eyelids, he saw — the potion turned blood-red...

Wormtail sobbed and whimpered in pain. He looked around helplessly but still spoke again.

"Blood of the enemy... forcibly taken... resurrect... thy... foe!"

Still breathing hoarsely from the pain, Wormtail pulled a glass vial from his pocket and held it to his wound, and the vial quickly filled. Staggering, Wormtail returned to the cauldron and poured the blood into it. Instantly, the liquid turned blindingly white. Having finished preparing the potion, Wormtail collapsed onto his knees and then crumpled to the ground. He lay curled up, cradling his bloody stump and quietly moaning. The cauldron boiled, sparkling sparks flew in all directions, and their blinding brilliance plunged everything into impenetrable darkness. Nothing happened... Let it fail, let there be a mistake, Harry prayed. But the sparks faded, a column of white steam shot up from the cauldron, growing thicker and thicker, and Harry could no longer see Wormtail — the steam engulfed everything.

The potion didn’t work... he drowned... please... please... let him die... Already in the cloud of steam rising from the cauldron, the outlines of a tall, skeletal man began to emerge, and a wave of freezing horror washed over Harry.

"Clothe me," he said in a heart-piercing voice.

Sobbing and clutching his mutilated hand to his chest, Wormtail struggled to his feet, picked up a black cloak with a hood from the ground with his left hand, and draped it over the head and shoulders of his master. The living skeleton stepped out of the cauldron onto the ground, never taking his eyes off Harry. And Harry couldn’t tear his gaze away from the deathly pale face. For three years, those red, malevolent eyes, the blunt snake-like nose, the narrow nostril slits had haunted his nightmares...

Lord Voldemort had returned.

Voldemort first examined his new body, paying no attention to the whimpering Wormtail on the ground or the snake crawling nearby. Next, he defied Wormtail’s expectations. Asking him for a hand, he immediately disappointed his only faithful servant by taking his whole hand. That’s when Harry noticed the Dark Mark tattoo on it. Voldemort touched it with his index finger, completely ignoring Wormtail’s continued lamentations over the loss of his hand.

Voldemort straightened up, his snake-like features twisted into a triumphant smirk. His crimson eyes hungrily scanned the surroundings for the desired prey. But a moment later, elation turned to anger — young Potter, whom he so wanted to kill, was absent.

"You deceived me, Wormtail!" Voldemort loomed menacingly over the cowering figure of Pettigrew. "Harry Potter is not here!"

Pale as death, Wormtail trembled as a mighty hand grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him up. He choked as cold fingers closed around his throat.

"Whose blood did you use to resurrect me, you scoundrel?" Voldemort fixed Wormtail with an unblinking stare.

"My... own," Wormtail managed to choke out, shuddering with terror.

With disdain, Voldemort shoved Pettigrew away and turned. Wormtail whimpered pitifully as he hit the ground. The Dark Lord paced the clearing, restraining the urge to finish off the useless servant. But deep down, he understood — without Wormtail, returning would have been impossible.

"So what went wrong?" Cedric whispered sarcastically, barely audible.

Dark-robed figures of masked wizards began to appear around Voldemort. The Death Eaters had arrived.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," Voldemort said softly. "Thirteen years... thirteen years since our last meeting. Yet you answered my call as if it were yesterday... does the Dark Mark still bind us all? Or not?"

He tilted his terrible face skyward and inhaled sharply. His slit-like nostrils flared.

"I smell guilt," he said. "The air is saturated with it."

Those standing in the circle shuddered again: each seemed to want to take a step back but didn’t dare.

"I see you’re alive and well, your powers haven’t waned — you arrived so quickly! And I ask myself... why didn’t this group of wizards come to aid their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"

No one uttered a word. No one moved, except for Wormtail, who lay on the ground, sobbing and nursing his bleeding stump.

"And I answer," Voldemort continued in a hissing whisper, "they must have believed I was defeated, that I had perished. They returned to the ranks of my enemies and swore their innocence, that they knew nothing, that they were bewitched... And I ask myself: how could they believe I wouldn’t rise again? Those who knew how I protected myself from death? Those who witnessed with their own eyes the proof of my immense power when I was the most powerful of all current wizards? And I answer: perhaps they believed there exists an even mightier force that could destroy even Lord Voldemort... perhaps now they swear allegiance to another... perhaps to this protector of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?"

At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, those standing in the circle stirred, murmurs were heard, some shook their heads. Voldemort paid them no mind.

"I am disappointed... I admit, I am quite disappointed..." One of the Death Eaters suddenly lunged forward and collapsed at Voldemort’s feet. His body shook with tremors.

"Master!" he cried. "Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!"

Voldemort laughed and raised his wand, saying:

"Crucio!"

The Death Eater began to writhe and scream in pain. Harry was sure these screams couldn’t go unheard by the villagers... let the police come, flashed a desperate thought... anyone... anything... Voldemort raised his wand again. The tormented Death Eater stopped convulsing and lay on his back, breathing heavily.

"Stand up, Avery," Voldemort said softly. "Stand up. You begged for forgiveness? I do not forgive. And I forget nothing. Thirteen long years... Thirteen years of loyal service — and then, perhaps, I might consider forgiving you... But Wormtail has already paid part of his debt, hasn’t he, Wormtail?"

He cast a glance at Wormtail, who continued to sob.

"You didn’t return to prove your loyalty. You came back because you feared your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. And you know it, don’t you?"

"Yes, Master," Wormtail groaned. "Please, Master... I beg you..."

Voldemort regarded him with a merciless gaze.

"And yet you helped me regain my body," Voldemort continued coldly, watching Wormtail sob on the ground. "As useless a traitor as you are, you still helped me... and Lord Voldemort rewards those who assist him..."

He paused, surveying the silent Death Eaters.

"But... not this time, Wormtail. Before you receive your reward, you must pay for your mistake. You see, my dear, Wormtail cruelly deceived your lord and resurrected me not with Harry Potter’s blood, but with his own. Doesn’t he deserve to be considered my worst enemy?"

Without waiting for an answer, Voldemort waved his wand:

"Crucio!"

Wormtail howled, his body arching in unbearable torment. Harry, sitting in the bushes, felt a pang of pity for Wormtail, unable to imagine the pain that forced a grown man to scream in such an inhuman voice. Laughter erupted from the Death Eaters around.

For the next few minutes, Voldemort berated the Death Eaters, pacing around them in a circle. Occasionally, he resumed torturing Wormtail, making jokes at his expense that made the Death Eaters nearly split their sides laughing, though with each iteration, the jokes grew increasingly biting. Finally sated with his suffering and pain, seeing Wormtail lying helplessly on the ground, barely breathing with drool trickling from his mouth, making no sound, Voldemort leaned over him.

"Beg for my mercy, Wormtail!"

He continued to lie there with drool dripping from his mouth.

Voldemort looked at Wormtail’s tormented body with contempt, like a cockroach, yet also with a philosophical curiosity. His cold, clear voice cut through the air:

"Your sacrifice, Wormtail, is nothing but the pinnacle of your betrayal. You betrayed not only me, your lord, but also yourself, exposing the consequences of your fear and selfishness. The blood you so carelessly sacrificed symbolizes your final acknowledgment of being my enemy. You chose self-sacrifice not out of loyalty to me, but out of fear of facing the consequences of your past betrayals — to your friends, the Death Eaters, and fate itself."

For a moment, silence hung in the air, as if nature itself held its breath, awaiting what would come next.

"Such a sacrifice, albeit misplaced, reveals the truth about you, Wormtail. In your act of self-destruction lies the admission of your weakness and betrayal, making you more despicable than any enemy."

The surrounding Death Eaters exchanged skeptical and tense glances. Sensing their hesitation, Voldemort turned to them, his eyes glittering coldly, reminding them of his indisputable power over them.

"Remember, my loyal ones, betrayal can take many forms, and each will be punished. Today’s lesson is not just about Wormtail but about each of you who dares to think of betraying my will."

Voldemort raised his wand again and flicked it. A trail resembling a molten strip of silver lingered in the air. Moments later, the formless strip transformed into a shining replica of a human wrist. Glowing in the darkness like the moon, the wrist instantly descended and fused with Wormtail’s bloody stump. After a couple of moments, Wormtail regained consciousness. Breathing heavily, he raised his head and, unbelieving his eyes, stared at the silver wrist so flawlessly joined to his own that it seemed he wore a dazzling glove. He flexed and unflexed the silver fingers, then, trembling, picked up a twig from the ground and crushed it into powder.

"Milord," he whispered. "Master... it’s beautiful... thank you... thank you..."

He crawled through the dirt to Voldemort and kissed the hem of his cloak.

"And may your loyalty remain unwavering, Wormtail," said Voldemort.

"Of course, milord... forever, milord..." Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle. He couldn’t take his eyes off his new hand, and his face glistened with tears. Then Voldemort began recounting to the Death Eaters the reasons for his downfall and his future plans.

"Shall we get out of here while we can?" Cedric suggested.

"But how? The Cup is right next to him..." Harry countered.

Voldemort closed his eyes and deeply inhaled.

"I feel it — Potter is somewhere here!" he said, opening his eyes and giving those around him a look full of blatant hatred and malice. "Find him and bring him to me, you brat!" he ordered. "He will pay for daring to be born..."

"They’ll notice if we lure the Cup with summoning charms," Jeanne noted.

"Then we’ll break through; there’s no other option," Cedric said. "On the count of three, Harry? Alright. One!"

Harry nodded uncertainly.

"We’ll break through, Harry," Jeanne reassured him. "You’ll see."

"It’s easy for you to say; you can take on ten upperclassmen single-handedly."

"Two!" Cedric counted.

Jeanne smiled coquettishly.

"Then you have nothing to fear."

"Three!"

"Stupefy!" Harry shouted, leaping out from behind the gravestone. His spell immediately struck someone’s curious head that had dared approach their hiding spot in search of Harry.

Two other beams hit a couple more Death Eaters. Voldemort remained unfazed.

"Harry!" he feigned delight. "You’ve grown so much these past couple of years... and you even brought friends along. Do you really think you can play games with me, kids? Let’s play. Avada Kedavra!"

The green beam of his spell killed a tree, and Cedric barely managed to duck.

"How are you?" Harry asked.

"Fine. My whole life just flashed before my eyes. Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get out of this; we’ll win. Someone will surely notice our absence and come to our rescue."

"Come out, Harry!" Voldemort taunted. "Don’t be such a coward! Even your dear father was much braver than you! I challenge you to a duel; don’t keep me waiting!"

Harry didn’t even understand how it worked. He jumped out and walked straight toward Voldemort, despite Cedric’s whispered warning, “Don’t do it, Harry!” Personally, Harry didn’t care anymore.

Voldemort slowly stepped forward and faced Harry Potter. He raised his wand:

"Crucio!"

The pain was absolutely unbearable; it felt as if his bones were melting and his head was about to explode; his eyes wildly rolled in their sockets, and Harry wished only for the torture to end... to escape... to die... And suddenly, it all stopped. He lay exhausted before Voldemort amidst the Death Eaters, while behind the monuments hid his two friends, with whom he had journeyed through the Triwizard Tournament. In front of him, like in a fog, burned blood-red eyes. The laughter of the Death Eaters deafened him.

Perhaps for a fraction of a second, a thought of escape flickered in Harry’s mind, but the Death Eaters tightened the circle around Harry and Voldemort so that there was no empty space left.

"Were you taught how to duel, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asked softly. His red eyes burned in the darkness. From somewhere in the past, Harry vaguely recalled attending the Dueling Club at Hogwarts for a very short time... all he had learned there was the disarming spell, "Expelliarmus"... and what good would that do, even if he managed to disarm Voldemort? Surrounded by Death Eaters, at least thirty of them... He couldn’t imagine what could possibly help him now. He knew that soon the inevitable would happen — the unstoppable Avada Kedavra curse that Moody had warned him about so many times... Voldemort was right — his mother wasn’t here to die for him again... He had no protection...

"We must bow to each other, Harry," Voldemort said, slightly inclining his head. His face, however, remained directed at Harry. "Come on, propriety must be observed... Dumbledore would be pleased to see your good manners... bow to death, Harry..."

The Death Eaters burst into laughter. Voldemort’s lipless mouth stretched into a smile. Harry stood upright. He wouldn’t let Voldemort toy with him like a cat with a mouse... He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction before dying...

"I said, bow," Voldemort repeated and raised his wand. Harry felt his spine bend as if someone was forcefully pressing him to the ground. The Death Eaters burst into laughter again.

"Very good," Voldemort said softly, and raised his wand again. (The pressure on Harry’s back eased, and he was able to straighten up) "Now stand before me like a man... proudly upright, like your father did... Now — the duel begins."

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could react, he was struck again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense that it seemed to block out the entire world; he couldn’t even understand where he was... white-hot knives pierced every inch of his skin, his head was ready to explode from the pain; he screamed louder than ever before... And suddenly, it all stopped. Harry rolled onto his stomach and struggled to his feet with great effort. He couldn’t stop the trembling that shook his body, just as Wormtail couldn’t after cutting off his hand. He tried to take a step and, staggering, crashed into the ring of Death Eaters. They laughed and pushed him back toward Voldemort.

"A little breather," Voldemort said. The slits of his nostrils flared with excitement. "A little pause... Painful, isn’t it, Harry? You don’t want me to do it again, do you?"

Harry remained silent. In those merciless red eyes, he clearly read his fate — he would die like many others before him... Like all those caught off guard by the unexpected visit of a dark wizard. He would die, and there was nothing to be done about it... But he wouldn’t dance to Voldemort’s tune. He wouldn’t submit to him... he wouldn’t beg for mercy...

"I asked you, do you want me to do it again?" Voldemort said. "Answer! Imperio!"

For the third time in his life, Harry felt all thoughts, every single one, drain from his mind... ah, what bliss it was — not to think... it felt as if warm waves were carrying him away, as if he were peacefully dozing... Just say "no"... say "no"... just say "no"...

"I won’t," a resolute voice sounded in his head. "I won’t."

"Just say 'no'..."

"I won’t, I told you..."

"Just say 'no'..."

"I won’t!"

These words tore from Harry’s mouth, and their echo spread across the entire cemetery. The pleasant state of semi-dreaminess vanished instantly, and the sensation of pain returned to his body after the Cruciatus Curse. Harry again understood where he was and what awaited him...

"You won’t?" Voldemort softly repeated. "You won’t say 'no'? Harry, before you die, I must teach you to obey your elders... maybe another small dose of pain will help?"

Voldemort raised his wand again, but this time Harry was ready; long Quidditch training paid off — he immediately dropped to the ground, quickly rolled over, and found himself behind the marble monument on Voldemort’s father’s grave. The spell hit the monument, and the slab cracked.

"We’re not playing hide-and-seek here, Harry," Voldemort’s quiet, cold voice sounded very close. Another burst of laughter erupted from the Death Eaters. "You can’t hide from me. Maybe you’re tired of our duel? Maybe you want me to finish it now, Harry? Then come out, Harry... come out and play... it will be quick... and maybe not even painful... I don’t know... I’ve never died..."

Harry crouched behind the gravestone and thought that it was the end for him. There was no hope... no help to expect... Behind the nearest bush, he saw Jeanne’s eyes. Voldemort’s footsteps grew closer, and Harry felt that fear was gone. He wouldn’t die curled up like a child playing hide-and-seek; he wouldn’t die on his knees at Voldemort’s feet... he would die proudly upright, like his father, and try to defend himself, even if it was impossible...

Not waiting for Voldemort to poke his snake-like face out from behind the monument, Harry stood up, firmly grasped his wand, held it in front of him, and rushed toward Voldemort.

Voldemort was ready for this, and at the exact moment Harry shouted: "Expelliarmus!", Voldemort’s cry rang out: "Avada Kedavra!" A green beam shot from Voldemort’s wand, and a red one from Harry’s. They met in the air, halfway, and Harry felt his wand vibrate in his hands as if an electric current was passing through it. His hands were glued to the wand, and he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. The narrow beam connecting both wands was neither red nor green but piercingly golden. Harry, astonished, followed the beam with his eyes and saw that Voldemort’s wand was also vibrating and shaking in his long, pale fingers.

And then something happened that Harry completely didn’t expect — his legs lifted off the ground. Both he and Voldemort rose into the air, and the ends of their wands remained connected by a shining golden thread. They flew away from Voldemort’s father’s grave and landed on a clearing where there were no graves. The Death Eaters ran after them, shouting, asking their master what to do. Then the Death Eaters surrounded them again, some reaching for their wands, the snake slithering beneath their feet.

The golden light beam connecting Harry and Voldemort unexpectedly split into numerous thin glowing rays. Their wands remained connected, and the golden threads wove a shining dome of light around Harry and Voldemort. Soon the duelists found themselves as if in a cage of light, and outside the cage walls prowled the Death Eaters like jackals, their cries seemingly coming from afar...

"Do nothing!" Voldemort shouted to his followers, and Harry saw his red eyes widen in surprise. Voldemort clearly didn’t understand what was happening and was now trying with all his might to break the golden thread connecting the magic wands. Harry gripped his wand even tighter, and the thread remained intact.

"Do nothing without my command!" Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters.

At that moment, a beautiful, unearthly melody floated through the air... it was emitted by each of the golden web threads vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. Harry recognized these sounds, despite having heard them only once before... it was the phoenix’s song...

For Harry, this was the sound of hope... the most beautiful and desirable thing he had ever heard in his life... he felt that these sounds weren’t just floating in the air near him, they resonated within him... this melody was connected to Dumbledore, and for a moment, it seemed as if a friend whispered something in his ear...

Don’t let the connection break.

I know, Harry responded to the music. I know I shouldn’t allow this... but as soon as he thought this, maintaining the connection became much harder. His wand vibrated strongly... now it wasn’t a beam anymore, now it was like huge beads of light sliding along the golden thread. Harry saw that the beads were moving from Voldemort toward him and immediately felt his wand angrily jerk in his hands. The closer the nearest bead approached, the hotter his wand became. The wood in his palm heated up so much that Harry thought — the wand was about to ignite. The bead moved even closer, and the wand violently shook. If the bead got any closer, the wand clearly wouldn’t withstand it; it was already about to shatter into pieces...

Harry focused all his thoughts on forcing the beads to move in the opposite direction — from him to Voldemort. His enraged eyes were fixed on the beads, the phoenix’s song echoed in his ears — and little by little, the beads slowed down, stopped, and then started flowing backward... Now Voldemort’s wand vibrated so much that it was about to fall apart. Voldemort himself looked shocked and almost frightened...

The first bead now quivered a couple of inches from the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Harry didn’t understand why he was doing this, didn’t know what he hoped to achieve... but now he concentrated on pushing this bead of light back into Voldemort’s wand. Slowly... very slowly... a little further along the golden thread... the bead quivered and flowed into the wand.

Immediately, cries of pain erupted from Voldemort’s wand... then Voldemort’s eyes widened in horror as a hand made of thick smoke emerged from his wand and disappeared... the ghost of the hand gifted to Wormtail reappeared, followed by more cries of pain... then something large, much larger than a hand, a grey mass of thick, dense smoke emerged... a head... chest and arms... the torso of the unknown Muggle he had seen in his dream that summer. The old man Harry had once seen in a dream emerged from the wand... his ghost or shadow — it didn’t matter what it was — fell to the ground. He straightened up, leaning on his cane, looked around at Harry, Voldemort, and the golden web.

"So he really is a wizard?" the old man said, looking at Voldemort. "This guy killed me... show him, boy..."

Another head emerged from the wand... this one, resembling a statue molded from thick smoke, was female... Harry’s hands trembled desperately as he tried to keep his wand steady. The ghost fell to the ground, got up, and looked at the unfolding battle before him. The shadow of Bertha Jorkins stared at Harry, her eyes widened, and she shouted:

"Don’t let go under any circumstances! Don’t let him reach you! Don’t let go, hold on!"

She and the other three grey figures now moved in a circle inside the golden web, while the Death Eaters ran outside... the victims of Voldemort whispered encouraging words to Harry and hissed something at their murderer. Another head emerged from Voldemort’s wand, and Harry immediately knew who it was... he felt certain of it from the moment he saw the ghost of that Muggle... certain because this was the woman he had remembered most often that night... The smoky shadow of a young woman with long hair fell to the ground, stood up, and looked at him... Harry, whose hands were mercilessly trembling, gazed at the ghostly face of his mother.

"Father will be here soon..." she said softly. "He wants to see you... everything will be alright... hold on..."

And he appeared... first his head, then his body... from Voldemort’s wand emerged the tall shadow of James Potter with messy hair, just like Harry’s. Voldemort turned deathly pale with fear as his victims circled around him. His father approached Harry, looked at him, and spoke in the same distant voice as the others, but softly, so Voldemort wouldn’t hear:

"When the connection breaks, we’ll linger for a moment... we’ll give you some time... you need to reach the portal; it will take you back to Hogwarts... If anything, rely on your friends; they’ll save you and never abandon you. Understand, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry breathed, struggling with the wand that was slipping in his hands and could break free at any moment.

His face contorted with strain — he was now barely holding the wand in his hands.

"Do it now," his father whispered. "Get ready to run. Go, forward..."

"Forward!" Harry shouted.

In any case, he could no longer hold the wand. He pulled it up sharply, and the golden thread broke. The luminous dome disappeared, and the phoenix's song faded into the air. But the ghostly figures of Voldemort’s victims did not disappear. They tightened the ring around Voldemort, hiding Harry from his sight. And Harry ran as he had never run in his life. He knocked down two stunned Death Eaters and began to zigzag like a hare between the monuments. Curses flew after him, but Harry dodged them, only hearing the crack of tombstones. He was running towards the Cup, beside himself. All his being was focused on what he had to do...

"Stun him!" came Voldemort's cry.

Harry dived behind a marble angel, about ten feet from the Cup, and saw only streaks of red light. The angel's wing broke off with a crack. Gripping his wand tightly, he jumped out of his hiding place and roared:

"Impedimenta!" Harry waved his wand at the pursuing Death Eaters. A muffled cry was heard, and Harry realized he had stopped at least one of them.

There was no time to look back. He jumped over the Cup and threw himself to the ground again to dodge the spells directed at him. Harry reached out his hand and prepared to grab the Cup.

"Get away! I will kill him! He is mine!" Voldemort shouted.

"Stupefy!" Cedric cried desperately. A red beam shot out of his wand, but Voldemort deftly dodged it, laughing menacingly.

"Diffindo!" Jeanne's sharp command sounded like the trills of a war horn. The branches of the old cemetery elm split and collapsed on Voldemort, burying him underneath.

"Filthy little yellow-eyed creature!" came a muffled curse from under the pile of branches. The sleeve of a black robe fluttered, throwing off debris. "You still have a chance to choose life, girl! Surrender, and I will spare you!"

"Expelliarmus!" Cedric disarmed one of the Death Eaters trying to attack from behind.

"No way," Jeanne spat with disgust. "Your threats won't scare me!"

A tall figure in black robes burst out from under the pile with force, terrifyingly pale and seemingly devoid of flesh. Voldemort was free again.

"Then die!" he screamed in a mad voice.

"Tarantallegra!" Harry skillfully took the initiative, and the nearest Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, suddenly started dancing uncontrollably, as if driven mad. There would be something to talk about with his son at school later.

Cedric acted almost on instinct, driven by the determination to protect Harry and the others at any cost. Still, deep inside, he was tormented by doubts and fear.

He simply couldn’t believe that all this was really happening. Just recently, his main concerns were OWL scores and the upcoming Quidditch match. Now Cedric found himself face-to-face with Voldemort—the dark wizard whose name people were even afraid to utter aloud.

Cedric’s gaze momentarily fixed on the mutilated visage of the Dark Lord, and a primal chill ran down his spine. This monster bore only a distant resemblance to a human. Cedric had refused to believe the rumors of Voldemort’s possible return until now, considering them wild tales. But seeing him in person, he suddenly realized the terrible truth—evil, which had become almost legendary, had taken on flesh and blood.

Cedric’s hand instinctively tightened around his wand, his fingers whitening from the tension. Blood pounded in his temples, echoing in his ears with the thunderous beats of his heart. Cedric fully understood that they had little chance against this nightmare. But he also knew that he would never allow harm to come to Harry or anyone else present. Too many had laid down their lives fighting this evil in the past for him to simply give up. Honor, courage, self-sacrifice—these were always valued in Gryffindor, and Cedric intended to carry these ideals through any trials to the end, even though he ended up in Hufflepuff.

In an instant, Jeanne was next to Voldemort, blocking his path. Her tiny figure looked minuscule compared to the tall figure of the Dark Lord in black robes.

"And what will you do to me?" she challenged boldly, looking him straight in the face.

Voldemort raised his wand, but Jeanne had already leapt aside with incredible speed. Harry couldn’t even imagine how such a thing was possible—her movements seemed lighter and faster than the air itself. The green beam harmlessly whistled past.

"Who are you, you little wretch?!" Voldemort hissed with open fury.

Jeanne landed on one knee and straightened up, her face remaining completely calm and impassive.

"Just a bothersome girl thirsty for vengeance," she said coldly.

The next moment, Harry had to blink, not believing his eyes. Jeanne suddenly… grew taller, and her body was clad in black armor with silver patterns! What he feared most in his nightmares had come true before his very eyes.

Jeanne soared into the air and rushed toward the nearest Death Eater. Her blade flashed, and the enemy fell to the ground with a cry of agony. Several green flashes lit up the night cemetery—Death Eaters and Voldemort himself showered her with deadly curses. But Jeanne parried them with wide sword swings, continuing to attack fiercely.

Her movements resembled a deadly dance—she soared into the air, spun like a windmill, and landed on the ground with astonishing ease. A whirlwind of blows, dazzlingly fast evasions, deadly accuracy—Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. He never imagined that humans could move like that. And there she was, landing on the old ruined statue of Death with a scythe, gazing down at Voldemort, her amber eyes blazing with insane fury.

"Want to run from me? Go ahead!" he shouted, throwing spells in all directions. "Avada Kedavra!"

Voldemort furiously rained deadly curses on Jeanne, his face distorted with rage contorted into a mask of madness:

"Want to run from me, you wretch?! Go ahead, run!" he screamed, waving his wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

But Jeanne seemed to slip into another dimension. She skillfully ducked, dodged, and leapt over each emerald beam, moving with truly inhuman grace. Her body traced intricate arcs and pirouettes in the air; she somersaulted and performed dizzying flips, avoiding yet another deadly curse. Her movements resembled the frightening dance of a wild untamed cat on the hunt. Jeanne clearly saw her target and moved closer and closer to Voldemort through this chaos of fire and smoke.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry shouted, aiming at one of the Death Eaters.

"Bombarda!" the latter bellowed in response.

The explosive wave picked up Harry and forcefully threw him aside. His head rang, everything swam... Consciousness slowly returned to him, and the first thing he saw was Cedric's worried face leaning over him.

"How are you, Harry? Alive?" Cedric helped him sit up, keeping a concerned eye on him.

Harry nodded, trying to clear his mind. Nearby, the cries of spells and the clanging of crossed blades continued. With difficulty, Harry focused his gaze and looked around to check if he was alright. He moved his hands and felt his face—it seemed he had escaped serious injury.

"I'm fine," he nodded to Cedric.

Cedric shifted his worried gaze to the ongoing fight between Jeanne and Voldemort. The Dark Lord was practically dancing on the cemetery, jumping high into the air and dodging her blade. With each failed attempt to reach Jeanne, his face twisted further with rage.

"Do you see what’s going on here?" Cedric asked, looking at Harry again. "Do you understand what’s happening?"

Harry frowned thoughtfully, not taking his eyes off this dangerous dance.

"He’s playing with death," he replied evenly.

Cedric didn’t ask again—he seemed to have guessed what Harry meant. A loud cry from Voldemort echoed:

"What do you think of this?!"

He pointed his wand at the ground, and the entire cemetery shook. Gravestones, statues, crypts—all around came to life, swaying and shaking in a wild dance of destruction. Even many Death Eaters shrank in horror; some hastily retreated, while others used the opportunity to apparate. Only the most loyal followers remained standing next to their master. Jeanne fearlessly hovered above this chaos, skillfully maneuvering between flying debris. Voldemort shook the earth more violently, furiously trying to either strike or at least frighten this insignificant girl who dared to challenge him. Voldemort literally raged amidst this destruction, showering fleeing Death Eaters with curses and insults:

"Wretched cowards! Useless worms!" he yelled, generously hitting them with spells in the back. "Take that to your grave, traitor!"

True chaos reigned in the cemetery. Cedric glanced at Harry and shouted over the roar of collapsing gravestones:

"We need to get out of here before everything collapses!" He grabbed Harry's arm, attempting to pull him along.

But Harry pulled away from his grip:

"Wait! We can’t leave Jeanne alone against Voldemort! He’ll kill her!" he exclaimed in horror.

Cedric scanned the raging battle and the cemetery turning into a pile of ruins. His face darkened.

"Do you have a plan? I’m listening! What’s your plan?"

Harry hesitated, recalling the vision of his phantom parents during the third task.

"I... don’t know," he replied dully, lowering his head.

Right behind them, a huge gravestone collapsed with a deafening crash, showering them with dirt and stones. Cedric grabbed Harry by the shoulders and shook him, forcing him to look at him.

"Listen, if we die here, all her efforts will be in vain!" His voice sounded desperate. "We need to leave while we still have a chance! Such an opportunity might not come again!"

At that moment, Jeanne made a dizzying leap, vaulting over several monuments at once, and landed right in front of Voldemort, raising her glowing sword over him.

"Crucio!" he shouted and missed.

At the very moment when Voldemort raised his wand, aiming for a new deadly blow, his twisted lips uttered: Crucio! But the curse, like a poisonous green lightning bolt, missed and soared upward, painting the sky in ghostly hues. For a fraction of a second, all sounds seemed to vanish, frozen in deathly silence. Harry felt all his senses sharpen to the extreme, and suddenly noticed a tiny dot falling from somewhere high—a bird.

He frowned in confusion, not believing his eyes, but it seemed no one else noticed this strange detail. However, Harry felt a chill run down his neck, and his insides froze with mortal anxiety—as if he suddenly sensed the approach of something truly monstrous, terrifying. It wasn’t the first time death had stared him in the face, but this was a new, previously unknown fear. And it seemed Cedric felt something too. His gaze glazed over, his face sank, as if he foresaw the ominous approach of danger.

The silence was broken by an ear-splitting whistle and hum. Looking up, Voldemort saw an out-of-control airliner streak across the sky. Blinking its lights, the passenger plane soared above them at such a height that Harry could see every rivet on its fuselage, every movement of its engine rotors. Everyone ducked their heads in fear that the plane would immediately crash on them, but everything turned out fine. Its giant silhouette eclipsed the moon for a couple of seconds and disappeared into the distance as quickly as it appeared. A few moments passed, and somewhere far away, a bang was heard, followed by a blinding flare, and then—a bloody cloud of smoke. Of all the spectators of this scene, only Voldemort rejoiced. A snake-like smirk spread across his crooked face.

Something inside Harry seemed to snap. He watched, mesmerized, at the distant glow of the burning plane, unable to tear his gaze away. Of the two boys, only Cedric managed to overcome himself.

Cedric anxiously turned to Harry, who was staring into the distance with a crazed look, his face distorted with a grimace of horror and despair.

"Harry, are you okay?" Cedric slightly shook him by the shoulders, trying to bring him to his senses.

"He... He just shot down a plane," Harry gasped in a trembling voice. "Did you see? Voldemort shot down a civilian airliner! There were hundreds of people on board!"

"Harry, calm down!" Cedric firmly gripped his shoulders. "If you don’t pull yourself together right now, we might join those unfortunate souls! Remember what we’ve been through—all those Tournament trials! We just need to get back to a safe place. Pull yourself together, Harry!"

Harry mechanically nodded, his gaze regaining clarity.

"Yes... I’m fine. It’s just... I never imagined Voldemort could be so cruel and merciless."

"Oh, Harry!" Cedric bitterly smiled. "Believe me, you have no idea what he’s truly capable of!"

He looked around for the Tournament Cup, which was supposed to be their Portkey to safety.

"Where is that damn Cup? It must be around here somewhere!"

Meanwhile, Jeanne skillfully took advantage of Voldemort’s momentary confusion and tried to attack him from behind. But the Dark Lord swiftly turned and raised his wand:

"Legilimens!" his voice boomed, and Jeanne froze in place, trembling from the invisible impact.

In an instant, reality around Jeanne seemed to freeze. She was surrounded by flames, burning her body with unbearable pain. Jeanne saw herself on a pyre, surrounded by fire. Her last breaths, her final heartbeat, filled with suffering and pain-filled screams tore from her. Her last moments of life... but was this really her life?

A moment—and she saw herself leading an assault. Around her were many great and powerful warriors, vested with authority and power, people devoted to their cause and belief in a bright future. Above her head flew a white-gold banner, beneath her feet pranced a faithful noble steed, her body protected by shining steel armor, and in her hands gleamed a sword. With this sword, she pointed where to advance. Unknown voices filled her head, prompting—go there, bypass the English, split their ranks from both flanks, let them doubt their commander and retreat back to England!

Jeanne turned her gaze to her faithful friend and comrade Gilles de Rais... and shuddered in horror—instead of his face, she saw the grotesque mask of Voldemort! Everywhere she looked, she was surrounded by these serpentine features, hundreds of mad eyes of the Dark Lord... Jeanne tried to break free from this nightmare, but silence pressed in from all sides, enveloping her in darkness. She was left alone in this faceless vacuum, without support. Suddenly, the ominous voice of Voldemort shattered the silent void, penetrating deep into Jeanne’s soul:

"Oh, noble peasant, the Maid of Orléans! Almost Her Majesty d’Arc, whose fate is to remain merely a war hero and meet a martyr’s end on the stake for the crowned dauphin she betrayed. Just imagine the heights you could have reached..."

Visions flashed before Jeanne again—she saw a lavish throne room where hundreds of warriors led by Gilles de Rais knelt, swearing allegiance to her.

"Imagine the heights you could reach!" Voldemort continued to tempt her. "Great France under the dominion of the very emissary of higher powers... Even now, your contribution to human history cannot be overstated. And yet... you are nothing! You fight for emptiness, for nothing!"

Jeanne felt a chill run down her spine. Voldemort somehow penetrated her mind, confusing reality with hallucinations. But a self-satisfied smirk reappeared on her face, as if... it was part of her plan?

"Give me Harry Potter, and I will spare you, pitiful peasant from Domrémy," his hissing voice sounded.

Jeanne stubbornly remained silent. She closed her eyes and did not see new visions from the past that Voldemort tried to extract from her head.

"Give me Harry Potter," Voldemort’s voice purred, trying to manipulate and seduce. "Let me kill this blood traitor and restore lawful order... Then we shall rule the new perfect world together! I will give you a new army, which you will lead into the decisive battle and conquer all earthly kingdoms! All this will be yours, just give me the boy!"

Suddenly, the images in Jeanne’s head changed—she saw herself again on a warhorse, leading countless hordes of steel-clad warriors into an attack. Jeanne shook her head, dispelling the illusion, dismounted, and resolutely pushed off the ground. Her sword described a deadly arc.

Jeanne opened her eyes and focused her gaze ahead—the tip of her sword protruded from Voldemort’s chest. His face reflected sheer terror, replaced by a grimace of such wild rage that her heart momentarily stopped.

But Jeanne had already made her decision.

"Never," she said with cold determination in her voice. "I will never give you Harry Potter."

She opened her eyes. Her sword stuck out of Voldemort’s chest, whose face immediately expressed the strongest fear and utmost degree of malevolence.

At that moment, the ground around them seemed to rebel. Tombstones shook, and from cracks in the soil billowed clouds of acrid smoke. The smell of sulfur stung their nostrils—the very underworld seemed to spew forth its depths in tongues of burning lava. Jeanne stood unwavering amidst this apocalyptic chaos, her scarlet eyes flashing lightning. Her gaze fixed on the writhing Voldemort.

"This is the soul filled with hatred..." Jeanne began, piercing Voldemort’s face with a gaze that could easily drain the last remnants of his life force.

Regaining control, Voldemort waved his wand and disappeared, leaving behind only a small puddle of blood.

Jeanne cast a hateful glance at the surviving Death Eaters nearby. In a second, they all vanished into thin air, as if they had never been. Snorting contemptuously, Jeanne shouted:

"Cursed cowards!"

After the fierce battle at the old cemetery, a ringing silence settled.

She knelt, removed her helmet, and raised her face to the moonlight, taking a deep breath and closing her large almond-shaped eyes framed by fluffy lashes. Her snow-white face with delicate features, encircled by a lush hairstyle of finest silver locks tousled by the light night breeze, acquired in that moment a peace and serenity as if in a dream, appearing especially beautiful. For the first time in her life, Jeanne felt genuine peace, enjoying the beauty of the night after the hell she had endured.

A couple of minutes later, in a whirl of colors and wind, Cedric, Jeanne, and Harry were carried away from here... returning home...

Chapter Text

Harry came to on the Quidditch field. His scar was throbbing with excruciating pain. The silence exploded into sounds, and all around there were conversations and shouts, music playing. Someone touched his hand and turned him onto his back. Opening his eyes, he saw the full disk of the Moon in the night sky. Here, no one yet knew about the catastrophe that had occurred except for him, Jeanne, and Cedric. At the thought of them, Harry sat up and looked around. It was Cedric who was squatting next to him, peering into his face.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Alright," Harry replied.

But inside, he was thinking about how afraid he was to fall asleep tonight, though sleep was nowhere near him. His nerves were still stretched to the limit, and his brain processed information so quickly that he felt ready to confront the Death Eaters again at any moment. But they were nowhere nearby, and Harry's heart calmed down.

Jeanne was sitting nearby. Right now, her appearance didn't show any sign of her ability to strike Voldemort in the chest with a sword without fear or hesitation, to rush into battle and slay enemies one after another. All the more terrifying it was for him now to realize her true essence.

They were quickly surrounded by a crowd. Dumbledore led the way, followed by teachers, Aurors, and ordinary spectators.

"You look quite a sight," someone from the crowd remarked, looking at Harry’s face.

Indeed, although Harry couldn’t see himself, he could confidently say about Jeanne and Cedric — they looked as if they had been on that ill-fated flight.

"What happened, kids?" Dumbledore asked.

"He’s back…" Harry mumbled. "Voldemort is back!"

"What happened? What’s going on?"

From above, Harry saw the pale face of Fudge.

"Tell me, son, is it true?"

Amos Diggory appeared in the crowd — his face now seemed extraordinarily stern and strict, something Harry could never have imagined.

"He speaks the pure truth, Minister of Magic," Cedric stood up and addressed Fudge. "The Cup turned out to be a Portkey; it transported us to some cemetery."

"So that’s where you were for the last half hour!" Professor McGonagall gasped. "But who could have done this? We checked the entire area; no one could have penetrated the maze."

"I didn’t detect anything either," Moody noted. "Whoever did this must possess an exceptional talent for stealth. Or maybe it was the last rat, but we can’t possibly exterminate all the rodents in the vicinity."

Harry was struck by a sudden realization.

"Wormtail…" he muttered. "That’s who did it. But how did he get to the cemetery so fast?"

"What are you talking about, young man?" Amos Diggory asked. "I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean."

"There was a man on the cemetery who helped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named return," Cedric tried to explain. "He’s a secret Animagus and turns into a rat. I saw it myself." He lied smoothly at the end.

"That’s it! I’ve been duped by some Animagus!" Moody cursed. "We need to think about improving this thing," he looked at Dumbledore and pointed to his magical eye. "Crime has really gotten out of hand. And if every criminal becomes an Animagus? We always need to be prepared!"

"They’re not well… they need to be taken to the hospital wing…" Fudge stammered.

"How are you, Harry? Can you walk?" Hagrid asked, pushing through the crowd.

"Fine, Hagrid."

"Then let’s go."

Harry was glad to leave behind the commotion and get away from all the noise and crowd. On the way, they were accompanied by Snape and McGonagall.

"So what really happened there?" the professor asked.

"The Cup transported us to the cemetery," Harry began, barely finding the words. "Voldemort was there… brewed a potion. Restored his body."

"Is that so?" Snape asked. "And what did he use for this potion?"

"He took something from my father and Wormtail."

"And what did he take from Wormtail?"

"Flesh and blood."

Snape’s lips twisted into a strange semblance of a smile.

"I suppose the Dark Lord wasn’t pleased with his initiative. It would be more interesting to know what you three were doing at the time."

"We hid among the monuments and watched," Cedric answered.

"They wanted to kill us," Jeanne firmly responded, her gaze sharp. "Especially him," she nodded towards Harry. "How predictable."

Snape merely sneered dismissively.

"Were there Death Eaters?" Snape asked.

"Of course," Jeanne replied sarcastically. "Their master returned, as expected."

"There were… many," Harry added.

"We then fought them," Cedric said. "And Jeanne struck the Dark Lord himself… I wish I had such bravery."

"What?" Jeanne flared up.

Her cheeks instantly flushed crimson, and her lips trembled.

"And Harry dueled the Dark Lord himself!" she retorted.

"And who won?" Snape inquired.

Harry wasn’t surprised by his question, as Snape was one of the two professors who taught him dueling skills in his second year, albeit briefly.

"The Dark Lord didn’t feed Harry to his snake," Jeanne answered.

Snape merely nodded approvingly.

"But something strange happened. Our wands connected…" Harry began. "I saw many people killed by Voldemort. It’s so strange… don’t you think?"

"And Lily?" Snape’s voice changed, barely noticeable quivering when saying the name. "Did you see your parents?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed.

For a moment, looking at Snape, he saw something glisten in the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it was just his imagination?

In the hospital wing, they were greeted by a large black dog. A little later, Dumbledore arrived. Then the dog transformed back into Sirius Black.

"Sirius Black!" Cedric exclaimed. "So it’s true?"

"Looks like Harry already told you about Peter Pettigrew?" Sirius asked.

Cedric nodded.

"If only there was some other way to prove your innocence besides just words!" Cedric said.

"A year ago, we tried to do just that. Me, Harry, and Remus. Unfortunately, our plans didn’t come to fruition, and Wormtail escaped to his master."

"Remus? You mean Professor Lupin?"

Sirius nodded. Cedric thought for a second, then shook his head in confusion.

"It’s a pity I wasn’t with you."

"You’re a good guy, Cedric," Sirius smiled at him. "Guys like you give me hope that Harry found very good and kind friends during the Tournament."

"And Jeanne," Cedric interjected in her defense.

"Oh, Jeanne — that’s a separate conversation," Sirius said thoughtfully. "There’s much to say about her, but wouldn’t it be better to let her tell us everything herself?"

She became seriously puzzled and embarrassed upon hearing those words.

"What’s there to tell…"

"We all know you’re not an ordinary person. Long ago, I read about people with abilities like yours. It was a book of very ancient legends and tales."

"What did it say, Sirius?" Harry asked in amazement.

"They are called servants of the Holy Grail," Dumbledore answered from the doorway. With him came Moody, Ron, Hermione, Molly, and Bill Weasley.

At Dumbledore’s words, Harry felt a chill run through him. Jeanne lowered her gaze and began studying her right hand.

"Is it true?" Ron asked, his eyes wide as if he’d won the lottery. "Does the Holy Grail exist?"

"Yes," she coldly replied. "It exists."

"So you’re the reflection of all the myths and legends about the real Jeanne d'Arc, who lived several centuries ago?" Hermione’s admiration knew no bounds.

"I bear her name, but I’m not her!" Jeanne snapped.

At these words, her face contorted as if struck by the Cruciatus Curse, and she covered her face with her hand.

"But how is that possible?" Ron wondered. "Could there really be two Jeannes d'Arc?"

"Ron, you’re forgetting about Joan de Armoise…" Hermione began but stopped, seeing Jeanne’s disapproving glance.

"I’m not de Armoise, I’m d’Arc!" she exploded and immediately calmed down. "Once, the Holy Grail fell into the hands of Gilles de Rais. He knew little and remembered even less, and his memory began to fail him, while Gilles himself turned into a disgusting cross-eyed toad," her face twisted in disgust. "What he didn’t know, he filled with his own fantasies — because he wanted to create the ideal! — according to his own standards, of course," she rolled her eyes. "And the Holy Grail created me."

At these words, Ron whistled.

"So with this thing, you can even create Servants?" Ron marveled.

"Anything! Any desire, any whim of yours."

"So you’re…" Hermione began.

"Dragon Witch Jeanne d’Arc Alter, created exactly as Gilles de Rais wanted to see me!"

"So that’s what you were doing during the first task of the Tournament!" Ron exclaimed. "You were trying to talk to the dragon!"

Jeanne nodded affirmatively.

"My whole life, my face, everything in my life — a distorted reflection of the real Joan of Arc! I’ll never be able to reach her greatness and talents! I’ll never become a hero, and I’ll always seek revenge for betrayal."

"Not true," Harry countered. "You’re much more talented and study better than most Hogwarts students."

"You’re braver than many who once opposed the Dark Lord," Cedric noted. "It was an honor to stand with you against him and the Death Eaters tonight."

"I don’t know what’s in you, but you’re a completely fearless girl who just went through the Triwizard Tournament and survived an encounter with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Ron said. "In my opinion, after that, nothing else matters much."

"No one is born or dies just like that, no matter who they are," Dumbledore said. "You’re the embodiment of bitterness and sorrow of your faithful friend, who loved and cherished you dearly. Even if you didn’t turn out the way he knew, even if you served purposes another Joan wouldn’t approve of, you’re missing one thing. Every day, every hour, every minute of your life, you can change yourself. Anyone can completely transform their life if they wish. You can achieve anything if you put in enough effort. All your dreams, even the most secret ones, will definitely come true."

"Really?" Jeanne blushed and almost cried. "I don’t understand… What did you find in me? Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because someone severely underestimates themselves," Hermione smiled.

"But I…" Jeanne was utterly confused, not knowing how to respond. "I don’t lead loyal friends to victory under my banner…"

"Why don’t you become that banner yourself?" Ron asked.

She gave him a hopeful look.

"Will you tell us what really happened today?" Hermione inquired.

Before Harry’s eyes, the scenes of the events he had experienced replayed.

"I want to repeat once more," Dumbledore said when the kids finished their story. "You showed wonders of courage today. I didn’t expect this from you. You displayed bravery akin to those who died fighting Voldemort at the height of his power. You bore the burden of adult wizards and proved worthy of carrying it. And now you’ve given everything we could have hoped for from you. I don’t want you returning to your dormitories tonight. Sleeping potion and rest… Sirius, would you like to stay with them?"

Instead of answering, he transformed into a dog and settled beside Harry’s bed.

"One last question," Hermione spoke up. "I don’t understand, but what is a servant of the Holy Grail doing at Hogwarts? And where is your master, Jeanne?"

"I was sent here to prevent a catastrophe. In three years, in June 1998, Voldemort will seize the Holy Grail. My mission is to protect the Holy Grail."

"And what will happen?" Ron asked.

"Oh, Ron, as if you don’t guess," Hermione replied. "Nothing good."

"I wanted to hear it from her," Ron began to justify himself, but Hermione had already nudged him toward the door.

A little later, Madam Pomfrey arrived from her office with a bottle of purple potion and a goblet in her hands.

"You must drink it all, Harry," she declared. "This potion will make you sleep without dreams. This also applies to you, young people," she addressed Cedric and Jeanne.

Harry took the goblet, took a few sips, and immediately felt his eyes closing. Everything around seemed to be shrouded in mist, the lamps blinked friendly at him through the curtain, and his body seemed to sink into the soft warmth of the mattress. No sooner had he emptied the goblet than he fell asleep.

***

"What do you think about all this, Albus?" Fudge asked Dumbledore. "Do you believe them?"

"I think our Tournament winners first and foremost need a good night’s sleep and rest. All discussions can wait until later."

Catching Fudge’s pleading look, Dumbledore replied:

"I have no reason not to believe them. If you lack their testimonies, consult the Muggles. They also noticed many interesting things that night."

"What exactly did they notice, Albus?" Fudge was horrified. "What could those three have done…"

"They didn’t do anything," Dumbledore replied. "The Dark Lord did."

"But…"

"You have time until morning, Fudge. By morning, the Muggle newspapers will be out with the latest news, which you won’t like."

***

The next morning, Harry learned how difficult the night had been for the Minister of Magic. He had to overcome himself to acknowledge Voldemort’s return. But did Fudge actually do it? The morning edition of the Daily Prophet informed him. That same issue reported on the crash of the passenger airliner, triggered by a powerful Cruciatus Curse:

On that fateful day, a passenger Airbus A320 with 236 passengers on board was shot down by a powerful spell. It was sent from the ground, though its source remains unknown. The only thing known for sure is that the spell was an incredibly powerful Cruciatus Curse.

According to eyewitnesses, the spell was cast by an unknown number of strong and skilled wizards or witches. It was sent from the ground and seemed to represent a massive surge of magical energy visible to everyone nearby. Witnesses reported seeing a bright light emanating from the ground, which was likely the spell itself.

The passenger airliner, at the moment of the incident flying over the area where the spell was cast, was struck by powerful magic. It immediately began to descend and eventually crashed into a nearby urban area, bursting into flames. Emergency services were immediately called to the scene, and rescue operations began to assist those on board.

Many theories circulate about why and by whom the spell was cast, but it was revealed that the magical energy surge was most likely the result of a battle between powerful wizards or witches. We lack reliable information on this matter.

As a result of the disaster, passengers and crew tragically died or were injured. This event shocked both the magical and Muggle communities, leading to heightened anxiety and fear regarding air travel. Authorities launched a full investigation into the matter to gather more information and hold the guilty accountable.

In conclusion, the crash of the passenger airliner with two hundred people on board was a devastating incident resulting in significant loss of life. The use of magical spells capable of causing such destruction underscores the danger of magical forces and the importance of responsible magical behavior. It is crucial to identify the source of the spell and hold the guilty accountable to prevent similar incidents in the future.

Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge refused to comment on the incident, calling the plane crash an unfortunate mistake that marked a crisis of secrecy and placed the entire magical community in jeopardy. He refrained from confirming or denying the probable return of the world-famous Dark Wizard. This incident calls into question the competence of the Minister of Magic. Some high-ranking wizards have already issued a vote of no confidence against the minister and initiated their own attempts to investigate the incident.

"A Cruciatus Curse that powerful can even kill," Ron suggested.

"That’s exactly what happened," Harry concluded.

He looked at Jeanne and tried to imagine what would have happened to her had the curse hit its target.

At the farewell feast, exactly one person was missing. Karkaroff secretly fled on the night of the third task.

***

Saying goodbye to the guests was sad and heavy. The farewells were so difficult that even Ron, who had recently been jealous of Hermione, asked Krum for an autograph. Krum was surprised but happily signed a piece of parchment for Ron.

Fleur Delacour said goodbye to Harry, promising to return someday, find a job, and improve her English.

The final farewell took place on the train with Cedric, with whom Harry and Jeanne had already divided the winnings into thirds.

"Harry, it was an amazing adventure!" Cedric exclaimed.

"What will you do now?" Harry hesitantly asked.

"Become an Auror," Cedric replied without hesitation. "Hard times are coming; we must be ready to face the Dark Lord and his followers. What did you think you’d do after finishing Hogwarts?"

"I also wanted to become an Auror," Harry smiled.

"And what will you do when you complete your mission?" Cedric asked Jeanne.

"Go home," she answered.

"Where is your home?"

She didn’t reply.

"Rita hasn’t written a word since the third task," Hermione said in a strangely tense voice. "To be honest," she added, her voice trembling, "Rita Skeeter won’t be writing anything for a while. Unless she wants me to reveal her secret."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

"I found out how she managed to eavesdrop on conversations even though she shouldn’t have been on school grounds," Hermione blurted out.

Harry was sure — she had been dying to tell them this for days but restrained herself because of everything that had happened.

"And how does she do it?" Harry immediately asked.

"And how did you find out?" Ron stared at her.

"Well, to be honest, you gave me the idea, Harry," Hermione replied.

"Me?" Harry was surprised. "When?"

"Beetles," Hermione announced joyfully.

"But you said they don’t work…"

"Electronic bugs," Hermione confirmed. "You don’t understand… Rita Skeeter —" Hermione announced with barely concealed triumph, "is an unregistered Animagus. She can transform into…" Hermione pulled a tightly sealed glass jar from her bag, "a beetle!"

"You’re joking!" Ron exclaimed. "You’re not… it’s not her…"

"It is her," Hermione nodded with a smile, proudly showing them the jar.

Inside lay twigs and leaves, among which sat a large beetle.

"I can’t believe it… You’re joking…" Ron whispered, bringing the jar closer to his eyes.

"I’m not joking," Hermione continued, beaming. "I caught her on the windowsill in the hospital ward. Look closely, and you’ll see the markings around the antennae match her hideous glasses exactly."

Harry looked closely and realized she was right. He also remembered something.

"When we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mother at night, there was a beetle on the statue!"

"Exactly!" Hermione confirmed. "And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair when we were talking by the lake. And if I’m not mistaken, Rita was sitting on the windowsill in the Divination classroom the day your scar hurt. She flew around the school all year gathering gossip."

Hermione took the jar from Ron and smiled at the beetle, which buzzed angrily, bumping its head against the glass.

"I told her I’d release her when we got back to London," Hermione continued. "You see, I cast an Unbreakable Charm on the jar, so she can’t transform back into a human. And I ordered her to keep her quill to herself for a year. Let’s see if she can kick the habit of writing filthy lies about everyone."

Smiling calmly, Hermione put the jar with the beetle back in her bag.

No sooner had a minute passed when Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle burst into the compartment. They were clearly in high spirits about Voldemort’s return. Malfoy flaunted his belonging to the elite that would rule the world after Voldemort’s victory and was so unreserved in his expressions that he didn’t notice several wands aimed at him. Spells shot out, and the bothersome Slytherins collapsed on the floor, struck down by Ron, Harry, Hermione, Jeanne, and the Weasley twins.

"That’s something he doesn’t know yet — how his daddy danced at the cemetery," Jeanne coldly remarked.

"Or how you politely greeted his boss," Harry smirked.

"Yeah, imagine if he saw Voldemort’s face at that moment," Jeanne snickered. "There was absolutely nothing poetic in his eyes then, just plain prose."

***

Curiosity gnawed at Harry throughout the journey. Finally, after playing five rounds of Exploding Snap with his friends, he decided to ask the question.

"So, will you tell us who you were blackmailing?" Harry asked George.

"A," George replied gloomily. "It’s…"

"Never mind," Fred impatiently shook his head. "It doesn’t matter. At least, not anymore."

"We dropped it," George shrugged.

But Harry, Ron, Jeanne, and Hermione pressed them with questions, and finally, Fred said:

"Alright, alright, if you really want to know… it was Ludo Bagman."

"Bagman?" Harry tensed. "Are you saying he was involved with…"

"No," George said grimly. "Nothing like that. He’s a fool. He doesn’t have the brains."

"Then what?" Ron asked.

Fred hesitated before answering:

"Do you remember the bet we made with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About Ireland winning, but Krum catching the Snitch?"

"Mm-hmm," Harry and Ron murmured.

"Well, he paid us with leprechaun gold he picked up at the stadium."

"And?"

"Well," Fred impatiently replied, "the gold disappeared! Vanished by the next morning!"

"But… it was an accident, right?" Hermione said.

George laughed bitterly:

"Yeah, we thought so at first. We decided to write to him, explain what happened, and he’d return the money. Not a chance! He simply didn’t reply to the letter. We tried a hundred times to talk to him at Hogwarts, but he constantly avoided us under some pretext."

"And then," Fred added, "he decided to show his teeth. Said we were too young for gambling and that he wasn’t giving us anything."

"So we asked for our money back," George angrily added.

"But he didn’t refuse you!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Exactly, he refused," Fred replied.

"But that was all your savings!" Ron protested.

"Don’t remind us!" George said. "Eventually, we found out what happened. Lee Jordan’s father also had a hard time squeezing money out of Bagman. It turned out he had big problems with the goblins. He borrowed a lot of gold from them. The goblins cornered him in the forest after the final match and took everything he had, but it still wasn’t enough to cover his debts. They kept an eye on him even at Hogwarts. He lost all his money gambling, down to the last Knut. And can you imagine how he planned to pay the goblins back?"

"How?" Harry asked.

"He bet on you, buddy," Fred replied. "A huge sum on you winning the tournament. He made a deal with the goblins."

"So that’s why he kept trying to help me!" Harry exclaimed. "Well… I did win, didn’t I? So he should have returned your money!"

"Not at all," George shook his head.

"The goblins are as much cheats as he is. They claimed you three — you, Jeanne, and Cedric — won together, but Bagman bet on you alone. In the end, Bagman had to flee. He disappeared right after the third task."

***

Uncle Vernon waited for him beyond the barrier. Next to him stood Mrs. Weasley. She hugged Harry tightly and whispered in his ear:

"I think Dumbledore will let you visit us later in the summer. Write, Harry."

"See you, Harry," Ron patted him on the back.

"Bye, Harry!" Hermione said and did something she had never done before: she kissed him on the cheek.

"You’re a great guy, Harry!" Cedric praised him one last time.

"Until we meet again," Jeanne gave a cold smile, passing Uncle Vernon with an appraising look.

"Harry… thank you," George mumbled, while Fred stood silently nodding. Harry winked at the twins, turned to Uncle Vernon, and followed him out of the station. No need to worry for now," he told himself, settling into the back seat of Uncle Vernon’s car.

As Hagrid said, what will be, will be… and he would have to face what inevitably comes.

Chapter Text

Silence reigned in the room, so dense it seemed almost tangible. Dust motes lazily danced in the sparse rays of light filtering through dusty windows. In a chair by the window, back turned to the door, sat an unnaturally still figure. Was it Lord Voldemort? Or merely his shell, an empty form left behind after something terrible? It was impossible to say for sure.

The body in the chair appeared frozen, not a single movement or breath detectable. Only the faint flicker of firelight played across the pale skin of the head, which was turned toward the broken window. A fresh, crimson scar—ominous and striking—contrasted sharply with the deathly pallor of the rest of the skin. Was it a mark from yesterday’s battle, or some posthumous seal?

The door creaked softly, and a shadow slipped into the room. Wormtail moved on tiptoes as if treading across a minefield, each step a silent prayer not to awaken a sleeping beast—or disturb a corpse. He froze at the threshold, peering at the unmoving back. Was he alive? Or was it all over? Hope and fear wrestled in Wormtail’s eyes, but neither could overpower the icy silence that hung thick in the room.

Wormtail slowly began to sidle along the wall, trying not to take his eyes off the figure in the chair. He stopped a few steps away, too afraid to approach closer. He squinted, attempting to detect even the smallest sign of life. A twitch of the fingers? A breath? Anything… but the chair stubbornly guarded its secret. Only the flickering flames cast dancing shadows on something dark and damp that had soaked into the fabric near the scar on the chest. Blood? Or just a trick of light and shadow?

Wormtail stood frozen, his breathing ragged, his throat dry. "Come on, Wormtail, pull yourself together," he mentally chided himself, though his legs trembled traitorously. Swallowing thick saliva, he dared to break the silence.

"My… Lord?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, like the flutter of a butterfly's wing. The silence grew heavier, crackling with tension like the air before a storm. Wormtail held his breath, staring at the motionless back. Was he asleep? Or worse?

He took another hesitant step forward. His heart pounded in his throat, echoing loudly in his ears.

"My Lord… it’s… me," he tried again, slightly louder but still cautious. His words sounded pitiful and uncertain, dissolving into the ominous silence of the room. No movement, no sound. Like a statue. Or… a mummy? A chill ran down Wormtail's spine.

Helplessly, he glanced back at the door, seeking an escape. But there was nowhere to run. He knew that. He turned his gaze back to the chair. Maybe he should get closer? Check... but what if... he met the icy glare of those burning red eyes? Or... emptiness?

Summoning his courage, Wormtail took a few more steps until he was almost right next to the chair. The smell of smoke from the fireplace, the dust... and something else. A faint metallic scent. Blood? Wormtail froze, afraid to peer over the back of the chair. Fear gripped him, paralyzing his limbs.

"My Lord..." he whispered again, his voice trembling. "I... I bring... news."

Silence. Only the soft crackling of logs in the fireplace disturbed the dead quiet. Wormtail felt cold sweat trickle down his back. He didn't know what to do. Run? Scream? Or just stand there until the still figure in the chair suddenly came to life—or turned out to be something far more terrifying than he could imagine.

Desperation—it was desperation that pushed him to take the next step. Not bravery, no, but the paralyzing fear of the unknown that propelled him forward, like a condemned man walking to his execution. Wormtail slowly extended a trembling hand. Where? To the robe? To the shoulder? He didn’t know. His fingers hovered an inch from the dark fabric, afraid to touch, afraid to disturb this ominous calm.

"Master..." he breathed, his voice now slightly firmer but still strained. "I... have news. Important news."

Silence answered him, thick and impenetrable, like a shroud. Wormtail closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. This was madness. Standing here, pleading with a stone block. But what choice did he have?

Gathering the last remnants of his courage, he finally touched the robe. The fabric was cold and still, as if covering nothingness. Wormtail instinctively pulled his hand back, as if burned. His heart raced, threatening to burst from his chest.

"My Lord!" he said louder, desperation creeping into his voice. "Please, answer me! I... I wouldn’t dare disturb you, but..."

Suddenly, a thin wisp of smoke curled up from the fireplace, twisting into intricate spirals. The shadow on the wall shifted slightly. Wormtail froze, holding his breath. He thought he saw... no, surely imagined it. Just a play of light and shadow.

"My Lord?" he repeated, almost in a whisper, hope timidly flickering in his soul. Maybe... maybe he was lost in deep thought?

At that exact moment, the head in the chair slowly turned.

The head turned very slowly, like a rusted mechanism that had lain buried in damp earth for years. And when the face came into Wormtail’s view, he nearly recoiled.

Paleness. An unhealthy, deathly pallor, like moonlight frozen on skin. Thin lips pressed tightly together in a line, above them a mere hint of a sneer. But the eyes... That was what truly terrified. Red, like molten iron, they looked through Wormtail as if seeing only a transparent shell, unworthy of attention. There was no warmth, no life—only cold, bottomless malice. And intelligence. A predatory, calculating mind weaving new webs of hatred.

The scar. The crimson mark from a sword slicing across the chest was now partially visible through the open robe. It pulsed faintly, a reminder of recent defeat, of the girl's audacity. But in Voldemort’s gaze, there wasn’t a trace of weakness. Only concentrated, dangerous hatred, like the venom of a rare snake.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a voice. Cold, like the edge of a knife.

"What are you mumbling there, Wormtail? Praying? Just in case?"

"My Lord!" Wormtail stammered, crawling closer. "I... I bring..."

"Bring? What can you possibly bring, Wormtail? Besides your pitiful cowardice? Or have you come to delight me with news of how much of a failure I am, allowing some girl to..."

He faltered, as if the memory itself caused physical pain.

"My Lord, no!" Wormtail groveled. "I... I meant to say... after your return... you need time to recover your strength..."

Voldemort slowly rose from the chair, his movements sharp and jerky, nothing like his former confident grace. He resembled a marionette with tangled strings, ready to collapse at any moment. His gaze flickered with something mad, feverish, as if voices were arguing inside his head. There was something possessed about him—an unpredictable danger lurking beneath a facade of calm, and a man who had lost touch with reality—a gaping void within, spawning strange, frightening actions.

"Self-criticism, Wormtail," Voldemort muttered, his voice skipping like a stone on water, sometimes breaking into a hiss, other times rising to an unnaturally cheerful falsetto. "You can’t even imagine the pleasure of admitting one’s stupidity... especially when that stupidity is dressed in Gryffindor robes."

He let out a short, hysterical chuckle, more like a death rattle. He approached Wormtail in jerky hops, as if pulled by invisible ropes. Stopping close, he tilted his head like a mad scientist examining a lab rat. Up close, his face looked exhausted, like someone who hadn’t slept for days, and his red eyes glimmered with the unhealthy excitement of a maniac.

"You know, Wormtail," Voldemort continued, his voice suddenly syrupy sweet, sending a shiver down Wormtail’s spine. "I saw her thoughts. The girl’s. And you know what? She... almost understood me. Can you imagine? She saw logic in my actions. She simply... chose the other side. Foolish, foolish girl."

His voice carried less malice than a kind of painful disappointment, as if betrayed by someone close. But then his face twisted in rage.

"But she will pay, Wormtail! She will pay! I’ll rip her heart out and feed it to the basilisk! I..."

He faltered, as if forgetting what he wanted to say, and suddenly burst into laughter, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. His laughter was loud and insane, like that of a psychiatric patient.

"But first, self-criticism, Wormtail! Let’s laugh! This is a circus, not life! The greatest dark wizard... defeated by a schoolgirl! Ha-ha-ha!"

He grabbed Wormtail by the shoulders and shook him like a rag doll, his eyes burning with an unhealthy fire. In that moment, he resembled a mad king from an old tale. But it was precisely this madness that made him even more dangerous. Behind the chaos of his behavior lurked cold logic and an insatiable thirst for revenge. And Wormtail knew that this manic episode could shift at any moment into a murderous rage.

Wormtail attempted to force a smile, his lips trembling, his eyes darting around frantically, searching for any hint that his efforts were appreciated. It was a pathetic, crooked grimace, more like a death spasm than genuine amusement.

Voldemort observed this spectacle with narrowed eyes, his face remaining as impassive as a mask. It seemed he was assessing the level of humiliation his servant endured, savoring every detail.

"Come on, Wormtail, try harder," he purred, sadistic notes creeping into his voice. "Don’t be so limp. Put your soul into it. Show me how sincerely delighted you are by my disgrace. Imagine I slipped on a banana peel right in front of the Minister. Funny, isn’t it?"

He laughed again, but this time the laughter sounded more menacing, tinged with real madness. Wormtail felt cold sweat running down his back. He tried to laugh in response, but only a strangled wheeze escaped his throat.

"Come on, Wormtail!" Voldemort hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Together! It’s teamwork. We must laugh at my failure... and forget it forever."

His voice suddenly turned threatening, steel creeping into it. Wormtail realized the game had gone too far. He forced himself to emit a few nervous sounds, trying to mimic laughter, but it came out unnatural and pitiful.

"There you go," Voldemort whispered, his face darkening abruptly. "That’s exactly what we’ll do. Forget."

He released Wormtail and stepped back, his movements becoming smooth and dangerous again. The smile completely vanished from his face, leaving only a cold, impenetrable expression.

"We will forget her forever, Wormtail," he said slowly, as if squeezing out each word. "When I turn her to dust. When not even a memory of her remains."

Suddenly, his hand shot up, his wand seemingly growing from his fingers. Wormtail instinctively cringed, covering his head with his hands.

"I bring... I bring... news... my lord!" he cried desperately, trying to divert Voldemort’s attention.

But Voldemort wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes burned with cold, merciless fire.

"We will forget her screams," Voldemort whispered, his voice almost tender. "Forget her pleas. Forget her name."

He made a short flick with his wand.

"Crucio!"

A scream of pain tore through the silence, filling the room with despair and terror. Voldemort stood over the writhing Wormtail, his face showing only cold satisfaction. After savoring his suffering, he lowered his wand sharply. The smile returned to his face, but now it was eerie and lifeless.

"There, that’s better, Wormtail," he purred. "Now we’re both smiling. Aren’t we?"

He turned away from Wormtail as if he were something unpleasant and walked back to the window, gazing at the night sky where dawn was beginning to break.

Voldemort didn’t even glance at Wormtail. He simply turned and approached the broken window, staring at the pre-dawn sky. All Wormtail could do was stare at his back—motionless and haughty, like the back of a stone statue. What was going on in his head, Wormtail could only guess. Probably plotting world domination or some other grandiose nonsense. The important thing was that he currently had no interest in the pitiful Wormtail lying on the floor.

"We will forget her," Voldemort murmured, as if reading an inscription on the wall. His voice—devoid of emotion, like wind in a pipe. "When I turn her to dust. Into nothing. Into a ghost afraid of her own shadow."

"My lord..." Wormtail croaked, clinging to words like a last chance. The pain was subsiding, leaving only sticky fear. The main thing now was to make him listen.

Voldemort acted as if he didn’t hear. He stood by the window like a statue, ignoring Wormtail as if he were dirt on the sole of his shoe. Wormtail knew this tactic. When his master found someone uninteresting, he simply stopped noticing them. And that was worse than any "Crucio."

Voldemort stood frozen by the window like a mannequin, completely shutting out Wormtail’s feeble attempts to attract attention. Clearly, something else was brewing in that head of his—some intricate villainous plans, as usual. Each minute dragged on like torture until there was a knock at the door. Knock-knock. Simple and without frills. Voldemort didn’t even flinch. As if he hadn’t heard. Only after a couple of seconds, without turning, he threw over his shoulder:

"Wormtail, open it. Don’t be so inhospitable."

Wormtail, nearly choking on relief, crawled to the door like a worm. The door opened, and Snape appeared on the threshold. He looked at Wormtail with such disgust, as if he were a dead rat on his favorite carpet.

"May I?" Snape quietly asked, addressing the motionless figure by the window.

"Ah, it’s you, Severus," Voldemort responded, not moving a muscle. His voice—steady, like the horizon line. "Go ahead."

Snape entered, disdainfully stepping over the sprawled Wormtail on the floor, and stopped at a safe distance from the Dark Lord.

"Well, Severus, what brings you here?" Voldemort finally turned to Snape, his lips stretching into an unpleasant smile.

"My Lord, I have information," Snape maintained his dignity, as if standing not before a psychotic killer but at a royal reception. "Information that will help us finish Potter once and for all."

Voldemort spun sharply, like on hinges, and his gaze—two glowing nails—bored into Snape. Snape didn’t flinch; his face remained as impassive as the walls of Azkaban. Not a single muscle betrayed his inner state.

"Potter?" Voldemort hissed, venom dripping from his voice. "I couldn’t care less about Potter falling from a tall tower. After yesterday’s concert, there are more interesting things. The girl. D’Arc. That’s what’s on the agenda now."

"Jeanne d'Arc," Snape drawled, savoring each letter. "Just a Hogwarts student. A Gryffindor. Smart, but with discipline issues. School rules mean nothing to her. Somehow, this upstart ended up on the champions' list."

"Don't feed me this nonsense, Severus," Voldemort's voice was as cold as ice. "In her head, I saw something far more interesting than your tales. There’s an entire movie playing in there, Severus. France, the Middle Ages, the trial of this very Jeanne whom the people considered a heroine, voices in her head, battles, the stake."

"My Lord," Snape's voice oozed with oily smoothness, "of course, I can’t delve into the mind of every sniveling Gryffindor, but I dare say this girl simply has an overactive imagination. Sometimes her scribblings are so absurd that my ears wilt during class. And the pictures in her notebooks... Well, my Lord, strapping young men in armor and without..." Snape grimaced in disgust. "Not for the faint of heart, that sight."

Voldemort paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe Severus or not.

"Seriously?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of skeptical curiosity.

Then he abruptly turned, his cloak billowing like the wing of a wounded bird. His gaze shot daggers.

"Well then, out with it, Severus. What else do we know about this cursed girl? Where did she come from? Where does she live? What does she breathe?"

"From what we’ve managed to dig up," Snape spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather, "last summer this girl arrived in England from France, straight into the fourth year. My people tried to track her down, but after King’s Cross station, her trail went cold. No one knows where she is now."

"What do you mean, ‘no one knows’?" Voldemort leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Is she a ghost, to just vanish like that?"

Voldemort turned crimson with rage, clenching his fists.

"Find her," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Find that damn girl and bring her to me. Alive. I’ll deal with her myself."

"But, my Lord," Snape’s voice, as always, remained inscrutable, "what about Potter?"

"Potter?" Voldemort smirked, though his eyes stayed cold. "We’ll give Potter a surprise. Let him first see the head of this upstart. Let him taste, so to speak, the flavor of victory. Before he follows her."

Chapter Text

The summer of 1995 turned out to be unusually scorching and stifling, as if nature itself was holding its breath in anticipation of something terrible. Harry was suffering from boredom and sticky heat, constantly searching for any clues or hints about Voldemort's return in the Muggle news. And he wasn't doing it in vain: the Muggle world was shaken by reports of a crashed Airbus. The aviation disaster that occurred at the end of June didn’t just agitate the public—it caused a real hysteria.

Debates and investigations continued for a whole month without subsiding. Airports were in complete chaos: frightened passengers were canceling tickets, demanding increased security measures, and blaming everything and everyone for what had happened. Television and newspapers only added fuel to the fire, proposing the most incredible versions of the event. Governments of other countries expressed condolences and demanded a thorough investigation, while some even closed their airspace to flights over the crash zone, fearing either a terrorist attack or an unknown virus.

When fragments of the crew’s conversations, extracted from the black boxes, were broadcast on all channels, the public finally lost its mind. In this horrifying recording, cut down to just a few seconds, one could hear only the desperate cries of the pilots who noticed a bright red flash striking from the ground. According to the announcer, even seasoned investigators who had to decipher the recording felt their blood run cold from these screams full of horror and despair. Not only the pilots were screaming—everyone was: the crew, the passengers, men, women, children. This inhuman scream, abruptly cut off, sowed seeds of misunderstanding and fear in society. Forensic experts threw up their hands: no traces of poisoning, no signs of struggle—all those who perished were perfectly healthy at the time of the catastrophe. What made them scream? What unknown force snuffed out the lives of hundreds of people in an instant?

Theories multiplied like mushrooms after the rain. Conspiracy theorists of all kinds started talking about secret weapons, government conspiracies, aliens, and the end of the world. Each new day brought a fresh batch of rumors and speculations, and the truth about the tragedy drowned in this murky stream of guesses and speculation. Only Harry knew that behind all this chaos stood something far more terrible than any theory. Something he had seen with his own eyes at the Little Hangleton cemetery.

Knowing about the events in the magical world and the disaster, Harry could only imagine the nightmare currently unfolding at the Ministry of Magic and the pressure Fudge was under. He didn’t subscribe to the "Prophet," and his friends, at Dumbledore’s request, didn’t mention it in their letters. But worst of all, there wasn’t a single word from Jeanne. Cedric at least occasionally replied to letters, albeit briefly, in a couple of sentences, but Jeanne… She seemed to have vanished. This silence tormented Harry. With each passing day, his anxiety grew stronger, turning into a sticky, suffocating fear. He tried to drive away the bad thoughts, but they kept coming back again and again, like persistent flies. Where was she? What had happened to her? Could it be that she… No, he didn’t want to think about it.

Harry wrote to her again and again, but Hedwig and his friends’ owls returned empty-handed every time. It seemed as if Jeanne had fallen through the cracks of the earth. Nobody knew where she was or what had happened to her. This uncertainty was worse than any truth, even the most terrible one. In Harry’s imagination, the most horrific scenarios unfolded: Jeanne was in trouble, she was injured, she… He couldn’t even allow himself to think that she might be gone. This uncertainty felt like torture, slowly draining him of all strength. He would have given anything just to know that she was alright.

What brought him joy in life was the fact that just a month ago, shoulder to shoulder with his loyal friends, he had faced Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and Jeanne, with a single sword strike, dealt the Dark Lord a crushing defeat. They had emerged alive and well from the most unbelievable predicament imaginable. Against the backdrop of such a happy memory, all troubles seemed insignificant. The world appeared in bright colors, and even that fateful graveyard didn’t haunt his nightmares. Whatever it cost, they would prevail. Harry cherished this beautiful thought deep in the recesses of his heart. Thinking about it, he felt as though he soared above the surrounding world, firmly convincing himself of his readiness to face the most terrifying battle, even certain death, if it meant standing against Voldemort once again. No matter how many followers Voldemort recruited, no matter how many terrible creatures he summoned to aid him, nothing would shatter Harry’s confidence in his imminent and inevitable defeat.

Even Dudley’s exceptional nastiness, which in recent months had verged on outright hooliganism, barely scared Harry. It didn’t frighten him partly because Dudley personally rarely picked on him anymore. Instead, together with his gang of thug friends, he hurled stones at passing cars, children, and adults, calling it fun. To his parents, Dudley shamelessly lied, telling stories about dinner at some friend’s house, while in reality, he bullied little kids and old people—basically anyone who couldn’t fight back against a group of aggressive thugs.

That evening, Harry heard a very familiar popping sound in the yard. Someone had Apparated right in the middle of Privet Drive right in front of his nose. Without attracting the attention of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, Harry cautiously got off the flower bed where he had been lying, eavesdropping on the news, and headed towards the nearby park. No point in sitting at home, he thought, if something interesting was happening nearby. He intended to find out who and why had come to Privet Drive that evening, already anticipating some unexpected revelation.

In the park, he sat on the vacant swings and waited, not knowing what for. Various thoughts swirled in his head. What was Voldemort doing now? Surely, he was extremely angry after his recent defeat, so one could expect any kind of nastiness from him. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the Dark Lord himself showed up on Privet Drive or right here, in this deserted park. But, most likely—and this was typical of him—Voldemort was now devising plans known only to him on how to get rid of Harry and Dumbledore, who had become thorns in his side. Perhaps he was planning to seize control of the Ministry of Magic, where he had plenty of supporters to secretly spread his influence over the upper echelons of magical Britain. All Harry could do was hope that right now, within the Ministry, a fierce battle was unfolding between Dumbledore’s supporters and Voldemort’s, in which the latter would undoubtedly lose.

He was brought back to reality from the depths of his thoughts by someone’s voices. Raising his gaze, Harry saw Dudley and his gang walking through the park, very pleased about something. A year of strict dieting and intense training had turned Dudley into a huge brute, and recently he had won his first trophy as the champion of his age group in boxing. All the kids trembled before him. Expecting an inevitable attack, Harry merely noted how they walked past, engrossed in their own conversation, without even noticing him.

Remembering that he absolutely needed to get home no later than Dudley, and preferably even a second earlier—to avoid getting slapped by Uncle Vernon for being late—Harry yawned and followed them. 

When Dudley parted ways with his friends, Harry inconspicuously caught up with him and called out using the nickname his friends had given him.

"Hey, Big D!" he called, trying to make his voice sound as friendly as possible. Though, what friendliness could there be when it came to Dudley, whom Harry considered no better than a troll.

Dudley spun around abruptly, almost losing his balance in surprise.

"What do you want?" he muttered, eyeing Harry from head to toe as if he were some strange exhibit.

"Since when have they started calling you that?" Harry attempted a carefree smile, but it probably didn’t come out well.

"None of your damn business," snapped Dudley, turning away.

"Alright, alright, don’t get worked up," Harry said conciliatorily. "How are you?"

Dudley stopped, staring at Harry as if he were a frog speaking human language. That was probably how Dudley would look if he encountered a mountain troll from Hogwarts.

"Why are you chattering away?" he asked suspiciously. "Did you fall off a tree?"

"No, I just decided to chat," Harry shrugged. "You’re my cousin, after all. We should talk like normal people sometime."

Dudley frowned, his brain clearly struggling to process this information. Heavy thoughts were obviously stirring in his tiny head.

"And what?" he drawled distrustfully, still not understanding what was going on.

"Maybe something happened with you?" Harry decided to approach it from another angle, although he himself wasn’t entirely sure why he needed this.

For a moment, the image of the graveyard flashed before Harry’s eyes—the green flash, the screams, and then the triumphant face of Jeanne, who had dealt Voldemort a crushing defeat…

"Yeah, something happened," Harry unexpectedly blurted out. "Something you wouldn’t dream of in your worst nightmares."

Dudley eyed him doubtfully, then looked around as if fearing an ambush or that someone might be listening.

"And what exactly happened to you?" he sneered. "Got another failing grade?"

"Yeah, something worse," Harry smirked. "Heard me calling out for Cedric at night?"

"Of course I did!" Dudley snorted. "You’ve driven me crazy with your whining. Is he your boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?" Harry waved dismissively, trying to ignore his cousin’s rudeness. "He’s a friend. A very good one. We’ve been through a lot together, Dudley. Through fire, water, and copper pipes, as they say. He graduated from Hogwarts this year. Only…"

He paused, unsure how to explain to Dudley what had happened, or even if he should.

"Well?" Dudley prompted impatiently. "What’s wrong with him?"

"It’s not about him," Harry sighed. "A month ago, the guy who killed my parents returned."

"So what?" Dudley shrugged, as if it were some trivial matter, like losing a shoe. "What’s it to you?"

"You’re my only cousin, Dudley," Harry forced out, feeling a lump rise in his throat, while a thought pulsed in his head that all this was futile. "I have no one else besides you."

Dudley was silent, staring at Harry, processing what he had heard. Then, to Harry’s complete astonishment, Dudley awkwardly patted him on the shoulder and even attempted a smile.

"Alright," he muttered. "Don’t get all mushy. We’ll pull through. Turns out you’re not such a jerk when you want to be."

And at that very moment, Dudley gasped convulsively, as if plunged into icy water, and collapsed to the ground, covering his head with his hands.

Something had happened to the night itself. The dark blue, star-studded sky suddenly turned completely black. All the fire in it disappeared—no stars, no moon, not even the dim glow of the street lamps at both ends of the alley. There was no distant hum of cars or rustling of trees. Instead of a gentle summer evening, there was a chilling cold that pierced through them. They were surrounded by pitch darkness, impenetrable and silent, as if some enormous hand had draped a thick, icy fabric over the entire alley. For a moment, Harry thought he had accidentally gone blind because he couldn’t see even his own hand in front of his face. But then he realized: this was not just darkness. This was something worse.

"It can’t be," Harry thought frantically. "This can’t be happening…"

"W-what’s h-happening?" stammered Dudley, his voice trembling with fear.

"I don’t know," Harry breathed. His throat was dry. "But it’s not a good sign. Stay where you are and don’t move!"

"I c-can’t see anything!" Dudley shrieked. "I’m b-blind!"

"Shut up, I tell you!" Harry yelled, trying to drown out the rising terror inside him.

He stood there, thunderstruck, peering into the impenetrable blackness. His body was seized with chills, his arms covered in goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He stared into the darkness, his eyes wide open—but to no avail. Total darkness. "Not this," a desperate thought flashed through his mind. "Not here…" He strained his ears. First, they should be heard, only then seen…

"W-where are y-you? W-what are y-you d-doing?" Dudley spoke up again.

"Will you shut up or not?" Harry hissed. "I’m trying to listen…"

He broke off, hearing exactly what he feared. Long, raspy, gurgling breaths. The sound came from everywhere and simultaneously from within, filling the entire space. There was something else in the alley besides him and Dudley. At that moment, Harry realized—they were here. In Little Whinging. Dementors. Shivering from the cold, Harry was overcome with horror.

"What is that thing?" Dudley gasped.

He tried to back away, but fear completely paralyzed his movements, and Dudley remained standing where he was, unable to move.

"Dementors," Harry breathed. There was no time for talk. Taking a few unsteady steps back, Harry focused on their recent triumph over Voldemort. Before his eyes appeared the triumphant faces of Jeanne and Cedric, standing shoulder to shoulder on the brink of what seemed like inevitable doom, yet they hadn’t lost heart and had prevailed. Inspired by that victory, he raised his wand:

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

From the tip of his wand emerged a huge silvery stag. Its antlers struck the Dementor where a human heart would be and flung it backward, weightless as the darkness itself. The stag continued to advance. The defeated Dementor floated away under its assault, resembling a bat.

"Now over here!" Harry shouted to the stag and dashed down the alley, glancing back and holding his glowing wand high. "Dudley! Dudley! Follow me!"

But Dudley, still paralyzed with fear, couldn’t move. Without wasting time, Harry ran to him, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him along. Only then did Dudley lumber after him, unable to overcome the bonds restricting his movements, frequently looking back at his rescuer.

The silvery antlers struck the second Dementor. The airborne Dementor, like its companion, began to float away and soon disappeared into the darkness. The stag, galloping to the end of the alley, dissolved into a silvery mist.

The moon, stars, and streetlights reappeared. A warm summer breeze blew through the alley. The trees in the gardens rustled, and the familiar sound of cars driving down Magnolia Street returned. Harry stood rooted to the spot, his senses on high alert. It was hard to immediately return to normal. Suddenly, he felt his T-shirt sticking to his body—Harry was drenched in sweat.

He still couldn’t believe what had happened. Dementors—here, in Little Whinging!

Dudley was shaking all over with fear, but he was in his right mind and fully conscious. Harry squatted down to catch his breath, and suddenly heard loud footsteps running behind him.

Instinctively raising his wand again, he sharply turned toward the newcomer. Puffing, Mrs. Figg, the batty old neighbor, hurried toward him. Gray strands escaped from under her hairnet, a rope shopping bag rattled in her hand, and cloth slippers miraculously stayed on her feet. Harry tried to hide his wand from her, but…

"Don’t put it away, you stupid boy!" she screamed. "There might be others lurking around! I could tear that Mundungus Fletcher apart!"

Chapter Text

"— What... what was that?" stammered Dudley, as they approached the house accompanied by the puffing Mrs. Figg. His voice was trembling, and he kept nervously looking around, as if expecting a new attack. "Some kind of... monsters?"

"Dementors," Harry replied shortly, still trying to recover from what had happened. He himself could hardly believe that it had actually happened. "They shouldn't have been here."

"They guard the magical prison Azkaban," interjected Mrs. Figg, breathing heavily. "It's very far from here, out at sea. A dark place. Once, a dark wizard was held there... he caused much evil. And although he’s long gone, the place remains cursed; they've tried to close it many times... but it remains standing."

"Are you... are you a witch too?" Harry asked in surprise, despite the horror he had just experienced.

"No, dear," Mrs. Figg replied. "I’m a squib, no magic for me. But who said I can’t keep an eye on you?"

"So... you’ve known all this time?" Harry still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that the cat-obsessed old neighbor had always been part of the magical world.

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Figg nodded. "Dumbledore asked me to look after you."

At the very door of number four Privet Drive, Harry suddenly froze, noticing a familiar silhouette. In the lamplight stood the figure of a girl with ash-white hair, dressed in a black leather jacket and a dark dress. The girl looked at him, her amber eyes dancing with mischievous sparks.

"Jeanne?!" Harry gasped, unable to believe his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on the Dementor conqueror," Jeanne smiled, though her voice carried a hint of mockery. "Heard some commotion and decided to drop by. Thought Voldemort was up to his tricks again, but it was just a couple of miserable Dementors."

"How did you find out?" Harry still couldn’t come to terms with this unexpected meeting.

"I have my ways," Jeanne answered mysteriously. "Alright, stop standing like a statue, let’s go inside. Surely, the Dursleys will have something to comfort us after such stress. Besides, I missed our little gatherings."

She winked at Harry and, without waiting for an invitation, headed towards the door.

"Hey, where are you going?" Dudley's voice rang out. "Who are you anyway?"

"Harry’s friend," Jeanne turned around and gave Dudley a dazzling smile. "And you must be his famous cousin?"

Despite the light irony in Jeanne’s voice, Harry felt warmth in his heart. He was glad to see her, even though the circumstances of their meeting were, to put it mildly, not the most cheerful.

Uncle Vernon greeted them with a teaspoon in hand and a silent question: "Where did all of you come from in such numbers, and at this hour?"

There was some explaining to do.

"She’s my distant relative," explained Mrs. Figg, nodding towards Jeanne, who was curiously examining the surroundings. "She came to visit and help me around the house."

Uncle Vernon’s already suspicious gaze became even sharper. He glanced at Mrs. Figg, then at Jeanne, who was clearly not dressed in rural attire, and finally stared at Harry and Dudley, both disheveled and rumpled. They looked as if they had just escaped from hell.

"And we... we..." Dudley attempted to force out some explanation for our company, but the words got stuck in his throat. "We met her on the way. We decided to escort her."

Uncle Vernon snorted, clearly not believing a word.

"And why were you so panicked, as if you were being chased?" he inquired.

"Yeah, there... it was..." Dudley helplessly glanced at Harry for support.

"A dog," Harry blurted out. "Huge. Angry. We barely escaped."

"A dog?" Uncle Vernon repeated, narrowing his eyes. "I haven’t heard of any rabid dogs around here."

"It probably wandered in," interjected Mrs. Figg. "There are lots of stray dogs these days."

Uncle Vernon once again eyed everyone suspiciously, but apparently decided that sorting things out could wait.

But they didn’t have to respond — an owl arrived at that moment, flying straight into Uncle Vernon’s face with a letter. Startled, he nearly swallowed the spoon he had been licking while standing at the door. He dropped it on the floor and cautiously bent down to pick up the parchment envelope with green ink writing. Just looking at the envelope made him pale with horror.

"What interesting mail you receive," noted Jeanne, attempting to appear as an ordinary clueless girl who knew nothing about magical affairs.

"Oh yes, yes, this… we have acquaintances like that. Always sending exotic birds. Can’t imagine how hard it is to train an owl to carry letters. Well, Dudley, come on, I need to talk to you."

He grabbed Dudley by the arm and pulled him along.

"May I come in?" Jeanne asked.

"Oh, yes, please do... We weren’t expecting guests... but make yourself at home," Uncle Vernon said, gripping Dudley’s hand as if his life depended on it. "You too, come with me," he whispered to Harry.

Harry obeyed, and the three of them went upstairs to Dudley’s room. There, Uncle Vernon, looking like a bull freshly provoked in a bullfight, shoved the letter under their noses.

"Read!"

And Harry read:

To Mr. D. Dursley, Surrey County, Little Whinging, Privet Drive, Number Four, the largest bedroom on the second floor

"This is your doing!" Uncle Vernon hissed angrily, shoving the letter in Harry’s face. Harry only shook his head.

"Not mine," he firmly replied. "You can’t turn an ordinary person into a wizard. No spells or potions can do that."

"Then what the hell is happening to my son?!" roared Uncle Vernon, spitting saliva. "And how do we get rid of it?!"

"There’s no way," Harry answered, trying to stay calm. "But if you leave it as it is, it’ll only get worse."

"What do you mean 'worse'?" Uncle Vernon frowned.

"If Dudley doesn’t learn to control his power, he’ll become... an Obscurial," Harry stumbled, searching for words.

"What kind of thing is that?" Uncle Vernon’s voice hardened.

"It’s... like a disease. It can kill him. And not just him. If Dudley loses control, he could harm others. Many others."

Uncle Vernon turned pale and heavily sat down on the bed. Dudley, who until now had been struck dumb, let out some inarticulate sound and tried to hide behind his father. His chubby face contorted in terror.

"Dad, am I... am I going to die?" he stammered, his voice shaking. "I don’t want to die!"

***

"Tomorrow we’ll go together to prepare Dudley for school in your stupid school," Uncle Vernon said later, having fully read the letter. "Show me where to buy everything, and I’ll pay for his education."

His face reflected a mix of dissatisfaction and resignation. Above all, he wanted to ensure nothing bad happened to Dudley. Now, he would do anything to avoid Dudley turning into an Obscurial.

"But Dudley has never shown any abilities..." Aunt Petunia lamented. "What if it’s a trick? Come on, Dudley, show us something!"

"That’s not how it works," Harry interrupted, looking at Dudley’s bewildered face. "Abilities don’t always manifest on command; sometimes they happen against the wizard’s will..."

"We know, we know!" Uncle Vernon snapped. "A few years ago, those Ministry people explained it all when you blew up Aunt Marge! So what do you suggest?"

"I don’t know," Harry faltered. "Probably something that scares Dudley needs to happen, then his abilities will manifest. But be careful with him; becoming an Obscurial isn’t simple either."

"So how do we test this?" Uncle Vernon raged.

Aunt Petunia thought for a few minutes and then exclaimed loudly:

"I know! Where’s your wand?"

"With me."

"Give it to Dudley."

Harry took out his wand and handed it to Dudley. For a moment, Dudley looked at it puzzled, then turned to Harry.

"What do I do with it now?" he wondered.

"Wave it," Harry recalled Ollivander’s words.

Dudley waved the wand, and instantly all the books fell out of the bookshelf. Aunt Petunia immediately rushed to gather them back.

"Let me see that!" Uncle Vernon ordered.

Taking the wand from his son, he also waved it, but nothing happened. He waved it several times, all to no avail. Finally convinced that the wand didn’t work for him, he handed it back to Dudley.

"Repeat."

Dudley waved the wand again, and this time he knocked over and broke the chandelier.

"What does this mean?" Uncle Vernon asked Harry. "Why does it work in his hands but not mine?"

"It means, Uncle Vernon, that the wand is only a conduit for inner energy. Wizards have such energy, but ordinary people don’t."

"Do you always break and smash things with them?"

"Not really. You can also fix things, change their shape, and do a lot more."

"Show me!"

Harry took the wand and pointed it at the chandelier.

"Reparo!"

The scattered shards instantly reassembled into one piece, and the chandelier returned to its original position.

"You’ll teach Dudley while you’re here together. The letter says fifth year, so you’ll help him catch up with his peers."

Harry glanced at Dudley’s sad face and immediately felt sympathy. Both understood that everything was just beginning.

The next morning, Uncle Vernon, still gloomy as a storm cloud, drove them to London. Finding the Leaky Cauldron surprisingly proved easy, even for Muggles.

"Oh, Harry Potter!" Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, beamed upon seeing Harry. "Fancy seeing you! Back for school supplies?"

"Almost," Harry smirked. "I need to help my cousin get ready."

Tom curiously looked over Uncle Vernon and Dudley, who were nervously clinging to each other. Uncle Vernon only grunted in response to Tom’s gaze, but he seemed not to notice.

"Follow me, I’ll show you the way," Tom said, gesturing for them to follow.

They exited into a small, enclosed courtyard. There was nothing but trash bins and a few crooked weeds growing between cracked paving stones. Tom led them to a solid brick wall and, winking at Dudley, said:

"First time to Hogwarts, eh?"

Dudley, still recovering from shock, managed a timid smile and nodded hesitantly. He looked unsure whether to be happy or run away.

"Don’t worry, kid," Tom encouraged him. "Sure, it’s mind-blowing to find out you’re a wizard, but you’ll get used to it. The fear will pass, you’ll see!"

With those words, Tom tapped the brickwork with his wand in a specific sequence. The wall trembled, the bricks moved, and an opening appeared, leading to another world.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley!" Tom announced solemnly. "You’ll figure it out from here, and I need to get back to work. Good luck!"

Diagon Alley was breathtaking. It seemed like all of magical Britain had gathered here. Even Harry, who had been here many times, was surprised by the crowd. Along the narrow cobblestone street flowed a colorful stream of wizards and witches of all ages and kinds. Snatches of conversation, laughter, and hooting owls filled the air. The intoxicating aromas of sweets, potions, and something indefinably magical wafted around. Shops on both sides of the alley overflowed with curious goods: robes of every color of the rainbow, cauldrons of various sizes, piles of books with worn covers, and strange potion ingredients sparkling in glass jars.

Harry felt a surge of excitement. What was happening in the magical world? What news had he missed in the past month?

"And where do we go now?" Uncle Vernon nervously asked, looking around. The abundance of unusual things and strange people made his head spin.

"I think we should go to Gringotts first," Harry replied. "It’s a bank. You can’t pay with pounds here; wizards have their own money."

"Their own money?" Uncle Vernon repeated incredulously, his face showing extreme displeasure. "And what kind of money is that?"

"Gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts," Harry explained.

"What’s the exchange rate?" Uncle Vernon asked sourly, taking out his wallet. He wasn’t about to let some wizards cheat him.

After half an hour, having exchanged a considerable sum of pounds for shiny coins, Uncle Vernon pushed a cart loaded with school supplies for Dudley. They had bought almost everything: a brand-new cauldron for potions, a cage with a cute brown barn owl, a whole stack of textbooks, parchment, ink, various potion ingredients, and other items from the list. Only a broomstick and a wand were missing. Madam Malkin, the owner of "Robes for All Occasions," fretted over finding a suitable school uniform for Dudley but eventually managed to solve that difficult task as well.

Finally, they reached Ollivander’s shop — a narrow, shabby little store with a peeling gilded sign.

"And this, perhaps, is the most interesting part," Harry remarked, pushing the door open. "Choosing a wand is a serious matter."

"Why’s that?" Uncle Vernon asked sullenly, eyeing the dusty shelves stacked with long, narrow boxes suspiciously.

"Because it’s not you who chooses the wand, the wand chooses you," Harry said mysteriously. "Though, Mr. Ollivander will explain everything."

Mr. Ollivander, the only one who seemed pleased with their arrival, greeted them with a smile, looking curiously at Dudley over his half-moon glasses.

"So, young wizard," he addressed Dudley, "come for your first wand?"

Dudley, who had been trying to stay inconspicuous, involuntarily straightened up. He looked at Ollivander with undisguised curiosity and fear, unsure of what to expect.

"Don’t be afraid," Ollivander encouraged him, noticing his nervousness. "The wand will choose you."

He began pulling boxes from the shelves, offering Dudley to try one wand after another. But none of them worked. Dudley puffed in frustration, waving the wands, but to no avail — no sparks, no warmth, only puzzlement in Ollivander’s eyes.

"Hmm, a tricky case," Ollivander muttered, thoughtfully scratching his chin. "Perhaps we should try this one..."

He climbed up a ladder to the very top and returned with another box, covered in a thick layer of dust.

"Here, try this," Ollivander handed Dudley a wand made of dark wood. 

Dudley took the wand uncertainly, turned it in his hands, and, not knowing why, lightly waved it. And then something incredible happened. The wand in his hand trembled, filled with warmth, and a burst of bright multicolored sparks shot out of its tip. Dudley froze, stunned, his eyes wide with amazement and delight. He felt an unknown force flowing through his body, filling him with incredible energy.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Ollivander, his eyes glowing with genuine interest. "Amazing!"

"What do you mean 'splendid'?" Uncle Vernon asked irritably, tired of the spectacle. "Is he just going to shoot sparks instead of getting to work?"

"This is a very rare wand," Ollivander explained, ignoring Uncle Vernon’s grumbling. "A combination of oak and a tail hair from a Thestral. Oak gives strength to protective charms, and Thestrals... Thestrals are magical creatures visible only to those who have witnessed death. Their hair is extremely rare and gives the wand special power. The fact that this wand chose your son speaks of his readiness to leave his old life behind and start anew. I’m sure great deeds await him. And this wand will be a loyal friend and helper in all his endeavors."

Dudley, not listening to Ollivander, was enchanted as he examined his wand, unable to believe his luck. His eyes sparkled with joy mixed with unmistakable curiosity. It seemed he was just beginning to realize the possibilities opening up before him."

Chapter Text

After the Ollivanders shop, to Harry's great surprise, Uncle Vernon declared that he intended to buy Dudley a broomstick. And not just any old training wreck, but a real "Nimbus-2001" - the latest model, one that even Harry hadn't flown on!

"Since Dudley got into your school," he grumbled, eyeing the sports store display with distrust, "he should be the best at everything. Even in this Quidditch of yours."

"The best, huh..." Harry thought to himself. With Dudley's size, the only thing that probably suited him were the goalposts. If, of course, he could even get off the ground on a broom.

However, the nephew's doubts did not concern Uncle Vernon. He was determined to make his son a champion, even if it meant spending a fortune. "Money is no problem," he liked to repeat, and owning a fairly successful drill manufacturing company (it should be noted) allowed him not to worry too much about expenses. Though, credit where it's due, he approached choosing the broom with all seriousness, studying different models carefully and comparing prices for a long time. Apparently, even for him, there was a line beyond which extravagance turned into madness.

In the end, after an hour of agonizing deliberation, Uncle Vernon settled on a sparkling new "Nimbus-2001."

"There," he said proudly, handing the purchase to Dudley. "Fly to your heart's content. And look here, by the end of the year, you'd better be the best player on the team!"

Dudley, who until then had been eyeing the brooms warily, now looked at his new toy with delight, unsure how to approach it.

"Well, what do you know," Harry thought, "at least now I'll have someone to practice with."

All summer long, to his surprise, Harry spent his time as a teacher, coaching Dudley in the basics of magical sciences. The lessons took place right in the Dursleys' living room, much to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s displeasure. Dudley turned out to be a surprisingly persistent student, but that didn’t mean the learning went smoothly. While memorizing spells and potion ingredients didn’t pose much of a problem for him (thanks to his practice in rote learning at school), practical magic was a whole different story.

Dudley puffed, blushed, and sweated, but the simplest spells refused to work for him. The wand in his hand felt like a foreign object, stubbornly refusing to obey. Dozens of times he tried to levitate a feather, but it only bounced on the table like a wounded bird.

"What the heck!" Dudley growled, dropping the feather on the floor again. "Why does it come so easily to you?"

"It’s not me," Harry replied, demonstrating the spell once more. "It’s the wand. You need to feel it, understand how it works."

"What’s there to understand?" Dudley fumed. "Wave it, say a word, and that’s it!"

"It’s not that simple," Harry sighed.

The subjects that Dudley found particularly difficult were those he deemed uninteresting. Memorizing multi-page tomes on the history of magic or trying to predict the future based on the position of the stars left him feeling despondent. Even potion-making, where he could observe changes in color and viscosity, seemed boring to him.

"Why do I need all this?" Dudley whined. "Am I planning to become a seer or a potion master?"

"These are the basics," Harry patiently explained. "Without them, you won’t be able to move forward."

But Dudley didn’t give up. He persistently tried to master the basics of magic, and sometimes he even succeeded. By the end of the summer, he learned to lift small objects into the air with some difficulty, turn lights on and off with the "Lumos" spell, and even managed to make the broom obey the command "Up!"—though it took him no less than ten minutes of loud shouting and threats.

Harry was amazed by this change in his cousin. He never imagined that Dudley, this spoiled bully, could show such persistence. "Maybe Ollivander was right," Harry thought, "and this wand really will change him?"

As for flying, things were even more complicated. Several times Harry attempted to teach Dudley the basics of flying on a broom. The lessons took place in the backyard, away from prying eyes. Harry recalled his first lesson with Madam Hooch and told Dudley to put the broom on the ground and command it: "Up!"

"Up!" Dudley barked, and the broom, ignoring him completely, remained lying on the ground.

"Don’t yell at it," Harry chuckled. "Just calmly and confidently say 'Up.'"

"Up," Dudley repeated, trying to steady his trembling voice.

The broom only twitched slightly, as if mocking his attempts.

"What the heck!" Dudley stomped his foot and suddenly fell, tripping over the disobedient broom. "Maybe it’s defective?"

"No, just has character," Harry struggled to hold back laughter as he watched his cousin's clumsy attempts. "Try again."

After about ten minutes of futile attempts, interspersed with cursing and complaints from Dudley, the broom finally deigned to jump up and hover in the air, waiting for its owner to take it in hand.

"I did it!" Dudley exclaimed joyfully, forgetting all his frustrations. "It listens to me!"

"Well, of course," Harry smirked. "You’re a wizard now."

The next lessons took place not on the ground but in the air, and here Dudley had a much harder time. He kept losing his balance, clinging to the broom like a life preserver, and constantly threatening to fall to the ground. The broom under him creaked pitifully and swayed, as if protesting such treatment.

"Just relax!" Harry shouted, catching his cousin yet again as he nearly fell off the broom. "Keep your balance! And don’t grip it so tightly, or you’ll break it!"

"Easier said than done!" Dudley panted, trying to stay on the broom, which kept trying to throw him off. "I’m no Seeker!"

"That’s for sure," Harry couldn’t resist remarking. "You’re about as much of a Seeker as I am a ballerina."

Nevertheless, by September 1st, Dudley had learned to stay in the air relatively confidently and even fly a few meters without touching the ground.

"Progress," Harry noted with satisfaction. "Who knows, maybe by Christmas you’ll make it onto the team. As a reserve Keeper."

Dudley didn’t respond, but his pleased expression clearly showed that he wouldn’t mind being on the Quidditch field during a match. Even as a substitute.

"Just have to practice blocking goals," Harry added, noticing the dreamy look on Dudley’s face. "Otherwise, with your reaction time, you’ll let all the Quaffles through."

"No problem," Dudley said confidently. "I’ll show them all!"

The days flew by like an arrow (and where exactly does it fly? — Harry pondered this same philosophical question every day), and with each passing day, September 1st drew closer.

On the morning of the first day of school, Uncle Vernon saw both boys off to the station.

"You just need to run and not think about anything," Harry told his cousin when he stopped in confusion before the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. "Don’t be afraid, you’ll pass through easily and won’t even notice."

It barely dawned on him that he could definitely pass through the magical wall now. Finally, gathering his courage, he dashed toward the magical barrier at full speed, closing his eyes at the last moment. The expected impact never came, and opening his eyes, he saw platform 9¾. A gleaming scarlet train stood on the tracks, and clouds of smoke and steam rose from its chimney.

"Ah, Harry, did you see that?" Dudley marveled, gazing at the train. "That’s a train, a real train!"

"Of course I saw it," Harry replied, popping up behind him. "Every time it feels like seeing it for the first time."

On the platform, he met up with his friends. They were accompanied by Moody, a girl with pink hair, Sirius in dog form, Lupin, Mrs. Weasley, and several others unfamiliar to Harry.

"Hi, Harry!" Hermione greeted him happily. "How are you? What happened that night?"

"Hi, Hermione!" he responded with a smile. "Two Dementors attacked us that night, but I drove them off."

"That can’t be! There shouldn’t be any in our area! Did You-Know-Who send them?"

"I don’t know, maybe."

"And who’s that with you, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked, nodding toward Dudley.

"Sorry I didn’t introduce him right away," Harry said, embarrassed. "This is my cousin, Dudley."

"The same one who used to bully you all the time?" Ron gasped.

"Yeah," Dudley replied.

"But... but how?" Ron’s astonishment knew no bounds.

"I don’t know," Harry answered. "That same evening after the Dementor attack, an owl flew in with a letter for Dudley."

Ron looked Dudley up and down several times. As lanky as Ron was, he was nowhere near Dudley’s size.

"Well, uh..." Ron hesitated. "Welcome to our world, Dudley."

He extended his hand. Dudley thought for a moment but eventually shook Ron’s hand.

"Let’s go find seats," Harry suggested.

"Well, we... Hermione and I have to go to the prefects’ carriage," Ron replied.

Harry wasn’t upset. Soon enough, he and Dudley found a compartment. While they were searching, they were joined by Ginny, Jeanne, and Neville. The only free compartment was occupied by Luna Lovegood, next to whom they sat down.

During the journey, a conversation started among them. Neville showed everyone a rare plant — a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, which he was eager to show Professor Sprout; Luna was reading *The Quibbler*, paying no attention to the people around her; Dudley was poring over something interesting in the textbooks; and Jeanne, Harry, and Ginny were discussing who might be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. From their memory, Moody had voluntarily stepped down from the post, believing he could do more as an active Auror than as a teacher. Still, Harry mentally thanked both the real Moody and Barty Crouch Jr. for what they had taught him. It was thanks to Barty Crouch Jr. that Harry learned to resist the Imperius Curse, which Voldemort had cast on him during the graveyard duel. It was the fake Moody who showed them the Unforgivable Curses and morally prepared them to face dark wizards. It was Moody who often urged the kids to stay vigilant. Now Harry strove to follow his advice in everything.

Their peace wasn’t disturbed even when Malfoy burst into the compartment with his cronies. As it turned out, Malfoy had been made Slytherin prefect and was now flaunting his newfound authority, though he still feared Jeanne to death. The appearance of Dudley, who was bigger than Crabbe and Goyle combined, looked like a serious argument for keeping his mouth shut. So when Dudley stood up wanting to get to know him better, Malfoy could only shrink and squeak something about his father and his authority.

"Buzz off," Jeanne snapped at Malfoy. "Can’t you see serious people are talking?"

Malfoy’s gaze shifted to Luna, who was reading her magazine upside-down, and then to Neville, whose face had just been splattered with Stinksap from his plant, but the boy didn’t argue and hurried to leave as quickly as possible.

"Who was that?" Dudley rumbled.

"Just some idiot from Slytherin," Ginny replied. "Sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, just following the old Slytherin tradition — showing off his ambitions."

"Hmm, I see," Dudley responded.

"His dad was a Death Eater," Jeanne noted. "He showed up at that graveyard to greet his master."

"A what?" Dudley rumbled.

"A servant of Voldemort, the wizard who killed Harry’s parents."

"So he has servants? And how does he recruit them?"

"Struggle for pure blood, power, money."

"Oh, really? And what’s the bonus of pure blood?"

He wasn’t particularly interested in all the quirks of individual people, but deep down he understood — if there’s a villain, there must be motivation, even if it’s the most absurd. He wanted to know what to expect if he ever encountered Voldemort or his servants. The idea of fighting for pure blood seemed absolutely ridiculous to him, unable to understand why wizards shouldn’t mix with ordinary people. This was especially relevant for him since he himself hadn’t possessed magical abilities until recently.

"In nothing," Neville replied. "Hermione is from a Muggle family, and she’s the best student in Gryffindor. I’m amazed the Sorting Hat didn’t send her to Ravenclaw..."

"Maybe she asked the Hat," Jeanne interjected, thoughtfully looking at Dudley. "It wanted to send me somewhere else too, you know what it said? 'There’s nothing in you valued in other houses except Slytherin.'"

"And what did you say to it?" Neville asked curiously, fiddling with his Mimbulus.

"I threatened to burn it to ashes if it didn’t immediately reconsider its decision," Jeanne smirked, recalling her conversation with the Hat. "It worked."

"Yeah, you’re not someone to mess with," Neville chuckled. "And the Hat kept trying to send me to Hufflepuff. It hesitated for a long time."

"As for me," Ginny sighed, "the Hat immediately declared: 'Oh, another Weasley! Everything’s clear with you!' As if there were no other options for our family."

"And where will I end up?" Dudley chimed in curiously, listening intently to the conversation.

"Well, buddy, you’ll only find out when it’s on your head," Harry replied, shrugging. "It’s all about luck."

***

Not everything that day went according to Harry’s expectations: Hagrid wasn’t at the Hogsmeade station (though at least he won’t scare Dudley, Harry grimly noted to himself, remembering the pigtail incident), and the previously horseless carriages were now pulled by eerie-looking creatures that he couldn’t identify. This time, there weren’t enough carriages for everyone, and Harry couldn’t figure out why.

"Hermione, what are those…?" he began, pointing at the strange animals.

"What ‘what’?" Hermione didn’t understand, looking around. "Where?"

"Those…" Harry hesitated, unsure how to describe the creatures. "The ones pulling the carriages."

"Harry, you must have overheated in the sun," Hermione said worriedly. "No one is pulling the carriages. They always move on their own."

"But I can see them!" Harry exclaimed, feeling like an idiot.

"Actually, I see them too," Luna calmly remarked, gazing thoughtfully in the same direction as Harry. "I’ve always seen them."

"So do I," Jeanne added with a shrug. "They’re Thestrals. They’re even mentioned in *Hogwarts: A History*, by the way."

"Thestrals?" Harry repeated, feeling a wave of surprise wash over him.

"Wait," Dudley interrupted, watching the scene in confusion. "What are you talking about? What Thestrals? There’s nothing there!"

Harry looked at Dudley, then at Jeanne, and then back at the empty space where, in his opinion, the Thestrals were standing.

"There they are," Luna said, approaching one of the creatures invisible to Dudley. "Come and touch it."

Dudley gave Luna a skeptical glance but decided to approach anyway. He stretched out his hand and froze for a moment, as if hesitant to touch an invisible barrier. Then his fingers felt something hard and leathery.

"Wow!" Dudley gasped, pulling back from the invisible creature. "It’s there! It’s alive!"

Luna just smiled mysteriously and nodded, as if confirming his words. Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. So he hadn’t gone mad. Thestrals really existed. But why was he only seeing them now?

A short while later, Harry entered the Great Hall. The first thing that caught his eye was the unusually large number of boys and girls waiting to be sorted. As Harry guessed, they, along with Dudley, were supposed to enter the fifth year. Their sorting would begin shortly after the first-years. But what troubled Harry most at the moment wasn’t the sorting of the newcomers but the mysterious absence of Hagrid. He wasn’t on the platform or among those greeting them.

"Where has Hagrid gone?" Harry muttered, peering toward the platform. "Surely he hasn’t still not returned?"

"Probably it’s related to that secret mission Dumbledore mentioned," Jeanne suggested with a shrug.

"But shouldn’t he have already returned?" Harry asked anxiously. "It’s been a whole month."

"Who knows what could have happened," Jeanne shrugged again. "Maybe the mission turned out to be harder than Dumbledore thought. Or…" She paused, not finishing.

"Or what?" Harry pressed her.

"Or he got into trouble," Jeanne concluded quietly.

Harry sighed heavily and lowered his head. So Hagrid definitely wouldn’t appear anytime soon, since he wasn’t among those greeting them.

"What could have happened to him?" Harry thought, feeling anxiety grow within him. "Did Dumbledore send him on a dangerous mission? What if he’s injured? Or worse…"

He shook his head firmly, brushing away the frightening thoughts.

"No," he told himself. "Hagrid is fine. He’s strong; he’ll handle it. I just need to wait a little longer."

But despite all his efforts, the worry wouldn’t leave him. Harry decided that after the feast, he would definitely go to Hagrid’s hut. Maybe he’d find some clues there.

When they finally sat down at the table in the Great Hall, waiting for their turn for the sorting, Harry looked around for Hagrid but didn’t find him at the staff table either. Instead, there was an empty seat. Could it be that he wouldn’t even attend the feast?

While they were discussing Hagrid’s absence, Professor Grubbly-Plank took the vacant seat at the staff table. Immediately drawing everyone’s attention, a short, plump woman resembling a large pink toad approached the table. She was dressed in a ridiculous fluffy pink jacket, and atop her head sat a black velvet bowtie resembling a fly.

"And who is that?" Hermione whispered, curiously examining the strange woman.

"No idea," Harry shrugged. "Maybe the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?"

"Looks like it," Jeanne nodded. "But… rather suspicious."

"Hagrid’s still missing," Harry noted sadly, glancing at Grubbly-Plank. "Seems we’ll have to get used to having a new Care of Magical Creatures teacher."

"We’ll see," Jeanne replied. "Maybe he’ll return."

The first-years arrived, and McGonagall brought the Sorting Hat into the Great Hall and placed it on the stool. Within seconds, the Hat opened its mouth and began to sing. It sang for a long time, dedicating its song to the theme of unity. When it finished, the hall erupted in applause, and McGonagall began calling the students.

The Hat’s song sparked heated discussion in the hall. Everyone tried to understand why the Hat had warned the students of danger and urged them to unite. Only Nearly Headless Nick offered Hermione a hint in response to her question: the Hat had warned students of danger before, and it always did so when it sensed growing peril in the world.

Harry wasn’t paying attention. He was inwardly rooting for Dudley, hoping his cousin wouldn’t end up in Slytherin. Dudley, unusually pale and sweating profusely, waited nervously for his turn. Harry could see the complex thought process on his face and couldn’t wait for his turn to come. But when the Hat touched Dudley’s head, Harry felt relief — the Hat sorted him into Gryffindor. Harry couldn’t remember Dudley ever being brave or daring, and imagining him as skilled or intelligent seemed even more difficult.

Finally, Dudley sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Harry. The Gryffindors showered him with congratulations, except for the Weasley twins, who added a quick question that sent Dudley into sheer terror:

"Hey, Dudley! Want a candy?"

He jerked violently, risking knocking over the entire table, but the brothers quickly reassured him.

"Relax, don’t be afraid. By the way, we might have a job for you."

"We’ll pay you fairly if you agree to taste-test our sweets."

"In return, you can skip the classes you don’t like. How’s that sound? Pretty clever idea, right?"

Dudley thought about it for a long time.

"I’ll think about it," he replied, unsure if there were any classes he wouldn’t want to attend.

"Smart!" Fred praised him.

"He catches on quick!" George smirked.

"What are you two up to?" Ron flared up.

"As a prefect, I—"

"As a prefect, you’re turning into Percy," George snorted.

"Listen, Ron, be a brother, not a prefect!" Fred addressed him. "Otherwise, you’ll start writing letters like Mr. Crouch…"

"But to involve the newcomers with your…"

"Alright," George pretended to agree, but immediately started whispering conspiratorially with Fred.

"Listen, Ron…" Harry began. "Tell me honestly. Do you notice anything unusual?"

"Well…" Ron thought for a moment. "Maybe there’s something…"

"And what?"

"The fact that my brothers are planning to fool around with me, for example."

"And have you ever seen such a crowd of newcomers? And all entering the fifth year!"

Ron thoughtfully raised his gaze to the ceiling.

"Come to think of it, I don’t recall anything like this."

"What if Voldemort has something planned, and now a lot of people have suddenly entered the fifth year?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don’t you remember last year? There was a spy among the teachers. What if now he’s figured out how to give magical powers to Muggles and plans to plant a spy among the students?"

"For me, he’d rather use Malfoy or some other idiots," Jeanne rolled her eyes. "They’ll do anything for him as long as their parents send instructions from home."

"Harry! There’s no way to turn a Muggle into a wizard!" Hermione interjected. "If such a method existed…"

"I know, I know. Then everyone in the world could become a wizard, and we wouldn’t have to hide."

He silently stared at an unremarkable Japanese man who had quietly entered the hall and sat at the staff table next to Dumbledore. On his right hand, Harry noticed three tattoos in the shape of unfamiliar symbols.

At the Gryffindor table, slightly apart from the others, sat a girl with softly pink hair cut in a bob. She wasn’t wearing the school uniform but instead a light cloak over a dark dress with a red tie, and high boots adorned her feet. The girl appeared very young, no older than Hermione herself, but her violet eyes carried a seriousness beyond her years. She didn’t speak to anyone, merely greeted quietly when noticed, and began absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around her finger, observing the proceedings. Next to her, curled up in a ball, lay a strange creature resembling a fluffy white ball with long ears and a short tail. From time to time, the creature emitted a soft squeak, sounding like "Fou, fou," and nudged the girl’s palm as if seeking support. She gently stroked its back, and the creature calmed down.

When the sorting ended and the meal was over, Dumbledore cleared his throat and addressed the school.

"We have two changes in the teaching staff," he began. "We are pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will teach Care of Magical Creatures. I am also delighted to introduce you to Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Additionally, I am pleased to present to you…" Dumbledore paused, scanning the room, "a gentleman who has come from afar to help investigate the extraordinary phenomenon that occurred this summer. As you all know, many people who previously had no connection to magic suddenly discovered magical abilities."

Dumbledore gestured to the young man with dark hair sitting at the staff table. He was dressed in simple yet elegant attire, unlike the robes of wizards. His calm demeanor and posture exuded hidden strength and confidence. Though he appeared no older than twenty-five, his dark eyes radiated wisdom and experience rarely seen even in those twice his age. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something imperceptible to others, and a faint smile flickered across his lips. On his right hand were three small tattoos in the shape of strange, unrecognizable symbols. He gave a slight nod to greet the students and then seemed to retreat into his thoughts without losing vigilance.

"He will spend some time at Hogwarts, observing the young wizards who recently discovered their magical abilities and helping them adapt to their new realities," Dumbledore continued. "I ask you all to assist him in every way possible. Now, regarding Quidditch news, this year…"

At that moment, he was interrupted by a feigned delicate cough. Dumbledore’s confusion lasted only a second. Then he quickly sat down and fixed a probing gaze on Professor Umbridge, as if nothing mattered more than hearing her speech. However, the other teachers failed to conceal their astonishment as skillfully. Professor Sprout’s eyebrows disappeared under her tousled hair, and Professor McGonagall’s lips became thinner than Harry had ever seen them. Never before had a new teacher dared to interrupt Dumbledore. Many students smirked; this woman clearly didn’t know how things were done at Hogwarts.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Umbridge began with an affected smile, "for your kind words of welcome."

Her voice was high-pitched, girlish, and breathy, and Harry felt an inexplicable surge of dislike. He knew one thing: everything about her, from her silly voice to her fluffy pink cardigan, repulsed him. She gave another small cough — "hem, hem" — and continued:

"How delightful, I must say, to be back at Hogwarts!" She smiled again, revealing very sharp teeth. "And to see so many happy little faces turned toward me!"

Harry scanned the hall but saw no happy faces. On the contrary, everyone was unpleasantly surprised to be addressed as if they were five-year-olds.

"I look forward to getting to know each of you and am confident we will become very good friends!"

The students began exchanging glances, some struggling to suppress laughter. At that moment, even the young Fujmaru commanded more respect from them, despite the headmaster’s wish for the students to befriend him — at least he had the sense to remain silent at the right moment and not interrupt Dumbledore mid-announcement.

"I’ll agree to be friends with her only until I have to borrow her cardigan," Parvati whispered to Lavender, and both burst into silent giggles.

"I’ll help you," Jeanne joined in.

Professor Umbridge emitted another "hem, hem," but when she spoke again, the breathy enthusiasm in her voice was almost gone. Her tone sounded much more businesslike. Her words were dull and seemed memorized.

"The Ministry of Magic has always regarded the education of young witches and wizards as a matter of utmost importance. The rare talents you were born with can be wasted if they are not nurtured and honed with careful guidance. The ancient skills that distinguish the magical community from all others must be passed down from generation to generation — otherwise, we will lose them forever. To cherish, multiply, and refine the treasures of magical knowledge accumulated by our ancestors is the primary duty of those who have dedicated themselves to the noble profession of teaching."

At this point, Professor Umbridge paused and gave a slight nod to her colleagues, none of whom acknowledged the gesture. Professor McGonagall frowned so severely that she resembled a bird of prey. Harry distinctly saw her exchange a meaningful glance with Professor Sprout. Meanwhile, Umbridge cleared her throat once more and continued:

"Each new headmaster of Hogwarts has brought something new to the challenging task of leading this ancient school, and so it should be, for without progress, stagnation and decay would be our fate. However, progress for the sake of progress should not be encouraged, for much of our time-tested traditions do not require revision. Thus, a balance is necessary between old and new, between constancy and change, between tradition and innovation…"

Harry felt his attention waning: his mind switched on and off. The silence that always filled the hall when Dumbledore spoke was nowhere to be found: students leaned toward each other, whispering and giggling. At the Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang chatted animatedly with her friends. Luna Lovegood, sitting not far from Cho, had taken out her *Quibbler* again. At the Hufflepuff table, Ernie Macmillan was one of the few still looking at Professor Umbridge, though his gaze was glazed, and Harry had no doubt he was only pretending to listen: a shiny new prefect badge gleamed on his chest, and he had to behave accordingly. Professor Umbridge seemed oblivious to the students' unruly behavior. It was as if, even if a wild rebellion broke out right under her nose, she would still finish her speech. The teachers, however, continued to listen attentively. Hermione, it seemed, didn’t miss a single word from Umbridge, but it was clear that these words didn’t sit well with her.

"…because some changes bring genuine improvement, while others reveal their uselessness over time. Similarly, some old customs deserve preservation, while those that have become obsolete should be abandoned. Let us step into a new era — an era of openness, efficiency, and responsibility — preserving what deserves to be preserved, perfecting what needs improvement, and eradicating what has no place in our lives."

She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. The teachers followed his lead, but Harry noticed that some only clapped once or twice. A few students joined in, but most had missed the end of the speech they hadn’t been listening to, and before they could applaud sincerely, Dumbledore stood up again.

"Thank you, Professor Umbridge, for your highly informative speech," he said with a slight bow. "Now, let me continue. Quidditch team tryouts will take place…"

"That’s certainly informative," Hermione remarked quietly.

"Just don’t tell me you liked it," Ron said softly, turning his well-fed face toward Hermione. "One of the most boring speeches I’ve ever heard. And I grew up with Percy."

"‘Informative’ and ‘liked’ are two very different things," Hermione retorted. "And if you listen carefully, you can understand that Umbridge told us a whole bunch of interesting things."

"Really?" Harry asked, surprised. "To me, it sounded like nonsense."

"In that ‘nonsense,’ my dear, something very important is hidden," Hermione said darkly, frowning.

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, scratching his head.

"For instance, this: ‘Progress for the sake of progress should not be encouraged.’ Or this: ‘Eradicating what has no place in our lives.’ Doesn’t that say anything to you?"

"And what does it mean?" Ron asked directly, losing patience.

"It means," Hermione lowered her voice, as if afraid of being overheard, "that the Ministry of Magic intends to interfere in Hogwarts affairs. And Umbridge isn’t here by accident. She’s Fudge’s eyes and ears."

"What about that… visitor?" Ron asked when Dumbledore finished his speech. "Why hasn’t he said a word?"

"Fujimaru," Hermione corrected him. "He seems serious to me. And very experienced, despite being young. You can tell he’s seen a lot in his life. And not just seen it but lived through it. It’s like he’s constantly preparing for something, waiting for something." Hermione paused, lost in thought for a moment. "I don’t know why he was sent to Hogwarts or what he’s investigating here, when it’s clear that no one just becomes a wizard out of nowhere. But one thing I’m sure of: he’s not just an observer; he’s a much more significant figure. And perhaps it’s best if we avoid crossing paths with him for now. He gives off an… otherworldly vibe. But at the same time," Hermione hesitated, struggling to find the right word, "he doesn’t seem hostile to me. Quite the opposite."

"Do you think he was sent here to fight Voldemort?" Harry speculated.

"Tsk, another Moody," Ron snorted. "What about those tattoos on his hand? Have you seen them?"

"Yeah," Hermione replied. "I’ve never seen anything like them before. And it’s all very strange. If ordinary people can’t become wizards, where did all these newcomers come from?"

"Probably Fujimaru is here to figure that out," Harry shrugged.

"Quite possible," Hermione nodded. "Or for some other purpose related to this strange phenomenon of newly converted wizards."

"What’s in the Prophet?" Harry asked.

"Not much," Hermione answered. "No one knows why it happened. Some say it’s the result of that same curse Voldemort cast that the Muggles witnessed. Others think it’s some kind of glitch in the magical world, a disruption of balance."

"Balance?" Harry repeated. "Do you think it could somehow be connected to…"

He stopped, hesitant to say the word "Grail" aloud. He glanced secretly at Jeanne. If anyone knew the answer, it was her. But Jeanne seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep, completely unresponsive to what was happening. Apparently, Umbridge’s lulling speech had done its job.

"To what?" Hermione prompted.

"You remember, Ron," Harry turned to his friend, "at the end of the Tournament, at the graveyard…"

"Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that now, huh?" Ron grimaced.

"Jeanne said the Grail isn’t just an artifact," Harry stubbornly continued, "but something more. What if it’s somehow connected to what’s happening now?"

"Maybe," Hermione shrugged. "But until we learn more, it’s all just speculation."

Before going to bed, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about whether the Holy Grail was connected to recent events, and if so, whose hands it was in. Had it made the decision itself? What purpose did the transformation of so many Muggles into wizards serve? Harry had no answers, only an overwhelming sense of something ominous and massive looming over the world, like the shadow of an insurmountable horror ready to strike at any moment and crash down like a monstrous tsunami, wiping everything in its path and leaving nothing behind but a burned-out graveyard for six billion people.

Chapter Text

In the morning, as Ron and Hermione were descending to the common room, they stumbled upon an announcement pinned to the bulletin board on top of all the others. It was written in Fred and George's sprawling handwriting and read:

"Attention! The Weasley brothers are looking for brave volunteers to test their latest inventions! Easy money! Full confidentiality! Contact us at any time of the day in the twins' bedroom. P.S. The administration is not responsible for any possible side effects."

"This is beyond all limits!" Hermione exclaimed, tearing down the notice. "As if they don't have enough problems with Mrs. Weasley, now they're dragging students into their antics! Ron, they need to be watched closely."

"What's worrying you?" Ron waved her off. "So they're fooling around a bit."

"A bit?" Hermione snorted. "Their 'fooling around' has half the school on edge!"

When they entered the Great Hall and took their seats at the Gryffindor table, Angelina Johnson approached them, radiating energy.

"Hi, guys!" she said, giving everyone a wide smile. "How was your summer?"

"Great," Harry smiled.

"And I have some news for you," Angelina spoke quickly, as if afraid of being interrupted. "I'm now the captain of the Quidditch team!"

"Congratulations!" Harry genuinely rejoiced. "That's great!"

"Finally, training will take place without Wood's boring lectures," he thought to himself.

"So," Angelina continued, "we now need a new Keeper instead of Oliver. I decided to hold tryouts on Friday at five o'clock. I want to see what everyone is capable of. And the whole team needs to be there – we need to discuss the strategy for the season."

"We'll be there," Harry nodded. "By the way, I have a candidate for the position of Keeper."

"Really?" Angelina perked up. "And who might that be?"

Harry meaningfully nodded towards Dudley, who was enthusiastically devouring his third helping of pumpkin pie, paying no attention to what was happening.

"My cousin," Harry explained. "I think he'll make an excellent Keeper. He's big, strong, and has good reflexes."

"Well then," Angelina looked at Dudley with interest, "let's see what he's capable of. Hi," she addressed Dudley, approaching him.

Dudley raised his head, staring at Angelina in surprise. His mouth was full of pie, so he could only mutter something indistinct in response and smile awkwardly.

Angelina snorted but said nothing. She gave Dudley another appraising look and, nodding to Harry, moved to the other end of the table.

"Seems like you made an impression," Harry smirked, nudging Dudley in the side.

"What did she expect?" Dudley muttered after swallowing the pie.

"That's Angelina, the captain of our Quidditch team," Harry explained. "I told her you want to try out as a Keeper."

"Can I really?" Dudley's eyes lit up.

"Of course," Harry nodded. "Tryouts are on Friday. Come by, show what you're capable of."

Professor McGonagall, passing along the table, was handing out schedules to the students.

"Well, what a day awaits us today!" Ron groaned, studying his parchment. "History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and to top it all off – double Defense Against the Dark Arts! Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and that Umbridge all in one day!" Ron grimaced as if he'd eaten a lemon. "If only Fred and George would hurry up and finish their Skiving Snackboxes..."

"What's this? Am I hearing things?" Fred asked, who had just appeared with George. "The Head Boy of Hogwarts wants to skip classes?"

He squeezed onto the bench next to Harry.

"Here, take a look at what we've got today," Ron said gloomily, pushing his schedule towards Fred. "The worst Monday of my life."

"I understand you, little brother," Fred nodded after looking at the sheet. "Well, I can sell you a Blood Blisterpod at a discount."

"Why the sudden discount?" Ron asked suspiciously.

"For the reason that once your nose starts bleeding from it, it won't stop. We don't have an antidote yet," George explained, taking some smoked fish.

"Well, congratulations," Ron grumbled, stuffing the schedule into his pocket. "No thanks, I'd rather sit through the lessons."

"If anything, you can always start a small fire..." Jeanne whispered.

"I'll give you a hint if needed," Ron muttered.

Only Dudley listened attentively to the conversation about the Skiving Snackboxes and upcoming exams. It seemed that Fred and George had impressed him, and he was seriously considering buying some.

The first lessons brought nothing but disappointment. During Potions, which Snape conducted with particular prejudice, Harry somehow messed up the recipe for the Soothing Balm, and instead of turning light blue, it became poisonously green and emitted the smell of burnt rubber. Naturally, Snape didn't miss the opportunity to make a couple of sarcastic comments and deducted ten points from Gryffindor. To Harry's surprise, Dudley completed the task flawlessly. His balm turned out exactly the right color and consistency it was supposed to be.

"Have you brewed potions before, Mr. Dursley?" Snape asked with unexpected approval in his voice, looking intently at Dudley over his hooked nose.

"Had some practice," Dudley replied cautiously, unsure how to react to Snape's attention. "Practiced a bit at home."

"Splendid," Snape nodded. "Now teach your cousin to read instructions carefully."

During History of Magic, Harry openly dozed off, struggling to suppress yawns. Professor Binns' monotonous droning about goblin rebellions induced an overwhelming sense of boredom. To entertain himself somehow, he started playing "charades" with Ron, guessing different words and trying to act them out using gestures.

Divination was no better. Professor Trelawney, with her usual foggy manner of speaking, suggested the students engage in dream interpretation. Harry decided not to risk it and made up some absurd dream about flying hippogriffs, just to avoid telling about his real nightmare – Voldemort's return at the cemetery. He remembered that dream too well and had no desire to relive those terrible events again.

Dudley, on the contrary, enthusiastically took to the task. He described in detail his dream about his first arrival at Hogwarts, meeting Hagrid, and learning that he was a wizard.

"It's a sign!" Professor Trelawney declared after studying Dudley's notes. "A great future awaits you, young man! You are the chosen one!"

"Chosen by whom?" Ron muttered under his breath.

"Surely not by Dumbledore," Jeanne snorted, sitting nearby.

Dudley smiled awkwardly, unsure how to react to Trelawney's words.

The first Defense lesson of the year began with an oppressive silence. As the students settled into their desks, they curiously and apprehensively glanced at Professor Umbridge. No one knew what to expect from the new teacher, but her sickly-sweet voice and deliberately affectionate manner of communication had already managed to evoke a strong feeling of dislike in many, including Harry. Moreover, she looked like a rather nasty and vindictive toad, just waiting for a chance to harm those around her.

"Good day, children!" Professor Umbridge sang when the bell rang. "My name is Dolores Umbridge."

She asked the class to greet her in unison, which evoked mixed feelings among the students. Some obediently complied with her request, some mumbled greetings under their breath, and some remained silent, exchanging meaningful glances with their desk mates.

"And now," Umbridge continued in her sweet voice, "put away your wands and get ready to read."

This statement caused a murmur of discontent in the classroom. Of course! No self-respecting Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher would start a lesson with such words. Harry sighed heavily, put his wand in his bag, and prepared his quill and parchment. Professor Umbridge, on the other hand, took her short wand from her purse and, with a sharp wave, wrote the lesson topic and course objectives on the board.

The lesson proceeded in an atmosphere of growing boredom and bewilderment. The students listlessly flipped through the pages of the textbook, not grasping the content. Many were openly bored: some doodled in the margins of their notebooks, some whispered with their neighbors, and some counted crows outside the window. Even usually diligent Hermione couldn't take it anymore and, slamming the textbook shut, raised her hand. Jeanne, sitting next to Harry, out of boredom started examining her nails and eventually even took out a nail file from her bag and began doing her nails, occasionally shooting scorching looks full of undisguised dislike at Umbridge. Dudley initially tried to understand the textbook's content but soon gave up and started observing his classmates with interest.

When more than half of the class was openly ignoring the lesson, Professor Umbridge decided to break the silence.

"Miss..." she paused, as if trying to remember the name.

"Granger," Hermione prompted.

"Miss Granger, do you have a question about the lesson topic?" Umbridge asked with a saccharine smile.

"Yes, Professor," Hermione answered firmly. "I have a question regarding the objectives of this course."

"I'm listening attentively," Umbridge tilted her head to the side, pretending genuine interest.

"The objectives say nothing about using defensive spells in practice," Hermione stated. "Does this mean we won't be studying the practical side of defense?"

For a moment, silence reigned in the classroom. All eyes turned to Hermione and Professor Umbridge. Even Jeanne put aside her activity and watched the unfolding events with interest.

"Miss Granger," Umbridge smiled sweetly, revealing small sharp teeth, "I'm afraid you don't fully understand the purpose of this course. It was developed by the Ministry of Magic and aims to provide you with theoretical knowledge about defense against the Dark Arts."

"But what's the point of theory if we can't apply it in practice?" Hermione's voice carried unmistakable indignation. "After all, defense against the Dark Arts is primarily about practical skills!"

"Miss Granger," Umbridge's tone became even sweeter, "I don't think you face any danger within the walls of Hogwarts that would require the use of defensive spells."

"And if we're attacked outside of school?" Harry interjected, unable to restrain himself any longer. "How are we supposed to defend ourselves if we can't cast spells?"

"Mr. Potter," Umbridge turned to Harry, her smile widening even more, though her eyes grew cold, "in my classes, it's customary to raise your hand if you wish to speak."

Harry raised his hand, but Umbridge ignored his gesture and addressed Hermione again.

"Miss Granger, I repeat, this course was developed by the best specialists at the Ministry and fully meets all necessary requirements."

"But that's not enough!" Hermione persisted. "We must learn to defend ourselves not only in theory but also in practice!"

"Enough, Miss Granger," steel notes appeared in Umbridge's voice. "I do not intend to discuss the curriculum with you."

"Oh, yes, we will," came the voice of Jeanne from the back row, which, to Harry's surprise, sounded quiet but weighty [[1]].

Dead silence fell over the classroom. Without prior agreement, all students stared at Jeanne. She, paying no attention to the gazes, slowly rose from her seat, never taking her eyes off Umbridge. Even Umbridge momentarily lost her ability to speak, and when she finally spoke, there was no trace of sweetness in her voice:

"Excuse me, miss...?"

"D'Arc," Jeanne supplied, keeping her eyes fixed on Umbridge.

"Miss D'Arc, I'm afraid you don't quite understand your place," Umbridge's tone turned icy. "You're just a student, and I'm a professor appointed by the Ministry of Magic. And only I decide what and how to teach in my classes."

"Perhaps," Jeanne agreed, slowly walking down the aisle between the desks. "But I won't allow my friends to suffer because of your incompetence and tyranny, and I won't tolerate the Ministry telling me what to do."

"How dare you!" Umbridge shrieked, losing the last remnants of self-control. Her face took on an ashen hue, betraying extreme rage.

"Very simply," Jeanne replied, her voice carrying an undisguised threat. "I'm used to taking action rather than just talking."

"Miss D'Arc, I see you don't understand who you're dealing with," Umbridge hissed through clenched teeth, not taking her eyes off her.

"On the contrary, I understand perfectly," Jeanne stopped in the aisle, her entire demeanor showing readiness to continue. "With a nasty toad who thinks she can tell me what to do. Well, let me disappoint you: I'm not one to dance to someone else's tune."

Umbridge turned white with anger, but Jeanne, paying no attention to her, stood waiting, like a predator ready to pounce.

Right before Umbridge's eyes, a rebellion was brewing against the sterile, safe, and soft curriculum she had chosen. Too clean, too safe, and too gentle, it held no interest for the students, but she, skillfully pretending to be the children's best friend, parried all their arguments.

"Who, pray tell, would attack you and children like you?" Professor Umbridge asked in her disgusting honeyed voice.

"Mmm, let me think..." Harry said in a mock-thoughtful tone. "Maybe... Lord Voldemort?"

Ron gasped for air. Lavender Brown screamed. Neville slid sideways off his stool. However, Professor Umbridge didn't bat an eyelid. She measured Jeanne and Harry with a glance before looking at Potter with grim satisfaction.

"Minus ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter."

The class sat silently and motionless. Some stared at Umbridge, others at Potter.

"Now I would like to say something directly and frankly," Umbridge continued, ignoring the students' reactions.

Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned forward, spreading her stubby-fingered palms across the desk.

"You've been told that some dark wizard has risen from the dead..."

"He wasn't dead," Harry angrily objected, "But that he returned is true!"

"Mr-Potter-you've-already-taken-ten-points-from-your-house-don't-harm-yourself-now," Professor Umbridge recited in one breath, without looking at him. "Let me repeat: you were told that some Dark wizard is once again at large. That is a lie."

"No, it's NOT A LIE!" Harry shouted. "I saw him, I fought him!"

"He's telling the truth!" Jeanne exclaimed, approaching Umbridge's desk within striking distance. "I saw it all too!"

"Minus fifty points from Gryffindor," Umbridge's voice trembled, betraying her agitation.

"Make it minus a thousand!" Jeanne placed her hands on her hips.

Her pupils narrowed to microscopic size, and in her right palm, flames spontaneously ignited. The heat from the flames made the air in the classroom heavy, and beads of sweat appeared on the foreheads of those standing nearby.

"Hear the cry of my soul, overflowing with rage," Jeanne began, raising her flaming hand upwards. "La grond..."

Detecting the smell of smoke coming from the wooden floor of the classroom and noticing sparks jumping along the walls, Harry jumped from his seat, ran to Jeanne, grabbed her hand to extinguish the flames, and hissed:

"Stop! It's not worth it!"

He didn't know what exactly Jeanne intended to do to Umbridge, but he understood that nothing good would come of it. There was no need to give the Ministry of Magic extra reasons for accusations and punishments, especially now when the situation was already extremely tense.

"You will be punished, Mr. Potter and Miss d'Arc!" Professor Umbridge triumphantly exclaimed, noticing Harry's actions. "Tomorrow after lessons, at five o'clock, in my office. Let me tell you all once again: this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic assures you that no Dark wizards pose any threat to you. If you are concerned about anything, feel free to come to me outside of class hours. If anyone troubles you with tales of resurrected Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help you. I am your friend. Now please continue reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners.'"

"So according to you, that plane just fell by itself, and its passengers collectively went mad in one second?" Harry continued indignantly.

"The crash of that plane was nothing more than an accident," Umbridge cut him off.

"It was Voldemort who cast the Unforgivable Curse into the sky," Harry countered.

He felt himself trembling all over. He had told very few people about this, and certainly not all his eagerly listening classmates. He couldn't even imagine, but perhaps some newcomers were somehow connected to the passengers of that Airbus?

"Before he met me," Jeanne interjected, not lowering her head, as if still ready to continue the fight.

Umbridge eyed them both very predatorily. Jeanne boldly and without the slightest pretense returned an even more predatory gaze, causing Umbridge to involuntarily jerk back, away from Jeanne.

Sixty students attentively watched their silent standoff, horrified, awaiting the storm to break. Contrary to all expectations, it didn't happen, and Umbridge, unable to contain her anger any longer, simply asked them both to deliver a note to Professor McGonagall.

Upon encountering their head of house in the corridor, Harry and Jeanne handed her the note from Umbridge. Professor McGonagall, after reading the message, merely pursed her lips and, without saying a word, resolutely headed to her office, gesturing for Harry and Jeanne to follow her.

Professor McGonagall's office was small but cozy in its own way. Tapestries depicting scenes from Hogwarts history hung on the walls, books crowded the shelves, and on the desk, next to a stack of neatly folded parchments, stood a tin box with checkered biscuits that both students and McGonagall herself adored.

"Please sit down," McGonagall said, indicating two chairs in front of her desk. With a gesture full of maternal care, she pushed the box of biscuits closer to the startled students. "And tell me what happened. Try not to omit any details."

Still seething with indignation, Harry recounted everything that had happened during the lesson to Professor McGonagall, leaving out no detail: neither Umbridge's unbearably saccharine manner, nor her strange statements, nor Jeanne's outburst. Jeanne herself, sitting nearby, kept interjecting angry comments, and her eyes still blazed with fire. Unconsciously, Harry took a biscuit, broke it in half, and offered one half to Jeanne. She stopped drilling McGonagall with her gaze, nodded gratefully, and accepted the treat. This small gesture, so simple and natural, somehow made Harry's heart beat faster.

After listening to them, Professor McGonagall maintained silence for a while, pressing her lips tightly together, then thoughtfully said:

"Yes, Miss d'Arc, I understand your indignation," she said, addressing Jeanne. "Professor Umbridge's behavior, to put it mildly, leaves much to be desired. But, I'm afraid, in this situation, there's little we can do. Professor Umbridge was appointed by the Ministry, and..."

"So we're just supposed to silently endure her antics?" Jeanne interrupted. "Allow her to warp the minds of our students?"

"Of course not," McGonagall merely shook her head, showing solidarity with Jeanne in her demeanor. "But we need to act carefully. An open conflict with Umbridge will lead to nothing good."

"Let her just try to harm us!" Jeanne clenched her fists. "I'll give her something..."

"Miss d'Arc, I strongly recommend you keep yourself under control," McGonagall said more softly but no less firmly this time. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled with Professor Umbridge's methods, and I share Mr. Potter's indignation, but right now the most important thing is not to fall for provocations. We need time to figure out how to proceed. And please, no more incidents with arson, no matter how much she provokes you. If she decides to overstep, believe me, I'll find a way to put her in her place, but for now, we all need to calm down and carefully consider our further strategy. In the meantime, help yourselves," McGonagall said, offering Harry and Jeanne another biscuit each.

"And how long are we supposed to wait?" Jeanne asked challengingly, accepting the treat. "Until she turns Hogwarts into a branch of the Ministry?"

"Jeanne, calm down," Harry intervened. "Professor McGonagall is right. We need to be careful right now."

Jeanne stared at McGonagall for a few more seconds, then exhaled loudly and turned away.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll try to keep myself under control. But if that toad tries anything again..."

"I understand you, Miss d'Arc," McGonagall nodded. "Now go. And try to avoid running into Professor Umbridge for the time being."

Harry and Jeanne left McGonagall's office, still seething with indignation.

"What do we do now?" Harry asked, unconsciously touching Jeanne's hand, sending shivers down his spine. Jeanne herself, upon his touch, immediately calmed down and shifted her attention to Harry, which surprised him.

"I don't know yet," Jeanne replied, pausing for a moment with her hand in his, as if contemplating something, then carefully withdrew it. "But I won't leave this alone. Let's go to the library for now, look for information. Maybe we'll find something to rein in Umbridge. We'll see. And by the way, tell your people that pushing new ministry laws through Hogwarts won't end well. And let them be prepared for anything. This year won't be simple."

"And what do you plan to do?" Harry asked.

"I'll talk to the headmaster," Jeanne nodded towards where a girl with pink hair sat surrounded by several Gryffindors. "Maybe I can find out what an international observer is doing here."

***

In the common room, before going to bed, Harry, Ron, and Hermione discussed the events again.

"What do you think he's doing at Hogwarts?" Ron asked, nodding towards where Fudjimaru sat at a distant table. He, paying no attention to the noise in the common room, was engrossed in reading some book, occasionally making notes in a notebook.

"It's hard to say," Hermione replied. "But I have a feeling he's not here for nothing."

"You're acting suspicious today," Ron smirked. "Could it be because of Umbridge?"

"Anything's possible," Hermione shrugged. "It's just... too many strange things have been happening lately. And that Fudjimaru..."

"What's wrong with him?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Hermione frowned. "It's just... I have a feeling we're missing something. Something very important."

"Maybe that's why he's staying quiet, wanting to figure everything out first," Harry suggested.

"Maybe," Hermione agreed. "Or maybe he has his own secrets."

At that moment, Jeanne approached them.

"Well, had enough of ogling your boyfriend?" Ron smirked.

"Watch your tongue, Weasley," Jeanne cut him off coldly.

"And what's with that girl with pink hair?" Harry asked, ignoring Ron's comment. "And what's that creature with her? By the way, she's not from Hogwarts either."

Jeanne remained silent, keeping her eyes on Harry, as if deciding whether to tell him anything at all.

"Don't want to talk – don't," Harry said, averting his eyes, unable to withstand her gaze.

"Just be careful around them," Jeanne finally said, sinking into a chair. "That's all." [[2]]

Chapter Text

"Listen, I've been meaning to ask you," Harry addressed Jeanne as they slowly made their way back to the Gryffindor common room after passing McGonagall's office. "When you talk about the 'cry of your soul'... I mean, when you wanted to incinerate Umbridge with your gaze... what exactly is that?"

"My Phantasm," Jeanne shrugged as if discussing something mundane. "A Noble Phantasm, to be precise. A special ability of Servants, woven from their essence. It guarantees the destruction of most opponents."

"And what does your Phantasm do?" Harry asked curiously.

"That's a long story, Potter," Jeanne grimaced, seemingly reluctant to answer. "In short, it allows me to summon flames from the depths of my soul, woven from hatred and malice, pierce enemies with spikes, and burn them on a pyre of hellfire. That's all."

"Wait," Harry stopped, shocked. "You wanted to do that to Voldemort too?..."

Jeanne looked intently into Harry's eyes before slowly nodding. A shadow of displeasure mixed with some other emotion Harry couldn't identify flashed across her face.

"But why didn't you..." Harry didn't finish his sentence, unsure how to properly phrase his question.

"Why didn't I finish him at the cemetery?" Bitterness crept into Jeanne's voice. "There were reasons for that."

"Are there those whose Phantasms are stronger?" Harry asked cautiously, not wanting to know more about Jeanne's reasons just yet.

"Stronger?" Jeanne smirked. "There are those whose Phantasms can damage the very fabric of reality. But even the weakest among them can cause plenty of trouble."

These words sent an unpleasant chill down Harry's spine.

"Listen, can you somehow... summon a Servant to help?" Harry looked at Jeanne hopefully. "To protect or fight on your side?"

"You can," Jeanne stopped, crossing her arms over her chest, and tilted her head slightly, looking at Harry with her characteristic feigned indifference. "The one who summons the Servant becomes their Master. A contract is formed between them, and the Servant must obey the Master's orders. But, you know, this isn't like playing with a kitten. And Servants like me don't obey those weaker than me."

"Not even if that Master is Voldemort?" Harry felt nausea rising in his throat.

"A Servant is indifferent to whom they serve," Jeanne answered evenly. "There's only the Master's will and their own desire."

Harry stopped and slowly sat down on the stairs, unable to stop his knees from shaking. Jeanne climbed a couple of steps higher and looked back at him, waiting for him to continue. For a few seconds, Harry sat there, holding his head. He felt that after such news, he wouldn't be able to sleep normally for a while.

"Jeanne, is summoning a Servant very difficult?"

"It's too early for you to think about that," Jeanne softened imperceptibly, noticing Harry's state, but quickly resumed her unapproachable demeanor, signaling that the conversation was over. "But if you're so interested, it's very complicated. Voldemort probably couldn't handle it himself."

"With someone's help?"

"If he finds someone like Merlin to assist him – then yes," Jeanne explained. "Or, at worst, Gilgamesh. That king has everything imaginable in his collection, including catalysts for summoning any Servant."

"Catalysts?" Harry repeated.

"Items connected to the hero they want to summon," Jeanne clarified. "A fragment of their soul, if you will. Relics left behind by them. Something that held great significance and importance to them."

Harry looked up at Jeanne.

"And the Holy Grail, can it bestow magic upon non-magical people?"

"It can do anything," Jeanne replied after a slight pause, as if deciding something for herself.

Harry thought deeply. If he had the Grail, he would wish to bring his parents back to life and live surrounded by their love and care. He desperately wanted to imagine how he would go to work at the Ministry with his parents in the morning, how they would return home in the evening where some house-elf had prepared dinner, how Sirius and Lupin, and maybe even Pettigrew, who never betrayed the Potters, would come for his birthday. His nose already began catching the aromas of a delicious homemade dinner, and images of a happy family appeared before his eyes. Such wild fantasies brought tears to his eyes.

Jeanne didn't react to his emotions – such things were alien to her. She stood nearby, silently watching him, trying to mentally penetrate the hidden meaning of what was happening.

Harry got up from the stairs and, not knowing what to do with the overwhelming feelings, nervously paced back and forth, trying to steady his trembling voice.

"And you?" he asked, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. "What would you wish for if you had the Grail?"

"Oh," Jeanne paused, savoring the anticipation, "I would throw such a celebration that this wretched world would remember it for a long time."

"Celebration?" Harry looked at her in confusion.

"Yes. I'd burn all the unbelievers on a huge purifying pyre," triumphant notes sounded in her voice. "And build a new world, my own."

"And how would you be different from Voldemort?" Harry quietly asked, feeling a chill run down his spine.

"I don't divide people into pure and impure," Jeanne shrugged. "Into wizards and Muggles. To me, they're all the same. All equally deserve purification."

Harry couldn't find the strength to argue. He sat back down on the stairs, staring at his shoes.

"You're no better than him," he said bitterly.

Jeanne approached him and sat down next to him, unexpectedly touching his shoulder with her hand.

"Can you teach me to see the difference?" genuine curiosity and uncertainty sounded in her voice for the first time since they'd met. "Between people and... non-people?"

"Besides Voldemort," Harry quickly added, turning away. He couldn't look into her amber eyes for long, which now reflected flashes of some unearthly hellfire. Horrific images of an alternative Hundred Years' War rose before his eyes, where Jeanne transformed into a ruthless demon-destroyer. Distorted faces of the dead in pain and terror, charred ruins of cities and villages, unnaturally twisted limbs and black voids of eye sockets seemed to follow him everywhere. But now, with Jeanne near, seeing her human face, feeling the warmth of her hand, the fear receded, replaced by a strange mix of attraction, longing, and tenderness.

"And Umbridge too?" Jeanne asked insinuatingly, ignoring Harry's mention of Voldemort, as if wanting to confirm she understood him correctly.

"At your discretion," Harry answered after a brief pause, shrugging.

When they entered the Gryffindor common room, Harry found Ron and Hermione there. They were preparing to scold them but, seeing their faces, realized it wasn't necessary.

"What did McGonagall say?" Ron asked when Harry and Jeanne returned to the common room. Both looked dejected, which didn't bode well.

"She didn't object," Harry dryly replied, sitting down in a chair next to Ron and Hermione. "She didn't scold us, but detention with Umbridge is mandatory. Now we'll have to go to her five days this week at five o'clock."

"What a bitch!" Ron exclaimed. "And that's right before Quidditch tryouts!"

"I know," Harry grumbled unhappily. "Angelina's going to kill me."

"Maybe you should talk to this Umbridge? Tell her the Dark Lord was just a dream," suggested Dudley, squeezing into the common room with two large plates full of food.

"Yeah, right!" Hermione responded. "She has special scores to settle with him!"

"What makes you say that?" Dudley wondered, wolfing down a chicken sandwich.

"This!" Hermione threw a bundle of newspapers onto the table.

Taking them in his hands, Harry immediately read several striking headlines. His name wasn't mentioned, nor was Voldemort's, but they all shared a common theme – inexplicable and mysterious events of the past summer. Harry sat on the couch in the common room and began reading them.

"The investigation into the crash that occurred on the night of June 24-25 with an Airbus A320 has been completed. Many wizards are dissatisfied with the results and doubt the version of the incident published by the Ministry, as the Minister of Magic stated he sees nothing in what happened except an accident." Harry read aloud, shifting his gaze from the newspaper to his friends. "Yeah, sure... An accident."

"An accident that everyone saw except the lazy ones," Jeanne smirked, peering over his shoulder.

"My father told me Fudge agreed to take your side," Ron muttered. "We were shocked by such news later."

"Maybe someone's using Imperius on him. Malfoy, for example," Hermione suggested.

"Today, the transcript of the interrogation of the suspect, known as Bartemius Crouch Jr., was made public. From it, we learned that he infiltrated Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry under the guise of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. According to him, on the appointed day, he enchanted the Goblet of Fire with a Confundus Charm, inserting the name of The Boy Who Lived. However, even for him, it remained a mystery why another participant's name came out of the Goblet – a fifth-year student of Harry Potter named Jeanne d'Arc. As the suspect assured us, all this time he was following instructions allegedly received directly from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He answered all questions about the Dark Lord evasively and vaguely."

"So they did interrogate him?" Harry asked Hermione.

She nodded.

"He told many interesting things."

"And where is he now?"

"In Azkaban, of course."

"Until Voldemort decides to free his followers," Harry snorted. "By the way, why hasn't he done it yet?"

"What do you think?" Hermione asked, looking meaningfully at Jeanne. "I think it's all because of her."

"Oh, so I knocked the arrogance out of him?" Jeanne grinned predatorily. "How did that happen? Could my modest person really have scared the Dark Lord?"

"Don't get carried away," Hermione immediately interjected. "If he's not calling his former allies now, he might be looking for ways to become stronger."

"Just wasting time," Jeanne rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

"In recent days, there has been a surge in magical abilities among teenagers older than eleven, alarming wizards worldwide. Consequently, an international commission has been established, accompanied by an independent expert body whose main task is to help newcomers adapt to life in the wizarding world," Harry continued reading. "Their staff will also investigate the causes of the increase in wizards born to Muggles. The international commission has already ordered its specialist – a young Japanese wizard Fujimaru – to be sent to Hogwarts for the corresponding position."

Harry showed his friends a photograph featuring the young man they had seen at the teachers' table. Fujimaru stood surrounded by other commission members, dressed in a simple yet elegant suit, smiling at the camera. There was no trace of the mysteriousness Hermione noticed in him, but his dark eyes remained equally perceptive.

"So, Fujimaru's appointment – was it Dumbledore's conscious decision?" Harry pondered.

"He looks like someone from a different position," Hermione mused. "And he behaves differently. It's like he sees through everyone, yet always seems to be preparing for something."

"You don't trust him?"

"I want to first find out whose side he's on," Hermione replied. "And understand what exactly he's investigating here. I don't believe it's just about helping newcomers adapt."

"I'm curious," Jeanne chimed in, "why would Dumbledore suddenly agree to let someone from outside into Hogwarts? It doesn't seem like him."

"The latest events cast doubt on Cornelius Fudge's competence as Minister of Magic," Harry read the next headline. "Many wizards who voted for Fudge five years ago are unhappy that the minister isn't providing any truthful explanations. Tension hangs in the air, unseen in the magical community since the rise of the Dark Wizard."

"Recently, renowned wizard Amos Diggory linked the June catastrophe to the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, stating that all signs combined with independent investigation results indicate the use of a powerful Unforgivable Curse, which previously affected famous Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom. Moreover," Harry hesitated, "Cedric Diggory, one of the Triwizard Tournament winners, gave a detailed interview describing the Dark Lord's resurrection. This interview caused a major political scandal. Furthermore, Cornelius Fudge's future as Minister remains questionable."

"And now he's embedding this nasty toad into our teaching staff," Hermione commented on the article.

"Fudge's last chance to keep his seat, if he declares me a liar?"

"He wants Cedric's testimony to lose weight," Hermione explained. "For that, he needs to portray you and Jeanne as liars and make you retract your statements. Better yet – isolate you from others so you can't influence anyone."

"But why all this? Doesn't he have enough evidence of Voldemort's return?" Harry wondered.

"He's desperate, Harry! Don't you understand? He's afraid. Afraid of Voldemort, afraid of losing power, afraid to admit he was wrong."

"I think he's doing it in vain," Dudley joined the conversation again, tearing himself away from his food. "It'll cause more problems."

News of the confrontation with Umbridge spread through Hogwarts like wildfire. On every corner, students retold details of their conversation. Some even discussed what they heard openly in front of Harry or Jeanne, hoping they would join the conversation and reveal new shocking details of that mysterious night. As Harry expected, Angelina wasn't pleased about his detention and demanded he lie to Umbridge, saying Voldemort was just a dream.

Harry spent the rest of the day in gloomy anticipation. At five o'clock, as instructed, he went to Umbridge's office with Jeanne. He couldn't shake the feeling they were walking straight into a trap, and the thought of the impending punishment made his stomach churn unpleasantly.

Umbridge's office matched its owner: sickeningly pink, adorned with tacky ruffles and numerous pictures of kittens. On one of the tables, Harry noticed a stack of quills, apparently prepared specifically for punishments.

"Sit down," Umbridge purred, pointing to two chairs in front of her desk. "Mr. Potter, you will write: 'I must not tell lies.' Miss d'Arc, you will write: 'I must respect my teachers.'"

Harry took the quill Umbridge handed him and felt an unpleasant chill. The quill was unusually long and sharp, with a bright red, blood-like nib.

"How many times?" he asked hoarsely.

"As many as it takes for the meaning to sink in," Umbridge smiled sweetly.

Harry dipped the quill in ink and began writing on the parchment. With each new word, the pain grew stronger, as if someone was scratching his hand with a sharp blade. He gritted his teeth to avoid screaming and continued writing, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Jeanne. She sat, paying no attention to Umbridge, clutching the quill in her hand, not rushing to start the assignment.

"Miss d'Arc, why are you hesitating?" Umbridge asked, approaching Jeanne. "Or are you refusing to follow my instruction?"

"Not at all," Jeanne measured her with an unreadable, superior look. "I just want to savor the moment."

Then she brought the quill to the parchment and began forcefully scratching it, not caring that she was leaving only ugly blotches. After a minute, Jeanne demonstratively broke the quill in half, and Umbridge, approaching her, handed her a new one, which Jeanne immediately broke in several places. When Umbridge handed her a third, Jeanne pretended to write, moving the quill across the parchment, then threw both the quill and the parchment to the floor, causing it to instantly catch fire but then extinguish without causing any harm, except perhaps the smell of burning.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Umbridge squealed, backing away from her.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Jeanne asked challengingly, looking at her. "Didn't you want to cause us pain?"

Harry, who couldn't tear his eyes away from Jeanne, watched in amazement. He knew Jeanne hated Umbridge but didn't expect her to openly defy her. Most surprisingly, Umbridge, it seemed, couldn't do anything to her. What worried Harry most was that Jeanne, losing control, might use her Phantasm against Umbridge.

"Miss d'Arc, you're crossing all boundaries!" Umbridge hissed, but her voice no longer held its previous confidence.

"Unlike you, I have none," Jeanne replied, piercing Umbridge with a glare that revealed her extreme anger.

This continued day after day. Harry, gritting his teeth, wrote lines in his own blood, feeling the words "I must not tell lies" appear on the back of his hand. He tried to ignore the pain, thinking that perhaps Umbridge was indeed sent by Fudge to spy on him and Dumbledore. Each day, the punishment became more unbearable, but Harry didn't give up. He vowed not to show Umbridge his weakness, not to give her that satisfaction. Jeanne, meanwhile, seemed to experience no discomfort at all. She easily broke quills, demonstratively burned holes through Umbridge with her gaze, set parchment on fire that burned without leaving ashes, and once, when Umbridge turned away, even did something with her hand that caused a series of blue sparks to run across Umbridge's desk, making her squeal and jump back as if chased by a pack of rats. But, to Harry's surprise, she never used her Phantasm, though her face clearly showed how much she wanted to. Every evening, after the punishment, Umbridge carefully inspected their hands. Harry's hand bore an ugly scar, but Jeanne's hand showed no trace, which seemed to amuse her but drove Umbridge mad with rage.

By the end of the week, Umbridge seemed to have given up hope of getting any result from Jeanne. On Friday, she didn't even bother giving her a new quill, just silently watched as Jeanne sat with clenched fists, tapping her fingers on the table, burning everything around her with her gaze, seemingly waiting for the moment to attack.

"My judgment confirms her as a monster in sheep's clothing," Jeanne hissed as she left Umbridge's office on the last day of detention.

Harry didn't respond. He was too exhausted and angry to continue the conversation. But deep down, he was grateful to Jeanne for her support and for not letting Umbridge break her.

Chapter Text

That night, Jeanne didn't go to bed. Instead, she ascended to the Astronomy Tower, where she liked to be during her rare moments of peace when she managed to escape from herself. Sitting on a low ledge, she directed an unfocused gaze at the dark sky. The magical firmament was dotted with bright colors of rare clouds. They took on a variety of shapes and barely obscured the real sea of shining stars and galaxies that had lit up in the night sky, which was crossed by a silver lunar disc. Like some enormous curious eye, it silently observed Jeanne sitting on the ledge. A light breeze played with Jeanne's ash-white hair, tugging at the edges of her dark jacket. Somewhere below, in the Forbidden Forest, owls hooted, a few more birds flew silently across the sky, and from the trees came the quiet chirping of other nocturnal birds. The night world lived its own life, barely noticeable and hardly understood by those who would never trade it for a day full of solar warmth and light, but Jeanne didn't hear these sounds. She was lost in her thoughts, in her memories, which burned inside her no less fiercely than hellfire.

Before her mental vision rose that fateful day when the bright morning turned into night, when she, accused of heresy and witchcraft, was tied to a wooden stake in the middle of the square in Rouen. She saw before her not the uneven tongues of flame, but the faces of her enemies, full of malice and hatred. She heard not the crackling of burning logs, but fragments of phrases, accusations, slander... "Witch! Heretic! Servant of the Devil!" And she saw how bright sparks flew upwards through the thick choking smoke. Tightly bound to the wooden stake, she stood amidst the burning flames, whispering a prayer with her last strength, clutching a small wooden cross given to her by one of the compassionate onlookers. She stood alone with the flaming predator, tears streaming from her eyes, while overhead crows screamed piercingly, foretelling imminent death.

But what tormented her most was not this. Not the pain from burns, not the fear of death, but a deep sense of disappointment and loneliness. It seemed—only moments ago she had taken Orléans, only moments ago she dictated letters intended for kings and other important figures. Only moments ago she verbally spat in the face of that miserable Cauchon, incapable of even speaking French properly, and now she stood amidst the flames, unable to see the faces of her accusers. Where was the Dauphin, whom she had made king? Why did no one stand up for her, say a word in her defense? They all fabricated this, concocted it, but no one defended her, and there was no one left beside her whose face might have given her the slightest hope for a favorable outcome. Memories of accusations surfaced, one after another rising from the distant past. Around her, the crowd buzzed, watching the cruel execution, while she continued to pray. She wished no one harm... She felt no resentment over betrayal, and a single thought lived in her head—someone needed to suffer for the people, and if she cared for the people of France, whom she recently led into battle against invaders, no one else would do it for her.

Jeanne closed her eyes, trying to drive away the persistent visions. But they returned again and again, tormenting her soul. She saw her reflection in others' eyes—the reflection of a ruthless avenger, punishing all who dared oppose her. And this reflection frightened her. Had she really become such? Was there nothing left in her of the simple girl who once heard the voices of saints?

How had it happened that from the ashes of the pyre rose not the naive girl who believed in the voices of saints, but a merciless avenger thirsting for the blood of her enemies? What had caused her soul to burn to ashes, leaving only embers and hatred?

At some point, she thought she really heard someone's voice. It sounded in her head, whispering words of reproach and accusation, blaming her for succumbing to her dark side. This voice was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't figure out to whom it belonged.

"Is that you, Joan?" asked the voice, and Jeanne recognized it. It belonged to her, the one who perished on the pyre.

"Be silent!" whispered Jeanne, shaking her head, trying to dispel the illusion. "Don't dare talk to me like that! I did everything right!"

But the voice wouldn't stop. It grew louder, more insistent, and Jeanne felt the flames ignite again within her soul—this time flames of anger and wrath.

"No," she whispered, addressing the voice inside. "I don't want to listen to you anymore. You're dead. And I... I will live. And I will take revenge. For myself. For all of us."

She abruptly opened her eyes and looked around. The tower was empty. Only the wind roamed between the columns, and from the lower levels came the sound of a cat's meow.

Jeanne got to her feet. She needed to leave before Filch found her. But where to go? In the stuffy dormitory, the memories that couldn't be hidden or escaped would catch up with her again.

A sudden thought pierced her consciousness. What if...?

Jeanne closed her eyes, focusing. She imagined a dark corridor leading to the library, the smell of old books, the silence broken only by the rustle of pages. There she could find answers to her questions. There she could understand what was happening to her.

In the next moment, she vanished, leaving behind only a gentle breeze that stirred the curtains on the windows of the tower.

***

Saturday crept up unnoticed and descended with all the weight of irresponsibility and slight hope for rest. The burden proved so overwhelming that Harry didn't feel like getting up. His right hand stung, and he once again considered telling his friends about this punishment. But why should he, when he had already agreed with Jeanne to keep quiet? Especially since there were no marks left on her hand. He sat up in bed and pondered. Just five evenings, each hour at Umbridge's, he wrote lines. He wrote lines! The phrase echoed in his head, suddenly taking on a new, ominous meaning. He smiled sadly. What would Umbridge come up with next? Inviting students for tea and secretly slipping them Veritaserum? For a second, he imagined what confessions she would hear from him. Then a question arose—would this Veritaserum work on Jeanne? What stories would Umbridge hear from her if she started spilling all the truths about herself? Imagining hours-long monologues about the Hundred Years' War and detailed descriptions of every battle and every execution carried out by Jeanne, he grimly smiled. He envisioned Umbridge in a straitjacket. But it was unlikely she was the kind of person who would be seriously impressed by such tales.

Harry descended with these complicated thoughts into the Great Hall and sat down to eat breakfast. Opposite him sat Jeanne. Her face this time was unusually pensive, and during the entire breakfast, she only took one bite from a piece of fried potato that she awkwardly twirled in her hand. Harry didn't know what she was so deeply thinking about or where her usual self-satisfaction had gone, nor did he have time to think about it as Hermione shoved a fresh newspaper under his nose.

The Dark Lord has returned

Last evening, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge held a major press conference in his office and made an unexpected admission: the Airbus A320 that crashed in June was the work of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. According to him, there were several accidental witnesses among the Muggles whose interviews unexpectedly appeared in Muggle newspapers. They recounted that they had accidentally wandered onto an abandoned cemetery. Their eyes beheld the resurrected Dark Lord. The published descriptions fully matched Cedric Diggory’s testimonies. Currently, Cornelius Fudge’s political career is not threatened. Nevertheless, the Minister of Magic immediately established his personal guard and enlisted the services of several unnamed Aurors. The Minister concluded his speech with the words: “We are facing a serious threat that cannot be ignored or underestimated. I regret not reacting promptly and being swayed by emotions. We must unite as one community to combat this darkness. We will do everything in our power to protect our citizens and put an end to this new reign of terror that is once again raising its head. Let us not lose hope, but instead, with courage and determination, fight against this evil. The Ministry of Magic, of course, will keep the public informed about further developments in the investigation.”

Harry exhaled. He had begun to lose hope, but this political gesture by Fudge changed everything.

“Can it be?” Harry whispered. “Incredible! Who convinced him?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Hermione replied. “But if even this stubborn man came to his senses… I think it’s better we don’t know the reasons.”

“And I think he hired bodyguards for a reason,” Dudley mumbled, simultaneously looking at the newspaper and devouring salad with both cheeks. “Probably something happened, and he got scared.”

“You hit the nail on the head,” Harry nodded back, while his brain diligently sifted through all possible scenarios.

“Maybe someone persuaded him to cooperate…” Jeanne muttered pensively.

“Who dared threaten the Minister of Magic?” Neville asked.

“Neville! You’re talking as if the Minister of Magic isn’t human,” Hermione scolded him. “He’s just as human as all of us.”

“I bet He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself paid him a visit,” Ron suggested in a worried whisper. “You know how terrifying that would be?”

“Dead end,” Harry replied. “This guest loves to test all the Unforgivable Curses on his interlocutors in an obvious order. If he had come to greet Fudge, today we would have a new minister.”

“What do you think, Jeanne?” Dudley asked.

Glancing at Jeanne, he caught the direction of her gaze. Turning around, he realized — Jeanne was looking directly at Umbridge, and her look promised nothing good.

“Don’t provoke her,” he whispered to Jeanne. “You and Harry have already burned through your House points before classes even started.”

“To annoy an unpopular professor — minus ten points for Gryffindor, to break rules — minus fifty points for Gryffindor, to tell the truth — priceless,” she cunningly smiled in response.

“Are you urging us to rebel against her?” he didn’t understand.

“She won’t teach us anything, and her lessons bore me too much. Even if she stops pushing the Ministry agenda now, her educational program is unlikely to change.”

“I don’t get it,” Dudley scratched his head.

“Neither do I,” Jeanne smiled. “But we need to do something about it.”

With these words, she got up and left. Hermione watched her thoughtfully.

Only a few days had passed. During this time, Jeanne remained in deep contemplation and sometimes withdrew deeply into herself, while Harry again blurted out to Umbridge about Voldemort, revealing Professor Quirrell’s secret to the entire class. To his surprise, this time Umbridge limited herself to deducting points from Gryffindor and didn’t impose any punishment, only quickly jotting something down in her notebook. On Tuesday evening, after dinner, Hermione unexpectedly addressed Harry and Ron as they sat together in the Gryffindor common room. Dudley settled nearby, listening curiously to their conversation.

“You know,” Hermione began, “Jeanne is right.”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, not taking his eyes off his Potions textbook.

“You know… I thought maybe it’s time we… took matters into our own hands.”

“Do what?” Harry asked suspiciously, studying the scars on his hand.

“Teach ourselves Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Oh, come on,” Ron whined. “As if we don’t have enough work. Don’t you realize we’re already falling behind on homework, and it’s only the second week.”

“But this is more important than homework!” Hermione said. Harry and Ron stared at her.

“I thought nothing was more important!” Ron exclaimed.

“Nonsense. Of course, there is,” Hermione said, and Harry saw with alarm that her face flushed with the same passion with which she spoke about freeing house-elves. “Harry was right on the first lesson with Umbridge: we need to prepare for what awaits us beyond the school walls. We need to be able to defend ourselves. If we don’t learn anything this year…”

“But what can we do?” Ron objected. “You yourself said we need an experienced teacher.”

“And we have one,” Hermione looked expectantly at Harry.

“Who?” Ron didn’t understand.

“Harry,” Hermione explained.

“Me?!” Harry stared incredulously at his friend. “But I’m not a teacher!”

“But you know how to defend yourself,” Hermione countered. “You’ve faced the Dark Lord so many times and emerged victorious. Who, besides you, can teach us real defense?”

“But I don’t know how to teach,” Harry mumbled, feeling increasingly unsure. “And besides, we already have so much homework.”

“Homework is important,” Hermione agreed. “But Defense Against the Dark Arts is more crucial. Especially now that Voldemort has returned.”

“And when are we supposed to do this?” Ron asked. “We have classes, Quidditch…”

“We can practice in the evenings, on weekends,” Hermione suggested. “It won’t take much time. Just a couple of hours a week.”

“And where will we practice?” Ron continued to doubt. “Not in the common room, surely?”

“We can ask Dumbledore for an empty classroom,” Hermione said. “I think he won’t refuse.”

“And what if someone finds out?” Ron persisted. “Umbridge will definitely report to the Ministry, and we’ll have problems.”

“We’ll be careful,” Hermione replied. “We’ll gather in small groups. And by the way, Dudley could also benefit from learning.”

“I don’t mind,” Dudley nodded, flattered to be included in the conversation. “Even though I’m new to your world, I already understand that it’s better to know how to defend oneself here. And it’s necessary to know how to fend off Dementors. Plus, I’d like to learn more about my wand.”

“See?” Hermione triumphantly looked at Ron. “Even Dudley understands how important this is.”

“Well, let’s assume,” Ron gave in. “But where’s the guarantee that Harry can teach us something? One thing is to know how to do it yourself, and another is to explain it to others.”

“How much can we learn on our own?” Ron tiredly objected. “Alright, let’s go to the library, look up spells, try practicing, and then what?”

“No, I agree, we’ve passed the stage where we can only learn from books,” Hermione said. “We need a teacher, a real one, to show us how to use spells and correct us if we make mistakes.”

“If you’re talking about Lupin…” Harry began.

“No, no, not Lupin,” Hermione said. “He’s busy in the O…” She stumbled, looking awkward, and quickly corrected herself. “He’s busy, and we can’t meet with him often — only in Hogsmeade on weekends.”

“Then who?” Harry frowned.

Hermione took a deep breath:

“Isn’t it obvious? You, Harry.”

Silence fell. Outside the window, the sound of the wind was heard, and Harry involuntarily looked in that direction. Beyond the glass stretched a dark sky, studded with myriad stars. Somewhere out there, far away, was Sirius, and at this thought, Harry’s heart tightened.

“And actually, she’s right,” Dudley noted. “He saved me from those monsters last summer!”

Harry felt awkward and embarrassed. He had hoped until the last moment that his friends were joking, but they were absolutely serious and weren’t even smiling.

“Yeah,” Ron picked up, who apparently had already resigned himself to being Harry’s student. “In the first year, you saved the Philosopher’s Stone from You-Know-Who.”

“Just got lucky,” Harry said, “not skill…”

“In the second year, you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“Yes, but if Fawkes hadn’t appeared…”

“In the third year,” Ron raised his voice, “you repelled a hundred Dementors…”

“You know it was pure coincidence, if not for the Time-Turner…”

“Last year,” Ron almost shouted, “you confronted You-Know-Who again.”

“Listen,” Harry began to get angry because Hermione was already smiling. “Can you listen? All this sounds great, but I just got lucky — half the time I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t plan anything, acted blindly, and almost always someone helped me.”

Here is the translation of the provided excerpt:

"And still," Hermione persisted, "the most important thing is that among us are two students who have looked Voldemort in the face..." — she forced herself with difficulty to pronounce the name — "who fought him and won."

"That's different," Harry tried to object, but Hermione wasn't listening.

"And also Dudley, who seems ready to learn too," she continued. "And he already knows a lot, even though he's new to the magical world."

"I don't mind," Dudley nodded, flattered by Hermione's attention. "Even though I've only been in your world for a short time, I already understand that it's better to know how to defend yourself here. And you need to know how to fend off Dementors too. Plus, I wouldn’t mind learning more about my wand."

"See?" Hermione triumphantly looked at Harry. "Even Dudley understands how important this is."

"Alright, let's say so," Harry gave in. "But what are we going to do? Where do we start?"

"With simple spells," suggested Hermione. "The ones we already know. And then we'll see."

"And where will we practice?" Ron asked.

"We need to find a suitable place," Hermione replied. "Somewhere away from prying eyes."

"Maybe ask the headmaster if there’s a place in Hogwarts that would suit us?" Dudley suggested.

"Not a bad idea," Hermione nodded. "We’ll ask Professor McGonagall; she definitely should know."

"Alright," said Harry. "We'll figure out the location later. The main thing is that we’ve decided to start."

"Wait," Harry suddenly stopped. "What about Fujimaru? He’s here to help newcomers. Maybe he can assist us too? After all, he’s from the International Association of Wizards."

"I don’t think that’s a good idea," Hermione frowned. "We don’t yet know whose side he’s on. And besides, I have a feeling we should stay away from him."

"But why?" Harry was surprised. "He’s not from the Ministry, of course, but still..."

"That’s just it — 'seems like,'" Hermione lowered her voice. "What if he’s spying on us? Or worse, what if he’s working with Voldemort?"

"Oh come on, that’s nonsense," Ron waved it off.

"It might be nonsense," Hermione agreed, "but I still don’t want to trust him. At least not until we get to know him better."

Harry thought about it. On one hand, he didn’t want to involve Fujimaru, whom they barely knew. But on the other hand, the help of an experienced wizard would certainly be useful.

"Alright," he finally said. "Let’s manage without him for now. We’ll see later."

"That’s good," Hermione smiled. "It’s settled then. Harry, you’ll be our teacher."

"But I..." Harry began, but Hermione interrupted him.

"No 'buts,'" she said firmly. "You can handle it. And we’ll help you."

"And Cedric," Hermione continued, ignoring Harry’s protests, "is almost a fully-fledged Auror, and... he’s being accepted into the Order of the Phoenix."

"Into what?" Harry didn’t understand.

"The Order of the Phoenix..." Hermione began. "Dumbledore founded it to fight against Voldemort. It includes Moody, McGonagall, Snape, and many others, even Sirius."

Harry was stunned.

"Why didn’t I know... not a word..." Then he suddenly understood and smiled at his friends. "So that’s why Sirius was with you! That’s who those people were!"

"We were accompanied by people you don’t know: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Sturgis Podmore, Mundungus Fletcher, and Tonks," Hermione replied. "Wonderful people, they’re all working towards defeating the Dark Lord."

He smiled at his friends, trying to show everything was alright, but inside, he felt heavy. He suddenly felt terribly lonely but quickly realized that wasn’t true.

"Too bad you weren’t with us," Ron said. "You should have seen the house! A real ancestral Black nest."

"Yeah," Hermione chimed in. "It’s so gloomy and uncomfortable."

"And there’s also the portrait of Sirius’s mother. That wicked old woman named Walburga Black," Ron recalled. "She’d definitely drive Umbridge mad. She constantly screams and curses everyone she sees."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, smiling. "That would be funny."

"And there’s also that gloomy house-elf..."

"Kreacher," Ron prompted. "A grumbler and rude one at that."

"But then he changed," Hermione continued. "After we gave him the locket that apparently belonged to Regulus Black, he suddenly became completely different: he cooked us dinner and cleaned the house spotless..."

"Yeah, that thing you gave him," Ron said, lowering his voice as if afraid someone might overhear them, "he was so happy with it that he practically glowed with joy. He hung it around his neck and muttered: 'Finally, it’s come home.'"

"Obviously, Regulus was his loyal friend and treated him well!" Hermione added.

"Alright, enough about that," Harry interrupted them.

He paused for a moment, then unexpectedly said:

"Alright, I agree. I’ll teach you. But on one condition."

"What condition?" Hermione asked suspiciously.

"I agree. I’ll be your teacher, but please help me because I can’t do it alone."

"Of course, Harry," Hermione nodded. "We’ll always be with you."

"And no more secrets," Ron added. "We’ll do everything together."

"Deal," Harry smiled at his friends. "Then let’s get to work."

"And I can help too," Dudley suddenly interjected. "You know, hold someone while you practice spells. Or something else..."

Harry smirked.

"Thanks, Dudley. I think your help will come in handy."

"The main thing is that no one finds out, especially Umbridge," Hermione frowned.

"Exactly," Harry agreed. "Then it’s settled."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

A sunny and crowded Saturday morning in central London. Tourists, armed with maps and cameras, strolled leisurely through the streets, admiring the sights. Children, engrossed in feeding pigeons, laughed loudly, ignoring their parents' warnings. Nothing foretold disaster.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, three dark figures appeared. One slipped out of a narrow alley and, like an ominous shadow, silently headed towards the British Museum. The second emerged right in the middle of the square in front of the Parliament building, and the third materialized near the walls of Westminster Abbey.

In just a few seconds, the pavement exploded in several places with a deafening roar, sending fountains of stone chips and dust into the air. The museum wall shook and collapsed with a crash, burying random passersby underneath. Before anyone could recover, the dark figures, like ghosts, glided into the newly formed breaches.

Panic engulfed the streets. People screamed and scattered in all directions, unsure of what was happening. Women shrieked, children sobbed, and men tried to lead their loved ones to safety. People rushed out of nearby buildings at the sound of cries for help, but upon seeing the chaos around them, they froze in terror.

A police car turned the corner, but before it had traveled a few meters, a deafening explosion tore it apart. The siren let out a plaintive wail and then fell silent. A bewildered tourist who ran out after it screamed something incoherent and fell, struck down by an invisible curse.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. On the square, as if from beneath the ground, he appeared. A tall, slender silhouette in a billowing black cloak. His face was deathly pale and elongated, with narrow slits for nostrils and thin, tightly pressed lips. But what terrified most were his eyes — crimson, with vertical snake-like pupils that pierced anyone daring to look at him.

The mere sight of him froze the blood in people’s veins. They stood paralyzed, gripped by an inexplicable horror, unable to tear their gaze away from this creature, which seemed to have stepped straight out of a nightmare.

Voldemort slowly raised his head and surveyed the frozen crowd. His snake-like eyes gleamed, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.

"I am Lord Voldemort," he hissed, his voice cold and sibilant, like the hissing of a snake, echoing across the square. "The most powerful wizard in the entire world. I have conquered death and triumphed over all who opposed me. I am the true master of magical arts, and all who dare stand against me will fall before my might. You may reject me, you may resist me, but none of you will end my reign. For I am immortal, and my power is unmatched."

He waved his wand, from which a blinding beam of crimson light shot into the sky. The beam hissed terrifyingly as it pierced the clouds, seemingly burning a hole through them; the edges of the clouds darkened and appeared charred, as if scorched by some unknown poisonous flame.

Voldemort closed his eyes and began chanting words in an incomprehensible language. His voice would fade to a whisper and then grow louder, filled with inhuman power.

Around him, the air began to thicken, swirling into an invisible vortex. And then something unimaginable began. High above London, the clouds started spiraling, forming a giant ring with crimson flashes along its edges. In the center of this ring, the sky seemed to rupture, revealing a gaping, bottomless blackness where dark mist swirled, flickering with eerie red silhouettes resembling distorted faces or unknown creatures. It all resembled the sinister visual image of a black hole in space.

"The time has come to fulfill what is destined," Voldemort whispered, his eyes still closed. "Do what must be done."

Immediately, Death Eaters emerged from the shadows, gripping their wands. There were no fewer than a hundred of them — they formed a wide circle around the square, cutting off all escape routes.

"Avada Kedavra!" a piercing voice cried out like a curse, and a green flash illuminated the space. More flashes of deadly spells followed. People fell lifeless, not even having time to scream.

Voldemort continued his strange ritual, paying no heed to the chaos around him. He muttered something under his breath, his fingers tracing complex patterns in the air, while the energy beam erupting from his wand pulsed stronger and stronger, continuing to feed the horrifying phenomenon unfolding in the heavens.

And suddenly, in an instant, the thunder and streams of magical energy vanished. Voldemort opened his crimson, cold eyes and surveyed the battlefield. Lifeless bodies lay everywhere, and those who remained alive were so terrified they didn’t dare to move.

"Enough," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet. "We’ve done what we needed to do. Now, we leave."

The Death Eaters instantly began disappearing one by one, vanishing into thin air with the cracks of Apparition, leaving behind only death and destruction. Voldemort took one last look at the gaping blackness in the sky, which slowly began to close, like a healing wound. He curled his lips into a faint smirk of satisfaction and, raising his wand, dissolved into a flash of bright green flame.

On the morning of the day when London was shaken by Voldemort's attack, Harry felt an unbearable pain sear through the scar on his forehead. It was so intense that it took his breath away, and he collapsed unconscious onto the floor in the middle of the common room. In his ears rang a terrible, inhuman laugh that seemed to split his head apart. Then came emptiness.

Harry awoke in the hospital wing. The first thing he saw was Dumbledore’s concerned gaze leaning over him. Nearby stood Snape, his face as inscrutable as ever, but in the depths of his dark eyes, Harry thought he detected a shadow of worry. Professor McGonagall stood a little further away, watching with concern and sympathy. Seeing that Harry had regained consciousness, she sighed in relief and nudged Ron and Hermione, who had been hovering anxiously at his feet.

"Harry, how are you feeling?" Hermione asked worriedly, taking his hand.

"What… what happened?" Harry croaked, trying to sit up but was immediately stopped by Dumbledore’s hand.

"Lie down, Harry, you need to rest," the headmaster said.

"Was it Voldemort again?" Ron asked.

Harry nodded, feeling nausea rising in his throat. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew it was somehow connected to the Dark Lord.

"Professor Dumbledore, what…" Harry began, but the headmaster interrupted him.

"We’ll talk about it later, Harry," he said. "For now, you need to gather your strength."

"Mr. Potter," Snape interjected, "starting today, you will attend additional lessons with me. Every evening, after dinner."

"Why?" Harry asked, displeased. "I don’t need extra lessons."

"This is not up for discussion," Snape cut him off. "The headmaster deems it necessary."

"Severus believes you need to master Occlumency," Dumbledore explained. "It will help protect your mind from external intrusion."

"You think Voldemort might…" Harry couldn’t finish, fear choking his throat.

"We must be prepared for anything," Dumbledore said. "Now, rest."

He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, as if trying to offer support.

At that moment, Fujimaru entered the hospital wing. He stopped at the door, glanced at those present, and upon noticing Harry, approached his bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, coming closer.

"Better now," Harry replied.

"That’s good," Fujimaru nodded. "I’m glad you’re alright."

He paused for a moment, then added:

"If you ever need my help, don’t hesitate to ask."

With those words, he turned and left the hospital wing, leaving Harry and his friends puzzled.

"What was that about?" Ron asked.

"I don’t know," Harry shrugged. "But I feel like he knows something."

"Maybe," Hermione agreed. "We should be careful around him."

When Harry was finally released from the hospital wing, he immediately headed to the Gryffindor common room, where Ron, Hermione, Dudley, and Jeanne were already waiting for him.

"How are you?" Hermione asked worriedly as Harry sank into a chair next to her.

"He said I need more rest," Harry answered, wearily rubbing his forehead. "And that Snape will teach me Occlumency."

"Occlumency? What for?" Ron asked.

"To protect my mind from external intrusion," Harry explained. "Dumbledore thinks it could be dangerous, especially now."

"He thinks Voldemort might try to…" Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.

"I don’t know what he thinks," Harry said. "But I had a strange dream today. It was like Voldemort attacked Muggles in London. He used some powerful spell that split the sky open."

"Attacked Muggles? Why?" Ron exclaimed.

"I don’t know," Harry shook his head. "But it was something terrible."

"Could it be related to what happened with Aerobus?" Dudley suggested.

"Maybe," Harry agreed. "But I don’t understand how."

"Wait," Hermione suddenly frowned, as if remembering something. "I think I read about this in the *Prophet*."

She pulled the latest issue of the newspaper from her bag and unfolded it to the front page.

"Look!" Hermione pointed to an article with a large headline.

Harry leaned closer to read.

"Attack on London! Is Voldemort Returning?" the headline read.

"What?!" Harry snatched the paper from Hermione and began reading eagerly. "This can’t be!"

"Looks like it can," Jeanne said grimly, peering over his shoulder. "And it seems our friend decided not to hold back."

The article reported that on Saturday afternoon, an attack occurred in central London, resulting in dozens of civilian casualties. Witnesses reported flashes of green light, loud bangs, and a strange phenomenon in the sky — the clouds parted, forming a ring with a dark void at the center, from which flashes of red light emanated. The Ministry of Magic had yet to comment on the incident, but many were already linking it to Voldemort’s return.

"It was him," Harry said quietly after finishing the article. "It was him."

"But why?" Hermione asked. "Why would he attack Muggles?"

"I don’t know," Harry shook his head. "But in my dream, he did something else. He cast some powerful spell into the sky."

"A powerful spell, you say?" Jeanne clarified, moving to the window and gazing into the sky.

Harry only nodded in response.

"And what was it?" Ron asked.

"I don’t know," Harry repeated. "The sky seemed to… crack. And there, in that crack, was darkness. And something else… red."

"Nonsense," Hermione whispered. "I’ve never heard of such spells. Not even in the darkest books do they write about anything like this."

"Has anyone ever done something like this before?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged in confusion.

"I’ve never heard of it either," he said. "You’d have to ask the Aurors about that."

"Do you know what I think?" Dudley asked. "If someone beat me up like they did him, I’d be looking for ways to get stronger."

"Does the Dark Lord lack strength? I wish I had his problems," Ron grumbled.

"He’s practically walking modesty," Jeanne remarked, rereading the newspaper article. "Such a goody-two-shoes should just stay home and shake with fear."

"And what do you think?" Ron asked. "If he doesn’t stop, there won’t be any Muggles left soon."

"In reality, it’s not as catastrophic as it seems," Jeanne said, without looking up from the paper. "He’s searching for new sources of power and is willing to pay any price in souls."

"Not catastrophic?" Hermione flared up, glaring at Jeanne challengingly. "What do you know about it?"

"I think he’ll soon start searching for the Holy Grail," Jeanne replied after a brief pause. "That means only one thing: war is coming, and we all need to be ready."

"Maybe he’s trying to change the balance of power," Hermione suggested. "You yourself said magic is like a river. Maybe Voldemort is trying to alter it, redirect it?"

"Perhaps," Jeanne agreed. "But why? To become even stronger? Or to deprive his enemies of their strength?"

"And what about Fujimaru?" Harry remembered. "Maybe he knows something? He’s from the International Association of Wizards, investigating these anomalies."

"I doubt he’ll be open with us," Hermione shook her head. "He’s too secretive. And frankly, I don’t trust him."

"But it’s worth a try," Harry countered. "Maybe he’ll want to help?"

"Maybe you’re right," Hermione sighed. "But I still don’t understand why Dumbledore allowed him into Hogwarts."

"Do you think Dumbledore doesn’t know why Fujimaru came here?" Jeanne suggested, looking up from her reading.

"Maybe," Hermione shrugged.

Never before had Harry noticed how beautiful the sky was.

Chapter Text

The current workdays of Severus Snape began too mundanely, but almost every day, especially during lessons, the students would drive him out of his mind — either with their unbearable behavior in class and in the hallways, or with their inability to brew even the simplest potion according to the recipe he himself had written on the board for them. But what irritated him the most was the students' unwillingness to delve into the intricacies of potion-making, to grasp the essence of this ancient art, let alone apply any creativity during the process. "Is it really so difficult to understand that you just need to press hard enough on the pericarps to extract their juice?" he thought, watching yet another talentless student trying to squeeze out at least a drop of juice by furiously mashing them in their hands, instead of simply crushing them with the flat side of a silver knife, as Snape himself did. Since so many new students who were unfamiliar with the basics of potion-making had entered Hogwarts, every lesson turned into a test of his nerves. It seemed as though these ignoramuses were deliberately mocking him, making the same mistake over and over again.

But, much to his greater regret, Snape's problems didn't end there. Every evening after classes, a new headache awaited him — Occlumency lessons with Harry Potter. This stubborn boy couldn’t master Occlumency. Snape, time and again, effortlessly penetrated his mind, as if entering an unlocked storeroom, stumbling upon fragments of memories, emotions, and thoughts, among which sometimes flashed something dark, alien, reminiscent of the cruel whispers of the Dark Lord.

"Does Voldemort know about this connection? Does he suspect?" These questions haunted Snape. He had already discussed this with Dumbledore several times, but the latter seemed not to see any problem in it. "Doesn’t he realize that Potter doesn’t want to sever this link?" Snape thought. "That he is opening a window through which the Dark Lord might one day penetrate his mind and take control?"

And today, while grading his students’ papers, Snape stumbled upon something surpassing in absurdity everything he had seen before. Among the stack of parchments with homework assignments on the Draught of Living Death, there was a sheet scribbled in uneven handwriting, having nothing to do with potion-making. And, strangest of all, it was unsigned.

Instead of a recipe or description of the potion’s properties, there was some incredible story:

Long ago, the great knight Astolfo set out to defend his kingdom from a fierce enemy threatening to destroy everything dear to him. As he galloped across the battlefield, he noticed a strange figure in the distance, resembling a knight in armor. Approaching closer, Astolfo realized it was not a knight at all, but a barrel of beer!

He was stunned by the sight of the barrel and immediately fell in love with its charming appearance. Astolfo understood that he must save it from the chaos of war and take it home as his own. He quickly grabbed the barrel and delivered it to a safe place behind his lines.

Soon, Astolfo discovered that the barrel was not only beautiful but also contained the finest butterbeer he had ever tasted. Astolfo fell madly in love with the barrel and could not live without it. He took it everywhere, even into battle.

Snape lifted his head from the parchment and sat motionless for a few seconds, trying to comprehend what he had read. What was this? Someone’s stupid joke? Or…

He looked at the sheet again and frowned. The handwriting was familiar. That uneven handwriting with amusing swirls he had seen before. And more than once.

“D’Arc…” he whispered, recognizing the writing style of the young Frenchwoman.

At that moment, the office door opened, and Albus Dumbledore appeared on the threshold.

Snape didn’t know what to do — whether to cry, laugh, or give the unfortunate author a Troll for such work.

“What has gotten you so excited, Severus?” Dumbledore asked curiously, noticing the unusual agitation on the face of the Potions Master. “Could it be that among the assignments, you’ve found something truly delightful?”

With those words, he approached the desk and took the parchment that Snape still clutched in his hand.

“See for yourself,” Snape muttered in response.

Dumbledore, adjusting his glasses, delved into reading.

And so, Astolfo lived long and happily with his beloved barrel by his side, a shining example of love and devotion.

For a couple more seconds, they exchanged glances.

“This was supposed to be a test on the Draught of Living Death,” Snape coldly explained when Dumbledore finished reading and looked up at him in surprise.

“Hmm,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully, rereading the last lines. “A rather unusual interpretation of the assigned topic. And who is the author of this masterpiece?”

“I assume it’s obvious,” Snape nodded expressively toward the parchment. “Miss D’Arc has distinguished herself again.”

Dumbledore looked attentively at Snape, and a strange spark flickered in his eyes.

“You know, Severus,” Dumbledore said after a brief silence, “perhaps there is some hidden meaning here. We shouldn’t judge the young lady so harshly for taking some liberties with the study material.”

Snape didn’t respond, merely snorted grimly, expressing his extreme disagreement with the headmaster.

“The Dark Lord himself wants to rip the author’s head off,” Snape remarked. “If we consider that a strict grade, even a Troll in the journal is child’s play.”

“So, shall we strictly judge childish pranks and hastiness?” Dumbledore pondered for a second, fiddling with the parchment in his hands as if deciding what to do. “Or perhaps we are missing something important, Severus?”

“Are you referring to something specific?”

“To the nature of things,” Dumbledore replied evasively. “To what does not always lie on the surface.”

Snape didn’t reply, merely snorted grimly again, clearly not in the mood for philosophical discussions.

“Not everyone can learn self-control as quickly as we would like,” Dumbledore continued after a pause. “Especially in such cases.”

“How long have you known about this connection?” Snape changed the subject.

“I have always known,” Dumbledore answered. “From the very moment James and Lily were gone, I knew and had no doubts about it. That’s why I entrusted the boy to his uncle and aunt in a world where he is an outsider. That’s why I surrounded him with constant supervision and observation.”

“And did even Tom Riddle appreciate your efforts?” Snape asked sarcastically.

“I must admit, my actions have borne fruit,” Dumbledore responded, his voice tinged with sadness this time.

Snape lowered his gaze, pretending to reread Draco Malfoy’s essay for the hundredth time, while the headmaster continued to hold the parchment with the story of Astolfo and the barrel of butterbeer.

“So, what’s the point of all this?” Snape finally blurted out. “Why are we risking our lives, searching for Horcruxes, if…”

“If Harry still has to sacrifice himself?” Dumbledore finished for him. “Because that’s the only way to ultimately defeat Voldemort.”

“It seems so,” Snape, avoiding the headmaster’s gaze, turned toward the window, unwilling to show his feelings.

“That night, Tom inadvertently created another Horcrux, embedding a tiny fragment of his soul into Harry.” Dumbledore explained. “Harry unintentionally became another Horcrux, one that Tom never intended to create. Unfortunately, for victory, he must sacrifice himself for the greater good, and then Voldemort will fall completely.”

Snape swallowed nervously but said nothing. He abruptly rose from his seat as if intending to leave but stopped, unable to force himself to move. In his usually cold and inscrutable eyes, a flicker of pain and despair ignited.

“You raised the boy like a pig for slaughter,” he quietly but bitterly accused, not turning to Dumbledore, as if blaming him for something terrible.

“Have you grown attached to him too?” Dumbledore’s voice carried genuine regret.

Instead of answering, Snape sharply waved his wand, and a silvery doe erupted from its tip. It gracefully galloped around the office, illuminating it with soft, ghostly light, then dissolved into the air, leaving behind only a faint shimmer. Dumbledore watched in undisguised amazement and admiration at the spot where the Patronus had just disappeared.

“Lily…” he whispered, recognizing Harry’s mother’s Patronus. “After all these years?”

“Always,” Snape replied, his voice trembling.

He turned away, trying to hide his emotions, but Dumbledore noticed a solitary tear glistening in the corner of his eye. Snape exhaled sharply, as if trying to suppress the pain rising in his throat, but it wouldn’t subside.

“Is there really nothing we can change?” he asked, his voice sounding hollow. “Is there no other way?”

Dumbledore remained silent, pensively gazing at the now-empty office.

“And what about Jeanne?” Snape’s voice grew slightly louder. “She’s a Servant. Can’t she…?”

“The power of the Servants is great,” Dumbledore slowly spoke, weighing each word, “but even it is not limitless. Moreover, not everything is so simple. The Holy Grail, for which Servants are summoned, has its own will and goals. And these goals don’t always align with the desires of mortals.”

“Are you saying she won’t help Harry?” Snape asked incredulously.

“I’m saying we can’t rely on her help,” Dumbledore replied. “She has her own mission, her own path. And it’s not for us to decide what she should do.”

He paused, as if hesitant to voice his next words. Then, gathering his resolve, he quietly added:

“You see, Severus, to obtain something so desired and valuable, one must offer something equally valuable in return. Such is the law of equivalent exchange. And I fear the price we’ll have to pay for defeating Voldemort will prove immeasurably high.”

Snape shuddered as if struck. A shadow passed over his face, betraying the fear of the bitter truth hidden in Dumbledore’s words.

“You’re talking about…” he began but couldn’t finish, as if the words stuck in his throat.

“Yes, Severus,” Dumbledore nodded, lowering his head. “I’m afraid so. Both Harry and Jeanne… They will both become the price we must pay for victory. Such is fate. And I fear it’s beyond our power to change it. The souls of Servants have always been mere fuel for the Grail, necessary for it to fulfill the victor’s wish.”

An oppressive silence hung in the office. Snape stood, unable to utter a word, unable to move, unable to believe that everything they had done so far would prove futile. Everything they had strived for, everything they aimed toward, would turn out to be merely preparation for an inevitable end.

“But what then…” Snape’s voice broke, unable to finish the sentence.

“There’s only one thing left for us, Severus,” Dumbledore softly said, raising his eyes to Snape. “To do what we must. And hope that our sacrifices won’t be in vain.”

Snape didn’t immediately notice how Dumbledore, before leaving the office, placed that very parchment with the strange story of the knight Astolfo and the beer barrel in front of him. Only when the door quietly closed behind the headmaster did Snape tear his gaze from the empty space where the silvery Patronus had just vanished and shift it to the sheet lying before him.

He stared at this assignment as if for an eternity, rereading the absurd lines again and again. Fragments of the recent conversation with Dumbledore raced through his mind: “…not everyone can learn self-control…”, “…don’t judge so harshly…”, “…no matter how strong or talented she may be…”

Snape recalled Jeanne’s strange essays, which he had reported to Voldemort. At the time, he considered them mere manifestations of a wild imagination and rebellious nature. But now, after everything he had learned, after Dumbledore’s words, those essays appeared to him in a different light.

“Perhaps Dumbledore is right,” he thought, “and there’s some hidden meaning in this nonsense? Maybe this girl is really trying to say something but can’t do it directly?”

He looked again at the story of Astolfo. A foolish knight in love with a beer barrel… Absurd, pure and simple. And yet… What if it’s an allegory? What if the barrel isn’t just a barrel, but… something else? Or someone?

Snape recalled Dumbledore’s words that Jeanne wouldn’t be able to save Harry because Servants are fuel for the Grail. Perhaps this is exactly what she’s trying to convey? That she sees in Harry not a person, but merely a means to an end, just as Astolfo saw in the barrel only a container for beer?

Snape shook his head. No, it’s too far-fetched. And yet… there was something to it. Something that wouldn’t leave him alone.

He picked up the quill and hovered it over the parchment, ready to assign a failing grade as the rules required. But at the last moment, his hand trembled. He remembered Harry’s pale face, his tormented gaze, Dumbledore’s words that the boy was destined to die.

“What if she’s right?” flashed through his mind. “What if there really is some meaning in her strange essays? What if she’s trying to tell us something, warn us about something?”

Snape closed his eyes, trying to focus. He recalled Jeanne — her defiant gaze, her rebellious nature, her strange attachment to Potter.

“No,” he finally decided. “We can’t dismiss this. We need to understand what she’s trying to say. Even if it turns out to be nothing more than the ravings of a madman.”

He opened his eyes again and looked at the parchment. The grade “Fail” now seemed inappropriate, even offensive.

Snape sighed and, with a trembling hand, wrote the grade, giving it a “Satisfactory”.

Chapter Text

The silence was pierced by a woman's scream, full of pain and despair.

"No, please, don't!"

Fujimaru's eyes snapped open, but the scream didn't stop. It continued to sound in his head, persistent, tearing him apart.

"I haven't achieved anything yet, I haven't had time for anything!"

The voice was full of suffering, it rang out in the darkness, echoing off the walls of an invisible room. Fujimaru jerked up in bed, trying to figure out where he was. His heart was pounding, his breathing was erratic.

"Why does it always happen to me?"

The beautiful face of Olga-Marie emerged from the darkness, distorted by a look of horror. She was staring straight at Fujimaru, her eyes filled with tears. Behind her, a fiery sphere was growing, consuming everything around it. Fujimaru recognized that sphere — Chaldea, the heart of the Organization, pulsating with unknown energy. Suddenly, Olga-Marie began to move away, as if being pulled into the fiery abyss.

"No!" Fujimaru shouted, reaching out his hand to her, but it was already too late.

In the blink of an eye, Director Olga-Marie Animusphere's entire body entered Chaldea, and her lips fell silent forever. Closing her eyes, she went limp helplessly before disappearing forever.

Fujimaru finally woke up. He was lying in his room at Hogwarts, not in the burning Chaldea. But Olga-Marie’s scream still echoed in his ears, filling his soul with chilling horror.

He jerked up in bed, looking around. The room was shrouded in semi-darkness, with only the faint light of the moon seeping through the gaps in the thick curtains. Fujimaru tried to calm the trembling, but his body wouldn’t obey. Memories of the past kept coming back to him, despite all his efforts to forget them.

He vividly remembered the day he met Olga-Marie Animusphere, the director of the Human Preservation Organization "Chaldea." At that time, she mistook him for an ordinary simpleton incapable of anything worthwhile, because he really was just an ordinary person then. Arrogant and authoritative, she didn’t hesitate to call him "nobody," emphasizing her noble lineage of magicians who studied the stars and their influence on human destinies. And how wrong she was. He remembered falling asleep in the corridor after an unsuccessful experiment simulating time travel, being late for his first mission, and falling asleep again during the briefing, provoking an incredible fit of her anger.

"You’re just a human needed to fill numbers!" Olga-Marie’s words still rang in his ears.

And then there was Singularity F, the blazing city of Fuyuki, which no longer exists and will never be on maps again. He and Mash, the girl he met in Chaldea who became his loyal companion, saved Olga-Marie’s life several times, but it was all in vain. On that fateful day, they were too late.

He saw Professor Lev Flawless, one of Chaldea’s leading staff members, betray them by activating a bomb planted in the very heart of the Organization. The explosion was so powerful that it destroyed almost all of Chaldea. Olga-Marie, standing in the control center at that moment, ended up at the epicenter of the explosion, and her body was torn to pieces.

They only found a projection of her consciousness, desperately clinging to the remnants of her shattered mind. And this projection, this last breath of Olga-Marie, begged them to stop Lev and save humanity.

"Has anyone cursed you by any chance?" he recalled Cú Chulainn's words, spoken to Olga-Marie back then when it seemed fate itself was against her.

Fujimaru shook his head, driving away the memories. All of that was in the past. Now he was at Hogwarts, a place that seemed like an island of peace compared to what he had gone through. But he knew this peace was deceptive. Voldemort was somewhere nearby, gathering strength, and would soon strike again.

Fujimaru got up from the bed and approached the window. He peered into the dark sky, trying to discern answers to his questions. What awaited him in this new world? Would he be able to stop Voldemort and prevent another catastrophe?

Suddenly, he noticed a small creature resembling a squirrel with blue-and-white coloring appear at the threshold of his room.

"Fou!" exclaimed the creature, running up to Fujimaru and nudging his leg with its nose.

Fujimaru smiled and gently stroked the creature's head.

"You can't sleep either, Fou?" he asked quietly. "Is something wrong?"

Fou emitted its strange cry again and ran to the door, as if inviting Fujimaru to follow it.

"Looks like we're in for new adventures," Fujimaru muttered, heading after the creature.

"Stand and watch!" firmly sounded the voice of the Chief in his head. "Behave like a true Master should!"

At that moment, he couldn’t just stand and watch while Mash held her ground alone under Saber Alter's attack. Who would have thought that King Arthur would throw all his forces to destroy this girl? A girl artificially created solely to satisfy someone's research ambitions and eventually become a half-Servant, which she ultimately did. A girl whom the mysterious Fou liked so much that he always runs wherever he wants. On his first day at Chaldea, the list of people Fou liked expanded with him.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds for a couple of minutes and delighted Ritsuka. Mash would like that. It was much better here than in the mountains of Chaldea, where it was always cloudy or snowing, and you never saw the sky. She loved the sky and, for sixteen years of her life before meeting Ritsuka, only dreamed of seeing the sky and basking in the sunlight. A girl with impeccable purity of character and soul, unaffected even by the terrifying adventures where everyone was ready to betray them, and danger lurked around every corner, where they feared closing their eyes at night to avoid unexpected attacks.

But in Hogwarts, it was quiet, peaceful, and all dangers were outside this huge castle. Smiling at the emerging sun, Ritsuka imagined Mash peacefully snoring in her sleep somewhere in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, golden rays playing on her cheeks, making him smile even more. Soon the time allotted for sleep would end, and this girl would open her incredible purple eyes to greet the bright morning.

***

Morning brought its surprises. One of them was another article in the Daily Prophet, capturing the attention of many in the Great Hall. Even Umbridge, trying to eat breakfast with the most indifferent expression possible, choked on the news.

The magical world was shaken by a horrifying report: the impregnable Azkaban, the sinister prison for the most dangerous criminals, lay in ruins. Witnesses reported massive destruction, allegedly caused by a planned attack by the Dark Lord and his followers.

According to eyewitnesses, a group of Death Eaters led by the Dark Lord infiltrated the prison grounds and used dark magic to bring down its walls, leaving the Dementors, Azkaban’s guards, powerless in the face of the unfolding tragedy. Dozens of the most dangerous criminals, including convicted Death Eaters, escaped, sowing fear and chaos in their path.

The Ministry of Magic responded immediately to the incident.

"The fall of Azkaban is an unprecedented tragedy," Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge stated in an emergency address. "We are making every effort to capture the escaped criminals and prevent further calamities. Now, more than ever, unity and vigilance are crucial for the entire magical community."

Meanwhile, panic among the population was growing. Many feared that the Dark Lord’s goal was not merely the destruction of Azkaban but also the release of his loyal Death Eaters, who would bolster the ranks of his army. If these fears were confirmed, the magical world would be on the brink of a new war, where everyone could become either an ally or an enemy.

"The Daily Prophet" will continue to monitor developments and keep its readers informed about the situation. We urge everyone to remain calm, vigilant, and report any suspicious activity to the Ministry of Magic.

Harry knew this would happen someday and anticipated the news. Despite everything, he received it with a shudder of his heart. Now all the Death Eaters were gathered, meaning Voldemort was preparing to act even more decisively than before. It remained only to guess when and where he would strike next, and until that day, simply live as usual.

Lifting his gaze from the newspaper article, he involuntarily caught Fujimaru’s gaze. He looked at him with regret. Neither of them knew how much they had in common.

When Harry was leaving the Great Hall, Fujimaru met him again at the door. He was walking ahead and clearly wanted to talk to him.

"Good morning, Harry," Fujimaru greeted him.

"Good morning, sir."

Harry glanced at Fujimaru's face and once again involuntarily wondered why he addressed him formally given their small age difference.

"How did you like our breakfast today? I especially enjoyed the chicken; it turned out particularly well today."

"What do you mean?" Harry didn’t understand.

"Well, let’s get to the point. The day starts with such exciting news. In my opinion, it was a big oversight on the part of the Ministry not to organize such a defense program for you…"

"Do you want to teach us?" Harry’s eyes widened.

Fujimaru felt awkward.

"To be honest, I’m not much of a wizard…" he hesitated. "And generally—I possess experience in an area that they’ll never teach you in school."

"Really?" Harry’s eyes lit up. "In what area?"

Fujimaru was completely embarrassed at this moment.

"In our third year, we had Professor Remus Lupin, who taught me how to defend myself against Dementors using the Patronus Charm," Harry recounted with admiration.

"I’ve faced dangers scarier than Dementors," Fujimaru spoke shyly. "But I don’t know how to cast a Patronus. Will you show me?"

Harry was taken aback but quickly composed himself.

"I’ll show you if you want. Come to the eighth floor at eight o’clock tonight."

Fujimaru extended his hand to Harry. He awkwardly shook it.

"See you tonight, Harry Potter."

"See you tonight, Mr. Fujimaru."

"Ritsuka, and you can use 'you.'"

Fujimaru continued to mentally construct a possible sequence of future events. He still hadn’t personally talked to Jeanne Alter, and Mash had never been able to approach her, seeing how Jeanne always walked around with the golden trio. But Ritsuka felt—he needed to talk to her. Waiting until she finished her classes, he casually approached her. She was returning from Potions and was distractedly twirling a piece of parchment with a satisfactory grade in her hands.

"Miss d'Arc?" he addressed her.

She didn’t even pay attention to his question, continuing to think intently about something.

"Miss..."

"What now?" she brandished her wand.

Ritsuka flinched at such a reaction. He still remembered how she nearly killed him during that battle. Right now, there were no other Servants around who would immediately rush to help and challenge her. The white-haired girl switched her angry expression to usual self-satisfaction and lowered her wand, continuing to smile.

"Oh, look who’s here..." she sneered contemptuously. "What brings you, Mr. Fujimaru?"

Her constant companions—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—stopped on their way from the dungeons and watched them from afar. Ritsuka involuntarily felt like a hypnotized rabbit in front of a snake.

"I wanted to clarify some observations," Fujimaru spoke cautiously.

He was doing his best to maintain a calm expression, but Jeanne’s face, spreading into an even greater self-satisfied smirk, explained to him the futility of all his attempts to deceive anyone.

"Behave like a true Master should!"

The vividly recalled face of his superior and her voice instantly restored seriousness to Ritsuka’s face. Even Jeanne stopped smiling and looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Your death-flight is quite the weakling," her face quickly returned to its usual smugness. "Broke down after the first poke in the chest. Now he’s going crazy, wanting to gain strength. He’s like a little pet hamster—show him a carrot, and he runs after it."

"It’s bad, Jeanne," Fujimaru spoke as indifferently as he could. "It’s very bad."

"How bad?" she puzzled.

Ritsuka’s gaze gave Jeanne an exhaustive answer to her question. She lowered her head, and a second later raised it. Ritsuka had never seen anyone happier than her. She laughed cheerfully, then winked at him and left, continuing to laugh.

"What did he tell you?" Ron asked her.

"He said everything’s bad."

"And why are you laughing?"

"The worse everything is around, the more I like it!" she replied enthusiastically and immediately drawled. "When everything is simple, it’s so boo-oring!"

"Cool! I wish I had your optimism."

"We’ll see what he tells us today in the Room of Requirement," Harry informed them.

"You invited him to the Dumbledore's Army meeting?" Hermione was surprised.

"Yeah. We talked after breakfast, and... it seemed like a good idea to me."

Hermione pensively twirled her hair around her finger.

"We’ll see."

***

The evening session of Dumbledore's Army started as usual. This time, at Hermione's suggestion, they decided to focus particularly on Shield Charms.

"Protego is one of the most important spells in any wizard’s arsenal," she said, pacing in front of the students gathered in the Room of Requirement. "It can protect you not only from enemy spells but also from physical attacks."

Harry, Ron, and Dudley, who had already mastered Protego, helped the beginners. Dudley, to his surprise, discovered that he was pretty good at creating shields—apparently, his natural strength and build played a role. His shield was large and sturdy, and few could break through it.

"Not bad, Dudley," Harry praised him. "Just try not to strain too hard. The shield should be flexible, you know? Like… like water. It shouldn’t repel, but envelop, cushion the blow."

"It’s easy for you to say," Dudley grumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You make it look effortless."

"Well, I’ve had a lot of practice," Harry smirked, recalling his numerous encounters with Voldemort.

Jeanne, as usual, stood somewhat apart, watching the proceedings with a slight smile. She had long since mastered Shield Charms and saw no point in wasting time repeating the material. Instead, she discreetly experimented with her own magic, trying to enhance her Fantasy, making it more controllable.

At that moment, Fujimaru entered the Room of Requirement. He quietly joined the observers, trying not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. But his sharp gaze seemed to notice every detail, every movement.

Fujimaru silently observed their training, occasionally making notes in his notebook. Harry noticed that Fujimaru often exchanged glances with Jeanne, as if exchanging some incomprehensible signals. "I wonder what they’re talking about?" Harry thought, but then got distracted, noticing that Dudley was again trying to turn himself into a living shield.

"Would you like to show us something, sir?" Hermione addressed him, noticing his interest.

Fujimaru slightly smiled.

"I’m afraid my skills differ somewhat from those typically studied at Hogwarts," he said. "But perhaps I can show you a trick."

He stepped into the center of the room and asked Hermione to attack him.

"Just not too strongly," he warned. "I’m not made of iron."

Hermione nodded uncertainly and, waving her wand, said:

"Stupefy!"

A beam of red light shot out of her wand, but Fujimaru didn’t even flinch. Instead, he raised his hand forward, and a shimmering barrier of glowing symbols appeared in front of him, resembling a stained-glass window made of multicolored glass. Hermione’s spell was completely absorbed by this barrier.

"What is that?" Hermione asked in amazement.

"This is one type of magical protection," Fujimaru explained. "I learned it from my former boss, the director of a secret organization. She was a very powerful mage and knew a lot about protection."

He lowered his hand, and the barrier disappeared.

"I can’t say it’s better than Protego," he continued. "But this method has its advantages. For example, it doesn’t require a wand."

"One can still attack from behind," Ron noted.

"A valid point," Fujimaru replied. "Unfortunately, this protection works only this way."

"Incredible!" Neville exclaimed. "Can you teach us this?"

"I’m afraid not," Fujimaru spread his hands. "This is rather complex magic and requires special skills. But I can show you something else."

He stepped forward again and addressed everyone present:

"Imagine you’re being attacked by multiple opponents at once. Or that you’re surrounded. What will you do?"

"Use a circular Protego," Hermione answered uncertainly.

"Correct," Fujimaru nodded. "But what if you don’t have enough strength for such a spell? Or if the opponent turns out to be too strong?"

He looked around at the students, who were thoughtfully exchanging glances.

"In that case," Fujimaru continued, "you need to learn to act quickly and decisively. Don’t wait to be attacked. Attack first."

With these words, he sharply raised his hand, and a stream of sparkling sparks shot out of his palm, scattering around the room in a colorful rain over the students.

"What was that?" Harry asked, mesmerized as he watched the sparks slowly fade in the air.

"It’s a special technique," Fujimaru explained. "It’s based on an instantaneous burst of magical energy. These sparks won’t cause harm, but they can blind and disorient the opponent, giving you time to attack or retreat."

He approached one of the dummies and gestured for Harry to try.

"Focus on your magic," he said. "Imagine it flowing out of you, spreading around you. And don’t be afraid to make a mistake. It’s just practice."

Harry uncertainly raised his wand, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. He imagined a stream of energy flowing through his body, accumulating in his palm, bursting outward in myriad sparkling sparks.

After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and saw that he was surrounded by a cloud of faint shimmering light. The sparks were smaller and weaker than Fujimaru’s, but they still looked impressive.

"Not bad," Fujimaru said approvingly. "Very good for a first try. Now try again, but this time aim the sparks at the dummy."

Harry tried again, and this time he did better. The sparks flew toward the dummy and covered it from head to toe.

"Excellent!" Fujimaru exclaimed. "Now let’s try all together."

He stood in the center of the room and gestured for the students to surround him.

"Imagine I’m your enemy," he said. "Your task is to attack me with these sparks. Don’t worry, I’ll defend myself."

The students exchanged uncertain glances but then began raising their wands one by one.

"Go ahead," Fujimaru encouraged them. "Don’t be shy. And remember, you don’t need to aim for the face. Hitting any part of the body is enough to disorient the opponent. Now—begin!"

And then something incredible began. Streams of multicolored sparks flew at Fujimaru from all sides. They sparkled, swirled, collided with each other, forming intricate patterns. Fujimaru stood in the center of this light vortex, calm and unruffled. Around him shimmered the familiar barrier of glowing symbols, reflecting particularly strong flashes, but most of the sparks simply dissipated without reaching their target.

"Not bad," Fujimaru said when the last spark faded. "But you still have much to learn. The main thing—don’t be afraid to experiment. Magic isn’t just about spells and potions. It’s also about creativity, imagination, and willpower. Moreover, magic isn’t just about wands and other trinkets. It’s also about how you can manage your own energy without resorting to artifacts."

For some more time, he showed the students various defensive and offensive techniques that didn’t require the use of a wand, sharing his knowledge and experience. And he did all this with such ease and enthusiasm that he involuntarily infected those around him with his zeal. Even Jeanne, who initially skeptically regarded his lesson, eventually couldn’t resist and joined the others, noting with surprise that Fujimaru knew much that she didn’t.

"And now," Fujimaru suddenly stopped and looked around at the students, "I’d like to talk to you about something important."

He paused, as if collecting his thoughts.

"I know many of you are frightened by current events and are forced to guess what’s really happening," Fujimaru’s voice sounded firm, though a little pensive. "But I know the answer to your question. The Holy Grail has awakened."

"You’re joking," Neville breathed. "The legendary Holy Grail, the dream of many mages, exists? I can’t believe it!"

"Is it true? Really? Is it certain?" whispers were heard from everywhere.

Fujimaru patiently waited for the whispering to subside.

"Only the Holy Grail can turn a Muggle into a wizard, let alone—many Muggles around the world. And this is a very complex artifact, intricate and dangerous."

"It sounds as if you’re familiar with the Grail firsthand," Hermione suggested.

"Well, you might say that, Hermione," Ron interjected. "They didn’t send just anyone from the International Confederation of Wizards. Surely, they have such people."

"He looks too young to be an expert…" Hermione muttered quietly.

"Hold on a second…" Neville pondered. "Could it be that the Grail acts on its own will?"

"It’s possible it acts on its own will. Or maybe someone else’s," Fujimaru glanced meaningfully at Neville. "In any case, the Grail is preparing all of us for the war over it."

"Do you think the Grail created so many wizards for its own protection?" the students were astounded.

"Not just wizards," Fujimaru clarified. "The Grail needs Masters—wizards capable of summoning great Servants and fighting for it in the upcoming War for the Holy Grail."

For a moment, the Room of Requirement was plunged into absolute silence.

"I’ve read about the Holy Grail and Servants," Hermione broke the silence. "And I think we have no chance of summoning even one of them."

"What’s your name, miss?"

"Granger, I’m Hermione Granger, Gryffindor prefect."

Fujimaru smiled.

"Let’s assume it’s not all hopeless. But let’s start with the basics. What do you know about Servants?"

"Generally, a Servant is an entity from a higher world, a kind of imprint of a historical or mythical personality and all the memory accumulated by humanity throughout history," Hermione recited.

"That’s correct. Who else can tell us about Servants?"

"A Servant is usually an independent personality," Neville responded hesitantly. "They may have their own interests and hobbies."

"Right, Mr.…?"

"Longbottom," he timidly answered.

"Yes, Mr. Longbottom, despite their calling to serve as tools in the Holy Grail War, all Servants are primarily people with their own history behind them," Fujimaru summarized. "What’s another main characteristic of any Servant, who can tell me?"

"Can I?" Ron asked. "I’m Ron Weasley."

"Answer, Mr. Weasley."

"Servants possess superhuman strength, luck, endurance, so any encounter of an ordinary person with a Servant in real combat can be their last."

"Also correct. Some Servants have the power to alter reality and affect the entire surrounding universe."

"But what’s the point of all this? Are you going to teach us how to summon Servants?" Hermione was as direct as ever with her questions.

"Not exactly, Miss Granger. But it’s important to understand the threat we’re facing. The Grail creates Masters to summon Servants and fight in the war. We must stop them before they can do that, otherwise, we risk the safety of both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. To do this, we must be prepared and know what we’re dealing with. We must be able to defend ourselves against potential Servant attacks and understand their weaknesses. Unfortunately, we can’t learn anything about the Grail’s plans and can’t prevent the creation of new Masters. Therefore, we must prepare for encounters with hostile Servants."

"But what if we someday need to summon Servants to help us?" Neville spoke up. "Because besides other Servants, no one else can fight them."

"That’s possible, Mr. Longbottom. However, it’s important to remember that summoning a Servant involves great risk and should only be done as a last resort. Moreover, we must understand that not all Servants are the same, and some may be more inclined to ally with us than others. But let me clarify: our main goal is to prevent the Grail from falling into the wrong hands. We cannot allow them to threaten the safety of our world."

"But what if Voldemort wants to create such Masters?" Harry interjected. "How will we stop him from doing that? What if he stumbles upon wandering Servants without their own Master?"

Many students shuddered at his words.

"Then you must understand what I’m offering. It doesn’t matter whether you have your summoned Servant or not—the Holy Grail isn’t a posthumous reward. As for Voldemort, we must be vigilant and ready to defend against any threats he may pose. It’s important to remember that we’re not alone in this fight. We have each other, and together we can overcome any obstacle."

When the lesson ended and the students began to disperse, Fujimaru stayed in the Room of Requirement for a few more minutes.

"So that’s what you were talking about today with Jeanne?"

Ritsuka nodded affirmatively.

"Hermione has long said how little you have in common with the people appointed to such positions."

Fujimaru gave a crooked smile.

"She’s right. I’ve never been the type to fit into authorities and their bureaucratic systems. However, this situation is bigger than any of us. The threat posed by the Grail is enormous, and we must do everything possible to stop it. That’s why I put myself in this position. It’s not something I enjoy, but it’s necessary for the greater good."

"I understand that. But be careful, Ritsuka. The danger you’re exposing yourself to is immense."

"I know," Fujimaru placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing it encouragingly. "But I also know that I’m not alone. I have all of you. We’ll work together to protect the world. That’s all that matters."

Harry nodded, feeling a lump rising in his throat. He was grateful to Fujimaru for his words, for his support, for his readiness to risk his life for the common cause.

"I never thought it was so serious," Harry admitted. "Thank you for opening our eyes, Fujimaru-san."

"Don’t mention it, Harry," Fujimaru gave a barely noticeable smile. "I’m just doing what I must."

"And still," Harry persisted. "You know so much about the Grail, about the Servants… Where from?"

Fujimaru was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer.

"Let’s just say," he began, "I’ve had experience… communicating… with some of them. And believe me, it’s not something you’d wish on an enemy."

"You fought them?" Harry stared at Fujimaru in astonishment.

"There were occasions," Fujimaru replied evasively. "And not always successfully. But that’s not the point now. The main thing you need to understand is that the Grail is not a toy. And if Voldemort gets his hands on it, he’ll become even more dangerous than before."

"We’ll be ready," Harry said firmly. "We won’t let him win."

"I know," Fujimaru nodded. "It can’t be any other way."

The two young men looked into each other’s eyes for a long time, then finally clasped hands in a firm handshake.

As the students dispersed reluctantly to their house common rooms, they were still discussing what they had seen and heard.

"He’s cool," Ron said to Harry. "I don’t know who he is, this Fujimaru, but he definitely knows a thing or two about defense."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "He showed us a lot. And he’s right—we need to learn not only defensive spells but something bigger."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"I mean what’s happening in the world," Harry replied. "About Voldemort, about the Grail, about the Servants. We need to be ready for everything."

He fell silent, recalling Fujimaru’s words about how magic isn’t just power but also a design beyond their understanding. And violating that design could lead to catastrophe.

"I wonder," Harry thought, "what did he mean? And how does it relate to what’s happening now?"

He looked at Jeanne, who was walking beside him, thoughtfully gazing at her feet. She seemed thoughtful and focused, as if trying to solve a complex problem.

"I wonder what she’s thinking?" Harry thought.

He really wanted to ask her that question, but he didn’t dare. Lately, Jeanne had become somehow strange, closed off, as if hiding something. And Harry didn’t know how to talk to her about it.

Chapter Text

The latest news about Voldemort's bloody rampages no longer caused surprise. It seemed as if the entire magical world was frozen in anxious anticipation, worrying about their families and exchanging letters filled with concern. Even among the Slytherins, known for their composure, anxiety was growing. Only Malfoy and his cronies — Zabini, Parkinson, Crabbe, and Goyle — maintained an unruffled demeanor, as if the events didn’t concern them. In fact, they seemed almost invigorated by it. They continued to keep to themselves, while a large portion of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall seemed to be separated from them by an invisible wall. Only a few students sitting at the far edge appeared out of place among their peers. Perhaps the only one who seemed alien among all the Slytherins was Severus Snape, but his inscrutable face gave no indication of what he thought about the unfolding situation.

Harry’s lessons with Snape continued, and to Harry’s surprise, Snape began treating his failures with a strange, almost pained calmness. He no longer shouted or bombarded Harry with sarcastic remarks, limiting himself to short, restrained comments, and eventually started responding to everything with just a glance. Perhaps the general atmosphere of anxiety and uncertainty hanging over Hogwarts played a role. Or maybe Snape was simply tired—tired of the endless struggle, of living behind a mask, of the burden of the double game he had been playing for many years. Moreover, as Harry noted with some astonishment, Snape seemed to have begun seeing him not just as the son of the hated James Potter, but as an individual worthy of at least some leniency.

"Complicated things like Occlumency don’t come easily to anyone," Snape remarked once again, watching Harry’s futile attempts to shield his mind from intrusion. "You have a goal — to keep me out of your head. Focus."

"I’m trying!" Harry exclaimed, feeling sweat trickle down his back. "But I can’t do it!"

Snape silently twirled his wand in his hand, as if contemplating whether to continue.

"Then come back tomorrow evening," he finally said, lowering his wand. "You’re free for today."

"Tomorrow evening" had become a recurring phrase day after day for an entire month, but Harry felt no progress. Snape still effortlessly penetrated his thoughts, extracting fragments of memories and emotions.

"How much longer are we going to keep resting?" Harry burst out one day when Snape interrupted the lesson yet again.

"Not everyone can discipline their mind as quickly as you expect, Mr. Potter," Snape replied impassively. "I’d be surprised if you managed it perfectly from the start."

Harry could only sigh in response. There was nothing to argue with.

This went on every day, over and over, until one day, after another "Legilimens" cast by Snape, Harry felt his consciousness plunge into a thick, enveloping darkness. Suddenly, this sticky darkness receded, dispelled by a multitude of bright lights, as if he had found himself in the middle of a nighttime city. Among these lights, he saw a familiar face.

Voldemort sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by his Death Eaters. The setting suggested a wealthy mansion, though Harry didn’t recognize the location.

"My loyal Death Eaters, listen carefully!" Voldemort’s voice sounded solemn yet menacing. "We have gathered here not only to celebrate our victories but also to continue our mission. Our enemies are numerous, but they are weak! Their society is built on tolerance and acceptance, while ours thrives on strength and purity!"

At that moment, footsteps were heard, and Voldemort abruptly cut off his speech. Harry couldn’t make out who had entered, as if some force prevented him from focusing his vision. In place of the stranger, there was only a blurred, light spot devoid of any clear outline.

The unknown figure slowly took a seat at some distance from the table, crossing one leg over the other, and turned to Voldemort, gesturing for him to continue.

"I, Lord Voldemort, reject their weak ideals and embrace the truth — the truth of the superiority of our kind!" Voldemort continued, trying to ignore the uninvited guest. "The truth that the only way to ensure our survival is to accept our heritage and spill the blood of those who stand in our way! Muggles! The mere thought of them makes my blood boil! They are filth, nothing more than dirt that must be cleansed from our world! And their half-blood offspring, witches and wizards tainted by their wretched blood — they are no better! It is our duty, my faithful followers, to eradicate this disease! We must stand tall and proud, united in our commitment to our pure-blood legacy! Only then can we achieve true greatness, only then can we create a world ruled by true wizards! I call upon every Death Eater to redouble their efforts, to fight with all their might! Together, we will destroy the Muggle scum, together we will usher in a new era of wizard supremacy! To victory, my loyal followers! Death to the weak, and long live the pure-bloods!"

Voldemort turned to his guest, but the latter remained motionless, as if not hearing his fiery speech. For a moment, Voldemort smirked but quickly erased the expression from his face, as if fearing the uninvited guest might notice his reaction. However, the unknown figure showed no sign of reacting to the scene. Some of the Death Eaters seated at the table nervously flinched, noticing the tension that flashed across their master’s face.

"Very expressive," the guest’s voice sounded level and calm, without a hint of emotion. "I hope you won’t disappoint my expectations."

The guest rose from their seat, pulled a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth from the folds of their cloak, and, approaching Voldemort, handed it to him. Voldemort accepted the bundle with undisguised curiosity, turning it over in his hands, trying to guess what was inside. The bundle was small, about the size of an adult’s fist, and made no sound.

"When do we begin?" Voldemort’s voice trembled with impatience.

"For certainty — midnight tomorrow. And then you’ll get what you desire."

Voldemort looked distrustfully at the guest, but the latter had already turned their back and didn’t notice. Then Voldemort nodded at the Death Eaters sitting opposite him and immediately gestured toward the guest. They nodded in agreement.

"And what guarantees the result?" Voldemort drawled slowly and deliberately, as if weighing each word.

"My presence among you is the guarantee of all my assurances," the guest calmly replied. "No wizard has ever existed who will be more powerful than you will become."

"We shall see," Voldemort sneered in response and suddenly turned sharply, fixing his gaze directly on Harry.

At that very moment, Harry felt someone strong and merciless grab him by the shoulders and yank him out of the room with incredible force, as if tearing away the veil separating him from reality.

"What did you see, Harry?" Dumbledore asked anxiously, helping Harry to his feet.

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in Snape’s office, trying to gather his thoughts. His head was buzzing, blood pounded in his temples, and strange images from the vision still lingered before his eyes.

"Harry, can you hear me?" Dumbledore’s voice sounded muffled, as if through deep water.

"Yes, Professor," Harry managed to say, accepting Dumbledore’s help and getting to his feet. "I saw… Voldemort."

"What was he doing?" Tension was audible in the headmaster’s voice.

"He wasn’t alone," Harry tried to recall what he had seen. "With him were Death Eaters and… some man."

"What did he look like?" Snape interjected, who had been silently standing aside until now.

"I don’t know," Harry shook his head. "I couldn’t make him out. There was only a bright spot where he should have been, as if… as if he was protected by some kind of magic."

"And what were they doing?" Dumbledore asked again.

"This man handed Voldemort some kind of bundle. He said it would help him become the most powerful wizard in history," Harry frowned, trying to remember the details. "And also… he said something like… ‘don’t disappoint my expectations.’"

"Very presumptuous," Snape remarked with a barely noticeable smirk.

"And very dangerous," Dumbledore added, his face darkening. "It seems Voldemort has secured the support of someone with considerable power and knowledge."

"They’re planning something," Harry continued. "Tomorrow night. At midnight."

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged glances.

"We need to act quickly," Dumbledore said. "Severus, you know what to do."

Snape nodded and, without a word, left the office, his black cloak billowing behind him.

At that moment, Professor McGonagall and Fujimaru appeared in the doorway.

"Albus, what’s happening?" McGonagall asked, looking at Harry with concern. "Mr. Potter, are you alright?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry replied. "It’s just… I had a vision."

"A vision?" McGonagall repeated. "What did you see?"

Harry recounted his story again, trying not to omit any detail. Fujimaru listened attentively, his face serious and focused.

"It seems we’re in for big trouble," Dumbledore concluded when Harry finished his tale. "And we have very little time."

"What do you intend to do, Professor?" Fujimaru asked.

"I don’t know yet," Dumbledore admitted honestly. "But I must warn the Order. And try to find out what Voldemort is plotting."

He turned to Harry.

"And you, Harry, need to be very careful. Voldemort knows you can see his actions, and he will try to use that to his advantage."

"I’ll be careful, Professor," Harry promised.

"And continue your lessons with Professor Snape," Dumbledore added. "Occlumency may protect your mind from his influence."

"Alright, Professor."

"Now go," Dumbledore said. "You need to rest. And try not to spread what you’ve seen. The fewer people who know about it, the better."

Harry nodded and left Snape’s office with Professor McGonagall. Fujimaru followed them.

Chapter Text

The next day, the first Quidditch match of the year took place — Gryffindor versus Slytherin. After grueling training sessions under Angelina’s leadership, who had pushed the team to their limits, Harry felt fully prepared for the game. Ron, on the other hand, looked completely lost. At breakfast, he barely touched his food, only nervously crumbling bacon in his plate, and he looked as though he was preparing for an execution rather than a match. Harry hoped the game would end quickly and without complications. He knew that this match was a serious test for Ron, who was playing as a goalkeeper for the first time. If anything went wrong — if he let in too many goals or if the match dragged on — Ron would be terribly upset.

Even in the locker room, while changing into their uniforms, Harry approached Fred and George, nodding subtly toward Ron, who sat hunched over on the bench, staring blankly at one spot. Fred immediately caught the hint, gave a thumbs-up, and Harry smiled with relief. He was confident that the twins wouldn’t leave Ron in the lurch and would figure out a way to cheer him up.

Unfortunately, the match didn’t go according to plan from the very beginning. The weather, though not sunny, was decent enough for a game: gray clouds covered the sky, but the wind was mild, and there was no sign of rain. However, Gryffindor players were immediately disrupted by the Slytherin stands. Loud shouts and songs erupted from there, among which the mocking chant stood out: "Ronald Weasley is our king!"

With each passing minute, it became increasingly clear that the Slytherins had decided to turn this match into a farce. They played dirty, constantly breaking the rules. Slytherin Beaters seemed to have gone berserk, chasing after Gryffindor players instead of Bludgers, trying to knock them off their brooms. Chasers were repeatedly hit from behind, shoved, and grabbed, hindering their ability to carry the Quaffle. Ron, already nervous, became completely flustered under the barrage of insults and started letting goal after goal slip through.

Harry furiously zoomed across the field, searching for the Snitch. He understood that he needed to end this disgraceful match as quickly as possible before Ron lost all confidence and Gryffindor players suffered serious injuries. Finally, he spotted the golden ball near the ground at the opposite end of the field. Like a hawk, he darted after the Snitch, overtaking everyone in his path. Draco Malfoy, also hunting for the Snitch, desperately tried to catch up, but Harry was faster. At the last moment, narrowly avoiding crashing into the ground, he skillfully twisted his body into a graceful pirouette and grabbed the Snitch.

“Yes!” he shouted, raising his hand with the golden ball clutched tightly in it.

The game was over. Gryffindor had won, but the score wasn’t as decisive as usual. Due to the goals Ron let in and the dirty tactics of the Slytherins, Gryffindor only managed to edge ahead by ten points.

Fred and George Weasley, outraged by the Slytherins’ foul play, couldn’t calm down even long after the match.

“This is beyond any limit!” Fred fumed, pacing around the Gryffindor common room. “They weren’t playing Quidditch; they were having some sort of free-for-all brawl!”

“Yeah,” George chimed in. “Those snakes will soon start throwing rocks at us along with Bludgers.”

The twins continued loudly voicing their indignation for a while, reliving the most outrageous moments of the game and cursing the Slytherins to no end. Gradually, however, their anger began to subside. Suddenly, George stopped, thought for a second, raised his index finger as if struck by a brilliant idea, then exchanged a meaningful glance with Fred. Sly smiles spread across their faces.

“I think I know how to teach those slimy snakes a lesson,” George whispered, leaning toward his brother.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Fred asked with anticipation.

“Exactly,” George nodded. “It’s time we had a little fun.”

With those words, the twins, laughing infectiously, dashed off to their dormitory, leaving everyone else bewildered.

“Good Merlin, what are those two up to now?” Ron muttered, nervously shrugging his shoulders. “I hope it’s nothing too dangerous. Then again, I’m glad they didn’t start a fight.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “It’s good that everything ended without a brawl. We don’t need to lose more house points because of those Slytherin brutes.”

She turned to add something more, but suddenly froze, staring out the window.

“Look!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the Forbidden Forest. “Hagrid! He’s back!”

Harry and Ron rushed to the window. Sure enough, light was glowing in Hagrid’s small hut at the edge of the forest.

“Finally!” Harry exclaimed happily. “I was starting to worry about where he’d disappeared to.”

“We need to go see him right away!” Ron declared. “I’m sure he has plenty of news.”

***

The four friends raced headlong toward the gamekeeper’s hut, hiding under the Invisibility Cloak. They unleashed a torrent of knocks on his door, which finally opened. There stood Hagrid, holding a sizable steak against his battered face.

Their conversation immediately touched on the most pressing issues — the Dementors’ attack on Harry and Dudley over the summer, the mass transformation of Muggles into wizards, and Voldemort’s atrocities. Lastly, they mentioned Umbridge, whose activities had completely fizzled out. She was ready to oppose Harry and Dumbledore but, thanks to Fudge, now stayed put behind the teachers’ table and didn’t dare interrupt anyone.

Hagrid recounted his adventures to his friends. Together with Madame Maxime, he had visited the giants to persuade them to join Dumbledore’s side. Things hadn’t gone smoothly with the giants as they had hoped: there had been a rebellion, and the leader, upon whom great hopes were pinned, was brutally murdered overnight. Death Eaters had approached another giant with gifts, while simultaneously hunting Dumbledore’s envoys. Hagrid enthusiastically described how Madame Maxime had wanted to fight them.

“But you still haven’t explained, Hagrid, where you got that bruised face,” Ron pointed to his broken face.

“And why you were gone so long,” Harry added. “Sirius says Madame Maxime returned ages ago.”

“Who attacked you?” Ron asked.

“No one attacked me!” Hagrid exclaimed fervently. “I found my half-brother on my mother’s side. I couldn’t leave him there; I just couldn’t… They would’ve killed him. He’s still young.”

Hermione stared at Hagrid with wide eyes.

“You brought a giant into the Forbidden Forest?” she gasped. “What will happen if Umbridge finds out…”

“Then don’t tell her,” Hagrid snapped. “No need for her to know such secrets. Too much cleverness in those Ministry types… It’s them who came up with killing giants. So think twice before you speak.”

Unconsciously, Hagrid slammed his fist on the table and rose from his chair.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

He led them deep into the impenetrable heart of the forest. The path they followed gradually narrowed until it disappeared entirely. In this area, not a rustle or animal cry could be heard. Only silence and darkness reigned.

“Can we light our wands?” Hermione asked.

“Go ahead.”

Surrounded by uprooted trees, lay an absolutely smooth mound.

“He’s sleeping,” Hagrid commented.

It took the group a moment to realize what was happening. Only when the mound stirred and rose from the ground, taking on the recognizable form of a sixteen-foot-tall humanoid, did the mystery unravel.

“His name is Grawp. He’s a nice guy and learning everything, but it’ll be better if you help him…”

Grawp bent thick oaks like twigs and effortlessly lifted half-ton boulders.

“Hagrid, how… how did you bring him here?” Harry asked, both in awe and fear.

“It was hard and took a long time. He didn’t want to come, but I couldn’t leave him. He’s still young.”

In an instant, little Grawp picked up Hermione with one hand and brought her close to his face to get a better look.

“Grawp! Put me down!” Hermione ordered bravely, just as Jeanne was preparing to transform her wand into a sword.

Surprisingly, the giant obeyed Hermione and, after doing as she asked, looked at her guiltily.

“Well, looks like you two are getting along…” Hagrid concluded.

“He’s insane!” Ron exclaimed later in the common room.

“No, you’re wrong!” Harry countered. “He’s our Hagrid, and nothing will change that.”

“Only Hagrid could call a dragon or a giant spider cute and little.”

“Without that, Hagrid wouldn’t be Hagrid,” Harry smiled. “So, shall we go teach him how to behave in public?”

“That’s better than spiders. But somehow I don’t fancy being squashed…”

“For that, we have Jeanne.”

“In that case, I’ll send you far away and watch how you handle him without me,” she sneered.

“And that’s what makes Jeanne, Jeanne,” Hermione noted.

Jeanne opened her mouth to retort but simply threw up her hands.

“See you tomorrow!” she muttered under her breath and dashed off to the girls’ dormitory.

“I think we forgot something,” Hermione said, glancing at the clock.

“What?” Harry didn’t understand.

“It’s already night.”

Whatever Voldemort was planning to do, the evening had already passed.

Chapter Text

Voldemort rose from his father's grave, transformed into a bat, and chased Harry for a long time, shooting multicolored rays of spells after him. Wormtail ran close behind the Dark Lord, constantly stumbling.

"My lord, we're deep in the Forbidden Forest already! Let’s go back!"

The path grew narrower and narrower until it disappeared completely. Wormtail's cries ceased. Harry and the Dark Lord turned around simultaneously. An enormous hand, looking as if it were carved from solid rock, squeezed Wormtail and lifted him up to face level.

"GRAWP NEEDS HAGGAR!!!" thundered Hagrid's younger brother.

"He’s still so little…" said Hagrid, addressing both of them while cradling in his hands a promising hybrid of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, an Acromantula, and a Dementor. It had Voldemort’s noseless face and the color of raw meat. "We must take care of him."

How fortunate that Ron couldn’t see this. Upon waking and sitting up in bed, Harry spent several more minutes processing the dream. It seemed all his dreams entirely reflected Harry's own experiences. He was worried about Voldemort, concerned for Hagrid and his giant brother. The unknown scared him even more. What had Voldemort planned for the previous evening, and why hadn’t Harry sensed it? Had the Occlumency lessons with Snape paid off, or had Voldemort managed to shield his mind on his own?

Lying back down and resting his head on the pillow, Harry soon fell peacefully asleep. He dreamed that he went to the kitchen, where house-elves offered him various sweets, and then Dobby appeared. Completely submerged in mismatched socks, scarves, and hats, he suddenly transformed into a tall, charming woman with long pointed ears, elegantly dressed. She approached Harry closely, scrutinizing him with piercing golden eyes, then abruptly rolled her eyes and snorted in disappointment, raising her head high before turning on her heels and slowly disappearing in a mournful manner.

***

"Did you see anything in your dreams last night?" Fujimaru asked Harry after breakfast.

"Nothing, unless you count Voldemort chasing me in the form of a bat. Although I also had a dream where Dobby the house-elf turned into a woman."

"Apparently, the day’s anxieties took their toll," Fujimaru suggested.

"If only I knew what Voldemort was plotting. Why did you ask me about my dreams?"

"I heard about your mental connection, and I thought it would be strongest during sleep."

"The last time it worked, Voldemort looked straight at me, as if he knew…"

Harry’s eyes widened at that moment, and he glanced at the staff table. Snape sat among the other teachers, eating, drinking, and chatting with Professor Sprout.

"What did he know, Harry?" Fujimaru puzzled.

"He knew that I was seeing all this…"

A chilling realization washed over him like an icy shower.

"He could have deliberately created that vision to confuse me!" Harry hissed through clenched teeth. "He used me…"

Fujimaru watched his frustration with eyes full of empathy yet attentiveness.

"Then again, what else should we expect?!"

"True," noted Fujimaru. "It would be strange for him to know about this connection and not use it."

"I’m such a fool!" Harry leaned against the wall in emotional distress and hit his chest. "A fool!"

"Everyone makes mistakes, Harry. It’s not your fault," Fujimaru tried to comfort him. "We know nothing about what happened last night."

True. Harry might have sensed some emotional outburst from Voldemort, but the previous evening their connection had sunk into a complete vacuum, as if nothing had happened.

"Maybe… they failed, and that guest is now lying in a grave?" Harry suggested.

"Not unlikely. Knowing this Dark Lord’s nature, I think he’d do just that in case of failure. But then you might have felt his hatred, wouldn't you?"

This assumption only further confused Harry.

"Then… They conducted an experiment, and he wasn’t there at all?" Harry guessed, immediately surprised by his own deduction.

"Every lord has his food taster who tries the dishes before him," Fujimaru shrugged.

"He has an entire army of Death Eaters; they’d do anything for him."

"Then we’ll find out everything when he decides to participate in the experiment himself."

Harry didn’t know whether to be glad or afraid of this news. Nevertheless, the coming days promised to be even more interesting.

Chapter Text

Professor Umbridge, despite her outward detachment, was becoming increasingly intrusive every day. Armed with Fudge's highest permission, she kept barging into other people's classes, interrupting lessons and furiously scribbling in her little notebook with a rather nasty purple cover. Moreover, she did this at the most inappropriate moments when the students were fully focused on the practical part of the lesson.

At first, the teachers tried to ignore her antics, but soon it became impossible. For instance, Professor Sprout nearly turned gray when Umbridge showed up during her Herbology class and started asking tricky questions about the poisonous properties of rare plants while feeding them to her students during a practical assignment. Professor Flitwick had to interrupt his Charms lesson because Umbridge suddenly decided to test the students' knowledge by asking unrelated questions. And Professor McGonagall was utterly enraged when Umbridge dared to enter her Transfiguration classroom and demand an explanation for why the students were turning matches into needles and not the other way around.

Some teachers attempted to politely escort Umbridge out, hinting that her presence was disrupting the learning process. But she would only pout and declare that she was acting under the personal orders of the Minister. Eventually, failing to get what she wanted from the teachers, Umbridge turned her attention to the students. She began lying in wait for them in the corridors, the library, the common rooms of the houses, asking strange questions and marking something in her notebook. The students avoided her like the plague, trying not to catch her eye unnecessarily.

Finally, the teachers' patience ran out. One fine day, the heads of the houses, led by Professor McGonagall, went to Dumbledore’s office to complain about Umbridge’s misconduct.

“Albus,” said McGonagall, her eyes flashing, “this woman is crossing all boundaries! She’s interfering with our lessons, pestering the students with ridiculous questions, and generally behaving as if she’s in charge here!”

“I completely agree with you, Minerva,” nodded Dumbledore. “I have tried to talk to Dolores several times, but, I’m afraid, without success. She believes she is acting in the interests of the Ministry and the entire magical community.”

“In whose interests?!” flared up McGonagall. “She’s just spying on us for that idiot Fudge!”

“You might be right,” Dumbledore calmly replied. “But what do you propose?”

“We need to put her in her place!” declared McGonagall. “Show her that Hogwarts is not a branch of the Ministry, but an independent educational institution!”

“I will try to talk to her again,” said Dumbledore. “But I can’t promise it will bear any fruit.”

At that moment, Umbridge herself entered the office. Seeing that she was being discussed in her absence, she puffed up and took on an offended look.

“What’s going on here?” she asked in a sweet but annoying voice. “Why wasn’t I called?”

“We were just talking about you, Dolores,” said Dumbledore, smiling politely. “The professors are complaining about your excessive interference in the educational process.”

“I am acting in the interests of the Ministry!” exclaimed Umbridge. “The Minister instructed me to…”

“The Minister instructed you to observe, not interfere,” interrupted her Dumbledore. “And certainly not to harass students and ask them strange questions.”

“But I must know what’s happening in the school!” stated Umbridge. “I must gather information!”

“There are other methods for that,” said McGonagall. “Not the ones you are using.”

Umbridge looked horrified first at Dumbledore, then at the gathered teachers, and finally at Jeanne, who silently observed the scene, and suddenly burst into tears.

“You have no right!” she screamed, stomping her feet. “I’ll complain to the Minister! He’ll fire all of you!”

With those words, she ran out of the office, slamming the door loudly behind her.

In response to this outburst, McGonagall expressively twirled her finger near her temple, and Snape merely shrugged indifferently, as if the events didn’t concern him at all. Professors Sprout and Flitwick exchanged puzzled looks but remained silent.

“I fear this is not the end,” noted Dumbledore, watching Umbridge leave. “Difficult times await us.”

Umbridge's actions provoked much less bewilderment than the article in the Daily Prophet, which landed on Harry’s table the next morning.

"Jack the Ripper Strikes Again in London! Magical World in Terror!" screamed the headline of the article.

Harry brought the newspaper closer to his face, reading through the alarming lines of the article.

The wizarding community of London is gripped by panic as a series of brutal murders has occurred in the city. The victims, both Muggles and wizards, were found disfigured and all had their hearts removed. The method of these murders has prompted the Ministry of Magic to reconsider long-forgotten cases. Presumably, dark magic was involved in this affair.

"Disemboweled bodies," flashed through Harry's mind. He shuddered, imagining the terrifying picture piercing him with cold.

The Daily Prophet learned that these murders bear a striking resemblance to a dozen urban legends that have circulated in England for centuries. One of them tells of a creature known as the "Heartless Hunter," who preys on unsuspecting victims and removes their hearts as a macabre trophy, dreaming of one day finding his own. Another legend speaks of a mysterious serial killer known as "Jack the Ripper," who hunted defenseless women, killing them with particular brutality. Our special correspondent, after interviewing elderly wizards living in London, discovered that among them circulates a rumor about a certain Jack, whose crimes in the late 19th century remained unsolved, and who seemed to vanish, remaining uncaught.

"Jack the Ripper," thought Harry. "I’ve heard that name somewhere before. It seems it was in one of the books on the history of magic. And they made TV shows about him… He really was never caught!"

Amateur detectives quickly linked these murders to the recently resurrected Dark Wizard, believing he was acting in alliance with this Jack. Some think he uses these killings to instill fear and gain power over the wizarding community, as well as to conduct certain rituals, since he was recently spotted performing something similar in London.

"Ritual?" — Harry remembered his recent dream where Voldemort was doing something incomprehensible in the sky above London. Could these events be connected? What was most terrifying was realizing that if that dream turned out to be true, the current events remained a secret known only to Voldemort, and the dark wizard had no intention of sharing it with Harry.

The Ministry of Magic issued a statement urging all witches and wizards to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity. Aurors were dispatched to investigate the murders and are tirelessly working to bring the perpetrator to justice.

Meanwhile, the public is advised to exercise caution and avoid solitary trips at night. The wizarding community is on high alert, and we hope the criminal will be caught before more lives are lost.

As the investigation continues, the Daily Prophet will keep readers informed of any new developments in this chilling case.

Harry was stunned. He couldn’t believe that Jack the Ripper was back in action in London. Could Voldemort have formed an alliance with this infamous murderer? Or was it a coincidence, and someone else, inspired by the old legend, decided to repeat his bloody path?

For a moment, he imagined Voldemort in the form of a bat circling over nighttime London, searching for a new victim. But then he shook his head. No, too petty for the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t do such things personally; he has Death Eaters for that.

Suddenly, Harry felt a slight pang in his heart. What if it wasn’t Voldemort? What if someone else appeared in London, possessing dark magic and cruelty comparable to Voldemort’s? What if the Dark Lord truly had a competitor for the Holy Grail, or for something no less valuable? At this thought, Harry’s heart tightened. Could the wizarding world be on the brink of a new war, even more terrible than before?

For a moment, Harry imagined Voldemort walking at night down a gloomy London street and looking after a dark figure wrapped in a hooded cloak. He calls out to the figure, it turns around, a flash of green light — and the snake-like face of the victor spreads into a satisfied smile.

Snapping out of such a wild flight of fantasy, Potter involuntarily shuddered — it wouldn’t do to feel sympathy for his sworn enemy, who had put so much effort into his, Harry’s, death.

He was just about to share his thoughts with Ron and Hermione when Jeanne approached them. She curiously peered into the newspaper that Harry still held in his hands and, reading the headline, knowingly grunted.

"Jack’s causing trouble again," she said, as if talking about an annoying neighbor rather than a serial killer. "He just can’t settle down."

"Do you know who he is?" asked Harry, looking at Jeanne in surprise.

"Just one of the urban legends," she waved it off. "About some maniac who liked to disembowel people in the last century. They say he was a wizard."

"But what does Voldemort have to do with it?" Ron didn’t understand. "He can’t be…"

"With Voldemort, it’s more complicated," interrupted him Jeanne. "He might be involved, or he might not. But one thing is clear: someone very bad is operating in London, and this someone possesses considerable power."

"Do you think it’s the work of a Servant?" Harry quietly asked, recalling Fujimaru’s words about the War for the Grail.

"It’s possible," nodded Jeanne. "Servants come in different kinds. Not all of them are distinguished by nobility and honor. It’s quite possible that one of them decided to entertain themselves in such an unusual way."

"But why?" interjected Hermione. "What benefit do they get from it?"

"Who knows," shrugged Jeanne. "Maybe it’s part of some ritual. Or just a way to scare people. Maybe this Servant simply enjoys killing. Anything happens."

"But Voldemort…" Harry began.

"Voldemort is a separate topic," interrupted him Jeanne. "I wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to take advantage of the situation for his own benefit. Panic, fear, distrust — all this plays into his hands."

"So we need to be even more careful," concluded Hermione.

"And stick together," added Ron.

"And prepare for the worst," Jeanne grimly finished.

Without paying much attention to the newspaper article text, he finished his breakfast and got up from the table, wanting to go to class. How could he know that these murders weren’t Voldemort’s handiwork and not part of another mad bloody ritual by which he wants to add to his magical powers? Harry’s task is to study and teach others how to fight against dark forces while there is still such an opportunity. He must be ready to meet Voldemort one day and fight him, as it already happened at the end of the first, second, and fourth years.

"This is real life," Harry said at the Dumbledore’s Army meeting, waving the issue of the Daily Prophet with news about the murders in London. "They won’t give you a failing grade for an unlearned lesson here. Here, people die. And each of us must be ready for any surprises. Today we will practice the Riddikulus spell, which will help you deal with a Boggart."

Harry looked around at those gathered. Everyone was in a fighting mood, even Dudley, who seemed to have fully gotten into the lessons and no longer felt like an outsider among wizards.

"Who wants to start?" asked Harry.

Several people, including Neville and Ginny, raised their hands. Harry nodded to Neville, and he stepped forward, holding his wand at the ready.

From behind an old wardrobe standing in the corner of the room, a chest slid out. It opened, and a Boggart jumped out, taking the form of what Neville feared most. This time, the Boggart took the form of Professor Snape, who menacingly approached Neville.

"Riddikulus!" shouted Neville, pointing his wand at him.

The Boggart-Snape stumbled, his robe turned into an old-fashioned women’s dress, and a hat with a stuffed vulture appeared on his head. Neville laughed, and the Boggart disappeared, returning to the chest.

Next, one of the new girls from Gryffindor came out. Her Boggart took the form of a huge red ball engulfed in flames. The girl screamed and recoiled but then gathered her strength and cast the spell. The ball shrank to the size of a ping-pong ball and fell to the floor with a soft thud.

"What was that?" asked Ron when the Boggart disappeared.

"I don’t know," shrugged Hermione. "Maybe something from her past."

Harry noticed that Fujimaru, who was present at the lesson, was attentively observing what was happening, making notes in his notebook. When the new girl’s Boggart appeared, Fujimaru frowned and muttered something under his breath. His own Boggart took a similar form — also a red ball, but smaller and covered with many chaotically flickering dots, as if sprinkled with stardust. Fujimaru quickly dealt with it, and the Boggart turned into a small teddy bear.

"You have interesting Boggarts," Harry remarked, approaching Fujimaru.

"Yes," agreed Fujimaru. "They reflect not only fears but also memories."

"What caused your fear of becoming something like that?" asked Harry.

"It’s a long and complicated story," replied Fujimaru.

When it was Jeanne’s turn, Harry watched with interest to see what her Boggart would become. He had no doubt it would be something unusual.

Jeanne’s Boggart took the form of a huge, sprawling tree reaching the ceiling with its crown. Under the tree, it was absolutely empty. A wand appeared in Jeanne’s hands, but she didn’t rush to pronounce the spell. She stood motionless, gazing at the tree, and a strange expression froze on her face — a mixture of longing, sadness, and... fear? Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. Was it possible that fearless and unwavering Jeanne was afraid of something?

Several tense minutes passed. Jeanne seemed to be having a silent dialogue with her Boggart, ignoring everyone else. Her lips moved soundlessly, and a storm of emotions reflected in her eyes.

"Jeanne," Hermione softly called, approaching her, "what’s wrong?"

Jeanne shuddered, as if waking from a trance. She blinked a few times, then, gathering her strength, pointed her wand at the Boggart.

"Riddikulus!" she loudly and clearly pronounced.

The tree remained unchanged, but a large crowd of people appeared under it, animatedly discussing something. Jeanne smiled, and her smile was filled with relief and joy.

"What was that?" asked Harry, approaching Jeanne after the Boggart disappeared.

"It’s a long story, Harry," Jeanne evasively answered. "And today is not the time to tell it."

"But you were afraid of loneliness?" Harry persisted. "Were you scared of the idea of being left alone?"

"Not exactly," Jeanne thoughtfully looked away. "Rather, I was afraid of repeating the past. I was afraid that at the decisive moment, I would be left without support again."

"But you’re not alone," countered Harry. "You have us."

Jeanne said nothing, just lightly touched his hand in gratitude.

He had lived under the same roof as Neville for several years and never once asked about his parents. Now he had lived for several months knowing that he was studying with a Servant of the Holy Grail and hadn’t once asked how she transformed from the kind and beloved Joan of Arc, savior of France, into an uncompromising killer ready to strike enemies left and right, paving her way through the bodies of foes. Before going to bed, he set himself the goal of catching Jeanne during a break and asking her a few questions away from prying eyes and ears.

The morning news made Harry completely forget about the recent dream and the desire to question Jeanne. The fresh issue of the Daily Prophet was emblazoned with a headline that sent an unpleasant chill down his spine:

"Mysterious flying object wreaks havoc in London! Is the Dark Lord linked to the new disaster?"

Harry devoured the article with his eyes, unable to tear himself away.

The promising headline was accompanied by an informative article.

Yesterday evening, residents of central London witnessed a frightening incident. An enormous, unidentifiable object hovering in the air caused chaos in the city, smashing buildings and streets. Witnesses reported bright beams emanating from the object and the destruction it left in its wake. The incident occurred against the backdrop of the recent surge in attacks on Muggles by the Dark Lord and his followers.

Emergency services of the Muggles quickly responded to the incident, but no one wanted to make contact with the unknown object, which exhibited erratic behavior. The Ministry of Magic services swiftly reacted to the incident, cordoning off the area and dealing with the aftermath. Fortunately, as reported, there were no casualties, but the material damage is estimated to be significant. One brave journalist from the Daily Prophet managed to capture the object on film despite the surrounding chaos. However, as seen in the photo, the object moved at such speed that the image turned out extremely blurry. Experts are currently unable to determine its nature, but it is already clear that it is neither a broom, nor a dragon, nor anything known to the magical community as a means of transportation.

The Ministry is currently refraining from commenting on the connection of this incident to the activities of the Dark Lord. But many are already speculating about what it might be: a demonstration of a new, previously unknown weapon of the Death Eaters, someone’s failed magical experiment, or something entirely different, beyond our understanding.

Authorities urge calmness and not to succumb to panic, but at the same time to remain vigilant and cautious, especially during the dark hours. The Ministry of Magic is doing everything possible to investigate the incident. The Daily Prophet will keep its readers updated on events.

Harry read the article several times, trying to comprehend what he had read. He shifted his gaze to the photograph accompanying the article. The shot was indeed of poor quality: a blurred dark spot against the night sky, with bright rays of light stretching down to the ground. But even despite the poor quality, Harry felt a threat emanating from this object. There was something wrong, alien, ominous about it.

"What is this behemoth?" muttered Ron, peering over Harry’s shoulder. "What is it anyway?"

"It looks like some kind of weapon," frowned Hermione. "Only whose?"

"Could Voldemort have created something like this?" Harry tried to recall if anything like this was mentioned in Fujimaru’s stories about the Grail and the Servants, but nothing specific came to mind.

"If it’s Voldemort, why cause such destruction?" doubted Hermione. "He usually acts more covertly."

"Maybe he wants to scare the Muggles?" suggested Ron. "Show them they’re defenseless against magic."

"Or maybe it’s not him," Jeanne, who had been silent until now, quietly said. "Or not only him."

All eyes turned to her.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"I’ve seen something like this before," Jeanne pointed to the photo in the newspaper. "But not in this world."

"What do you mean?" Ron didn’t understand.

"Remember, Fujimaru talked about Servants who can alter reality?" Jeanne looked around at her friends. "Well, what you see in the photo could very well be the work of one of them."

"You think Voldemort summoned a Servant?" gasped Hermione.

"What if not only him?" Jeanne raised an eyebrow meaningfully. "What if someone else is involved in this mess, someone we don’t yet know about?"

"But who?" Harry asked, confused.

"I don’t know," Jeanne shook her head. "But it seems we should prepare for something very serious."

At that moment, Dudley approached them. He looked agitated and bewildered.

"Harry," he said, "I… I think I recognize that thing in the photo."

"What?" Harry looked at his cousin skeptically. "How could you possibly know it?"

"I… I saw it before," Dudley stammered. "In one of my dreams."

Chapter Text

The entire world was stepping into the unknown at an alarming speed.

With each passing day, more and more troubling news arrived, causing wizards from all over the globe to shrink in fear and uncertainty. It seemed as though Voldemort, like an invisible puppeteer, was pulling the strings, controlling events, and no one knew where or when he would strike next.

The latest news every day brought increasing anxiety, and Harry even began to notice that his own Patronus had weakened. The silvery stag, always so bright and strong, now appeared translucent, flickering like a candle flame in the wind. Because of this, he worried about whether he could now teach anyone to summon a Patronus, and he tried with all his might to postpone this lesson, teaching his classmates any other defensive spells rather than demanding the impossible from them. Only Hermione stood her ground, reminding everyone daily how important it was for each person to find at least a glimmer of light amidst the ever-thickening darkness of horrifying news. She insisted that the Patronus could become a symbol of hope and protection for them in these dark times.

After the release of news about the bloody massacre in London, Harry tried to delve into the content of newspaper articles but gave up after hearing about a dwarf luring passersby with his stories, from which it was impossible to escape. The "Daily Prophet" was filled with headlines about new attacks, disappearances, and strange incidents. People were afraid to leave their homes; panic rumors constantly flared up at Hogwarts, and the teachers themselves seemed unsure of what to expect next. Strange things were happening in London, and he couldn't explain them rationally. If Fujimaru knew anything about it, he wasn’t in a hurry to share his thoughts with Harry, and Jeanne followed his example. The teachers certainly weren’t obligated to report to him personally, and now he literally existed in a complete information vacuum.

His own ignorance weighed heavily on him, growing stronger each day, and it seemed—soon it would crush him completely. He had no one to blame since everyone was busy with their own tasks, and Harry fully understood this. Even Sirius, the only person he tried to contact and to whom he sent a letter, replied briefly. He asked Harry not to worry, assuring him that everything was fine and that his house on Grimmauld Place was being carefully guarded by Aurors from the Order of the Phoenix. Though short, this reply warmed Harry’s soul a little. Now, all that remained was to take care of Dudley.

He understood that Sirius's letter was most likely checked by someone from the Order, so there was no point in expecting revelations from it. But still, even such a brief message was valuable to Harry. It gave him hope that not everything was lost, that there were people fighting against Voldemort, and that Sirius was safe.

But who would take care of Dudley? This question haunted Harry. How would Dudley protect himself if something happened? Who would come to his aid if Harry wasn’t around?

He couldn’t even imagine how they protected him.

The ominous and cold voice of Voldemort surfaced in his memory, and those words couldn’t have been more fitting. So, the safety of the Dursleys was being watched over more carefully than ever, and Harry could only hope that the mysterious protectors wouldn’t make a mistake during such difficult times.

At their first lesson of the year, Hagrid showed the students the thestrals. He led them to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and proudly displayed his favorites. The thestrals looked unusual—black, skeletal horses with membranous wings and glowing white eyes. Some students backed away in fear, while others curiously examined the strange creatures. During this lesson, Harry remembered the words of Ollivander and Luna about how not all wizards can see them.

"Hagrid himself said they know how to defend themselves," Hermione said, watching with some trepidation as Hagrid fed the thestrals chunks of raw meat. "I think a regular teacher, like Grubbly-Plank, wouldn’t have shown them to us until our OWL exams, yet they are interesting, aren’t they? Some can see them, and some cannot. I wish I could see them."

"Really?" Harry said quietly, recalling under what circumstances he himself learned to see them. He didn’t want Hermione to go through something similar.

She finally realized the grim meaning of her words.

"Oh, Harry… sorry… of course not, what nonsense I’ve blurted out," Hermione blushed and turned away, feeling guilty.

"It happens, don’t worry," Harry smiled, trying to cheer up his friend.

"I’m surprised how many people can see them," Ron said, looking around. He also couldn’t see the thestrals and felt a bit uneasy. "Look, we have three here."

"At least three," Harry corrected him, nodding toward Jeanne, who stood a little apart, thoughtfully gazing at the thestrals.

"I wonder what she thinks of them?" Hermione whispered. "She can see them too."

"I don’t know," Harry shrugged. "But I think she has her reasons for liking these creatures."

At that moment, Dudley approached them.

"They’re creepy, sure," he said, grimacing. "But impressive nonetheless. How do they fly with such wings?"

"Magic," Ron spread his hands. "Anything is possible here."

"I’d try to tame one," Dudley said thoughtfully. "Imagine how cool it would be to fly on a thestral!"

"Better not," Hermione shook her head. "They are wild animals after all, and it’s unpredictable how they’ll behave."

"But I think it’s awesome!" Dudley persisted. "No one has a domesticated thestral, but I would!"

"I doubt Hagrid would let you," Harry smirked. "He cares deeply for his pets."

"And that’s not true!" a sneering voice unexpectedly sounded behind their backs. "He would allow it if someone offered him enough money for something like that. Hagrid would sell anything if he were offered enough."

They turned around. Walking silently through the freshly fallen snow stood Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, smirking maliciously and staring at Harry’s group.

"If someone near you kicked the bucket, Weasel, maybe you’d see a quaffle too?"

"Wanna test it?" Jeanne asked, approaching Malfoy closely, causing him to instinctively back off.

Malfoy just smirked in response and puffed out his chest. In an instant, Jeanne was right up to him, piercing his face with a fiery gaze that made him involuntarily cringe, unable to withstand her heavy, penetrating stare. He tried to retreat, but she, like a predator chasing its prey, took a short step forward, denying him any chance to escape. Dudley stood shoulder to shoulder with her, glaring meaningfully into Malfoy’s eyes.

"Don’t provoke trouble," Dudley muttered.

He stared meaningfully at Crabbe and Goyle, whom he noticeably surpassed in size, and cracked his knuckles. They instinctively backed off, sensing the threat emanating from this giant.

"You’ll get into trouble, Dursley!" Malfoy squeaked. "And you too, French girl!"

"Oh really?" both asked simultaneously and exchanged glances.

"Attack!" Dudley raised his wand hand. "Come on then!"

Malfoy hesitantly threw out his wand hand and cast a spell at Dudley. He instinctively dodged, shouting "Protego! Expelliarmus!" in succession, and the hapless trio disgracefully retreated, losing their wands along the way.

Jeanne didn’t leave them alone. With one leap, she approached them, raising her hand to touch Malfoy lying in the snow, who immediately recoiled. Crabbe and Goyle followed his example.

"Pitiful cowards," she hissed, watching them run away. They had hastily picked up their wands and were stumbling at every step, muttering something incoherent.

"They already know how their boss looked that night," Harry began.

"They all know," Jeanne countered. "That’s why they’re scared. They’re not afraid of us, but of their own fear. They’re afraid that their precious Dark Lord won’t be as omnipotent as they think. And they’re afraid they’ll have to answer for their actions."

Ron approached Dudley along with Harry and patted him on the shoulder.

"Good job, Dudley! That’s how to handle them!"

"Indeed," Harry smiled. "You’re good at defense."

Dudley seemed to ignore the praise.

"I hate it when someone picks a fight," Dudley grumbled, shoved his wand into his pocket, and started walking towards the greenhouses. "Hey, are you coming? We’ll be late for Herbology."

Hermione followed him and ran ahead slightly. She pulled out her wand and used a spell to turn on the hot air, melting a path through the snowy field to the greenhouses.

***

Lately, Dudley often surprised Harry. To the astonishment of his cousin, who sometimes observed his successes only from afar, Dudley quickly mastered the practice of the most basic spells that Harry had spent several years learning; he also quickly learned to fly on a broom and now spent almost every day outside honing his skills, and it seemed as if the very air was helping him. One day, during a Defense lesson, Harry, seizing a moment when Umbridge turned away, stealthily glanced out the window, hoping to see his brother. What he saw stunned him to the core. Dudley, riding his Nimbus-2001, was performing real wonders in the sky. He soared high, barely touching the treetops, then plummeted downward, making Harry’s heart stop in fear, and at the last moment, just above the ground, leveled the broom and flew over the field like a swallow. At one point, noticing he was being watched from the window, Dudley executed an incredibly complex and beautiful maneuver, which Fred immediately picked up and repeated:

"Wow! That’s the Wronski Feint!"

"Wow!" Harry exclaimed involuntarily. He had never seen anyone handle a broom so skillfully. It seemed as if Dudley wasn’t just flying but dancing in the air, and the broom was an extension of himself. At that moment, it seemed as though Dudley hadn’t been born into a Muggle family but in the air—so good and natural he was in flight. He performed unimaginable stunts in the sky, rapidly gaining altitude, then sharply diving down, executing loops and rolls that left spectators breathless. Every time he trained with the others, Harry thought that Dudley was about to invent some new, incredible trick that would go down in Quidditch history. He flew with such passion and dedication that he inadvertently infected everyone with his enthusiasm. It seemed as if nothing else existed for him except the sky, the broom, and the wind whistling in his ears. But the better he flew on the broom, the less attention he paid to theoretical studies.

He was abysmally poor at divination, history of magic, and defense against the dark arts, disliked writing essays on various subjects, but when it came to practical work, it was hard to surpass him. At some point, Harry noticed that during training, Dudley seemed to enter a kind of trance-like state, merging with the broom, becoming one with it, and then true magic began in the sky. Now, watching him fly on the Nimbus-2001 gifted by his father, many predicted a great Quidditch career for him and even prepared a spot for him on the Gryffindor reserve bench.

Everyone understood that the current team lineup would eventually change, and then Dudley Dursley would take the field, worthy of playing alongside players of Krum’s level. Therefore, every time Dudley trained with the team, the Gryffindors knew in advance—he would once again amaze them with his skill, and whatever role they assigned him, the training would go perfectly. After all, Dudley didn’t just fly; he lived for flight, feeling the broom as an extension of himself, and each time he rose into the sky, he discovered new facets of his talent. He was like an artist creating an unrepeatable masterpiece with every brushstroke. Only instead of a brush, he had a broom, and instead of a canvas—the boundless sky. It only remained to wait for his moment of glory. To Harry’s further surprise, Dudley changed drastically—having entered a new society for him, he completely adapted to it and stopped enjoying praise, so no matter how much they praised him, Dudley ignored it and stubbornly pursued his goal.

Now Harry wasn’t surprised by his reaction to his friends’ praise.

He had already grown accustomed to Dudley’s character changes. He didn’t know what thoughts swirled in his cousin’s head, but he fully understood—all his achievements couldn’t be absolute coincidence. Therefore, every time he watched him in the sky, he imagined his half-brother’s flights of fancy. In this sense, Dudley appeared to him as a kind of artist painting a picture in the skies with his pirouettes on the broom, which became increasingly intricate day by day. He easily managed to do something that no one else could repeat, not because other students were stupid or untalented. Harry assumed: many of them could repeat his successes after additional training, and Dudley himself could help them with that, but what drove Dudley every time he invented something new remained a cherished mystery, and Dudley never spoke about it himself. However, every night he slept like the dead, and—as Harry thought—dreamed of new broom tricks.

***

The Room of Requirement buzzed with lively activity this evening. As usual, Harry instructed a large group of students, among whom were not only his friends—Ron and Hermione—but also numerous other pupils from different years and houses, including those who had recently discovered their magical abilities. Among them were Sam Brightwood, who was reportedly fond of football, and Agatha Sanspark, who, according to rumors, spent a lot of time studying the starry sky. Harry noticed that Fujimaru and Mash joined them again. This time, Fujimaru didn’t just observe from the sidelines but occasionally approached the students, giving short tips or demonstrating something, but he did this selectively, as if knowing whose efforts his help would benefit. Mash, however, kept a bit to the side, but Harry noticed that she attentively followed what was happening and sometimes even practiced spells along with everyone else, though she tried not to draw attention to herself.

Today, Harry conducted a lesson on the Impediment Jinx.

"This spell is also called the Jelly-Legs Jinx," he explained, demonstrating the correct wand movement. "It won’t completely stop your opponent but will significantly slow them down, throwing them off balance. This will give you precious seconds to dodge or use another spell. The key is to aim your wand correctly and pronounce the incantation clearly."

The students diligently repeated his movements and words, trying to master the challenging spell. Harry walked around the room, correcting mistakes, giving advice, and encouraging those who struggled.

He noted with satisfaction the progress of some students. Sam Brightwood particularly stood out. The tall, dark-haired boy moved with surprising agility for his size and seemed not to tire at all. His Impediment Jinx was especially effective—the mannequins he practiced on didn’t just slow down but comically stumbled, lost balance, and awkwardly collapsed to the floor as if their legs gave way. Sam clearly enjoyed the process, and his confidence grew with each successful spell.

"Excellent, Sam!" Harry praised him. "You’re doing great! Precision and power—that’s what’s needed!"

"Thank you, Harry," Sam smiled, clearly pleased with the praise. "Probably all that football. I’m used to calculating my moves."

Harry nodded. So, the rumors about his interest weren’t false. He’d have to ask him more about this game later.

Another student who caught his attention was Agatha Sanspark. A quiet and thoughtful girl with long dark hair and piercing blue eyes, she acted more thoughtfully and cautiously. She didn’t rush, meticulously practicing each movement, each word. Her spells weren’t as fast and powerful as Sam’s, but they were exceptionally precise. It was as if she didn’t just recite the spell but infused it with part of her soul, her inner energy. And because of this, her magic acquired a unique hue, becoming especially beautiful and harmonious.

Harry noticed that Agatha often closed her eyes before casting the spell, as if immersing herself in her inner world. He recalled that, according to Hermione, she was interested in astronomy, and for some reason, he thought she drew inspiration from the stars, from the vast expanses of space.

At one point, Harry saw Agatha experimenting with the spell, adding unusual visual effects. She made the sparks from the Impediment Jinx form intricate patterns resembling distant constellations.

"Very beautiful, Agatha," Harry couldn’t help but compliment her. "You have real talent."

Agatha slightly blushed and lowered her eyes.

"Thank you," she quietly replied. "I just love the stars. And it seems to me that magic is somewhat like them. It’s just as beautiful and mysterious."

Harry nodded understandingly and continued observing the students. He saw how diligently they worked, how they strove for perfection, and felt proud of them.

Dudley was also making progress. He trained hard, trying to prove that he deserved to be in this group. And he was doing quite well.

At some point, Fujimaru approached Harry.

"You have talented students, Harry," he said, observing what was happening. "And you teach them well."

"Thank you," Harry replied. "I try."

"I see," Fujimaru nodded. "And it’s bearing fruit."

Continuing to walk around the room, Harry couldn’t help but reflect on the varied origins of his classmates. He knew well the prejudice with which some wizarding families regarded Muggle-borns, but he always believed that talent and hard work were more important than lineage.

As the lesson progressed, Harry realized he should continue to encourage all his students, regardless of their background or status. He saw potential in each of them and hoped they would continue pursuing their interests and excelling in their studies.

Perhaps in the future, some of these Muggle-born students might even become the greatest figures of their time, breaking down barriers of prejudice and proving once and for all that origin doesn’t determine a person’s abilities. Harry was proud of his students and knew they were capable of achieving anything they wanted in life if they believed in themselves.

When the lesson ended, Harry, ensuring via the Marauder’s Map that the coast was clear, began releasing students from the Room of Requirement in small groups.

"Not bad today," he told Jeanne when they were alone. "Everyone tried, and many are already doing well."

"Could’ve been better," Jeanne shrugged. "Some are too slow and don’t understand what’s expected of them."

"Not everyone is like you," Harry smirked.

"That’s true," Jeanne turned to him and unexpectedly smiled. "But they have potential. They’ll learn with time. If they want to."

"You were right," Harry said. "About needing to act rather than wait for instructions."

"I rarely make mistakes, you know," Jeanne stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "Remember that."

Harry didn’t respond, still looking at her.

"By the way, about the boggart," Jeanne suddenly changed the subject. "What did you ask about mine?"

Harry stared at her in surprise. He had already forgotten about that conversation, but Jeanne apparently decided to return to it.

"Well…" Harry hesitated a little. "You saw that tree, right? I just wanted to understand why it frightened you so much."

"It’s not just a tree," Jeanne said quietly. "It’s the Fairy Tree. It grows in my hometown, in Domrémy."

"The Fairy Tree?" Harry repeated. "I’ve never heard of it."

"Of course not," Jeanne smirked. "How would you know about French legends? It’s a very old tree. Once, we village children played under it. We believed fairies lived there. We danced in circles, sang songs, wove wreaths… That was a long time ago. Before…"

She paused, and Harry saw a shadow pass over her face.

"Before what?" he asked cautiously.

"Before everything changed," Jeanne turned away, looking somewhere off to the side. "Before I heard voices."

"Voices?" Harry tensed, knowing that Jeanne sometimes behaved strangely but not understanding what she meant.

"The saints guided me," Jeanne explained. "I had to save France, and I believed I could."

"And you did," Harry said softly, recalling tales of Joan of Arc’s heroics. "You became a national heroine."

"Heroine," Jeanne bitterly smirked. "Yes, that’s what they called me. And then those same people I saved betrayed me. Accused me of heresy, of witchcraft."

"But what does the tree have to do with it?"

"It became one of the proofs of my guilt," Jeanne’s voice trembled. "They said I worshipped unclean spirits, that I danced in circles with fairies, that I drew my strength from evil spirits."

"But that’s not true," Harry protested.

"For them, it was true," Jeanne shook her head. "They needed a scapegoat, and they found one in me. And then… then came the stake."

"And you…"

"I wasn’t afraid of death," Jeanne interrupted him. "I knew I had fulfilled my duty. But I didn’t want to die like that. Not at the hands of those I had defended."

"And the tree?"

"They wanted to cut it down," Jeanne clenched her fists. "Right after my captivity. But the villagers of Domrémy didn’t allow it. They protected it, just as they once protected me."

"So why your boggart…?"

"Because that tree is a symbol not only of my past but also of my fear," Jeanne said. "The fear of what might happen again. The fear of being betrayed again."

"But here, everything is different," Harry objected. "Here, you have friends, those who believe in you."

"Friends," Jeanne smirked. "A nice word. But even it can’t always protect from pain."

"But you changed the boggart," Harry reminded her. "You made it show you not what you feared, but what you desired."

"Yes," Jeanne nodded. "I imagined those dear to me. Those who didn’t betray me, who remained loyal to me until the end."

"And did it help?"

"For a while," Jeanne shrugged. "But memories don’t go away. They’ll always be with me."

"As will your friends," Harry said. "We’ll always be here."

Jeanne didn’t respond, just slightly smiled and turned away, looking off to the side.

Jeanne’s smile softened, and she looked at Harry with a grateful expression, but said nothing. For a while, they silently gazed into each other’s eyes, and Harry felt an invisible thread woven from understanding and mutual sympathy stretching between them. She stepped closer to Harry, close enough for him to see her face in the finest detail: every fluffy lash on the edges of her slightly bloodshot eyes, every light hair strand carelessly sticking out of her usual hairstyle, which Harry found especially charming. He noticed a light blush appearing on her cheeks and a barely noticeable quiver at the corners of her lips. At that moment, she seemed especially beautiful and vulnerable to him, and an unbearable urge to embrace her, hold her tight, and protect her from all troubles overwhelmed him.

But instead, Harry just took a small step back, awkwardly smiling.

"Thank you, Jeanne," he said, breaking the silence. "For sharing this with me."

Jeanne seemed a little embarrassed too. She averted her gaze and softly said:

"You’re welcome. Sometimes… you just need to talk."

She looked at Harry once more, and a shadow of gratitude flashed in her eyes. Then, as if snapping out of it, she abruptly turned away and quickly walked toward the exit from the Room of Requirement.

Harry watched her go, feeling a strange pang in his chest. He didn’t understand what was happening between him and Jeanne, but he felt it was something important, something that could change their lives forever.

***

Mr. Weasley sat on the dark stone floor, thick fog enveloping everything around him, and a mocking, girlish voice whispered:

"Come on, tell me!"

A thin silhouette in front of Mr. Weasley stabbed two knives into his chest from different sides, and he sat there, overwhelmed by unbearable pain. His eyes rolled back, and he only faintly moaned.

"Tell me, tell me!" the girlish voice continued.

The powerful, smooth body of Harry slid around him, and stuck out its tongue. Harry’s scar exploded with unbearable pain, and he felt him again. Voldemort was triumphant.

"Harry! HARRY!"

Harry didn’t immediately recognize the people standing around his bed. He had never felt worse. Coming to and saying goodbye to the remnants of dinner, he looked at Ron, utterly unsure of what to say to him besides:

"Your dad… He was attacked…"

Chapter Text

"Professor Dumbledore," said Professor McGonagall. "Potter had... had a nightmare. He says..."

"It wasn't a nightmare," Harry interrupted.

Professor McGonagall turned to him and frowned slightly.

"Very well, Potter, explain it to the headmaster yourself."

"I... I really was asleep," Harry said.

He was terrified and desperately wanted to explain everything to Dumbledore. The latter was watching him with an unnervingly calm gaze, and his composure reassured Harry.

"But it wasn't an ordinary dream... it was real... I saw it happen..." He took a deep breath. "Ron's dad, Mr. Weasley—he was attacked by... someone... I didn’t see who it was, just a silhouette... and I heard a voice. It sounded like a girl’s voice?"

The words he spoke seemed to echo in the room, sounding somewhat absurd, even funny. There was a pause. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair but never took his eyes off Harry. Pale and shaken, Ron kept glancing between Harry and Dumbledore.

"How did you see this?" Dumbledore asked calmly.

"I don’t know..." Harry replied angrily (did it matter?). "Well, mentally, I guess..."

"You misunderstand me," Dumbledore said, still calm. "I’m asking if you remember where you were observing this attack from. Were you standing near the victim, or did you see the scene from above?"

The question stunned Harry, and he stared at the headmaster in amazement—as if Dumbledore already knew everything...

"I was somehow a snake. I saw through its eyes."

It became quiet. Then Dumbledore, now looking at the pale Ron, sharply asked:

"Is Arthur seriously injured? What did the attacker do to him?"

"Yes. He was stabbed in the chest... with knives," Harry answered, barely believing himself, and noticed how Ron gulped hard and then covered his face with his hands.

Dumbledore stood up so suddenly that Harry flinched. The headmaster addressed one of the portraits hanging near the ceiling.

"Edward!" he commanded. "And you, Dilys!"

A wizard with an earthy complexion and short black bangs, along with his neighbor, an elderly witch with long silver curls—who had appeared to be sound asleep—immediately opened their eyes.

"Were you listening?" Dumbledore asked.

The wizard nodded, and the witch replied:

"Of course."

"He’s red-haired and wears glasses," Dumbledore said. "Edward, you need to raise the alarm, make sure our people find him... Wake up Scrimgeour; this is his department."

Both nodded and sidestepped out of their frames, but they didn’t appear in neighboring portraits (as usually happened at Hogwarts). They simply vanished. One frame was left with only a black curtain, and the other with a beautiful leather chair. Harry noticed that other headmasters and headmistresses, who had been peacefully dozing and snoring quite naturally, occasionally stole glances at him from under half-closed eyelids. It was now clear who had been talking before their arrival.

"Edward and Dilys were among the most renowned headmasters of Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, swiftly walking past the visitors to a magnificent bird sleeping near the door. "So famous that their portraits hang in many important wizarding institutions. They can move freely between their portraits and thus inform us about what’s happening elsewhere."

"But Mr. Weasley could have been anywhere!" Harry exclaimed.

"Please sit down, all three of you," Dumbledore said, as if not hearing him. "Edward and Dilys may take a few minutes. Professor McGonagall, kindly conjure some chairs."

Professor McGonagall pulled her wand from her robe pocket and waved it. Three wooden chairs with straight backs materialized out of thin air—nothing like the cozy chintz armchairs Dumbledore had conjured at the Ministry during Harry’s hearing. Harry sat down and watched Dumbledore over his shoulder. The latter was stroking the golden tufted head of Fawkes with his finger. The phoenix woke up immediately, raised its beautiful head, and looked at Dumbledore with shining dark eyes.

"We’ll need a warning," Dumbledore said very calmly to the bird. A flash of flame, and the phoenix disappeared.

Dumbledore quickly approached one of the thin silver instruments (whose purpose Harry still didn’t know), moved it to the table, sat down, and gently tapped it with the tip of his wand.

With rhythmic tinkling, the device came to life, and small puffs of pale green smoke began emerging from the silver tube on top. The headmaster peered intently at the smoke, a deep wrinkle forming between his brows. After a few seconds, the smoke flowed steadily, thickening and swirling in the air... and soon a snake’s head with an open mouth took shape from it. "Isn’t this confirmation of my story?" Harry thought and looked at Dumbledore, hoping to read on his face that it was true. But Dumbledore didn’t raise his head.

"Of course, of course," he muttered, still watching the smoke without the slightest surprise. "But are the essences separated?"

The question was a mystery to Harry. Meanwhile, the smoky snake instantly split into two snakes, both twisting and writhing in the dim light. With a look of grim satisfaction, Dumbledore lightly tapped the device with his wand: the tinkling slowed and stopped, the smoky snakes faded, dissolved into the air, and disappeared.

"Professor McGonagall, please summon Mr. Fujimaru."

Dumbledore returned the device to the narrow table. Harry noticed that many former headmasters in the portraits followed him with their eyes, but upon noticing Harry looking at them, they immediately pretended to be asleep. Harry wanted to ask what the strange silver device was for, but at that moment, a shout came from the right under the ceiling: the wizard named Edward, slightly out of breath, reappeared in his frame.

"Dumbledore!"

"What news?" Dumbledore responded immediately.

"I shouted until someone came running," the wizard reported, wiping his sweaty forehead on the curtain hanging behind him. "I said I heard some movement downstairs... They didn’t believe me at first, but they went down to check... you know, there’s no one to watch downstairs—no portraits there. Anyway, after a few minutes, Rufus Scrimgeour arrived with Aurors. They turned everything upside down."

McGonagall appeared at the door with Fujimaru, who looked as if he had just woken from a coma. Dumbledore met Fujimaru with a grim look and quickly spoke:

"There was an attack today!"

Fujimaru’s heart raced, and he impatiently asked:

"Who was attacked?"

Harry recounted his dream, and the news hit Fujimaru like a tsunami hitting a catamaran. Ritsuka realized that things were much worse than he had feared, and the stakes were higher than ever.

Dumbledore turned to Fujimaru and asked:

"What do you think this could be?"

Fujimaru hesitated, pondering whether to reveal the truth, but knew he had to act quickly. Did he even have room to maneuver?

"If I’m right," he replied grimly, "it’s very bad. Did you send anyone there?"

Dumbledore silently nodded.

"Rufus Scrimgeour and his team arrived, but..."

Fujimaru gasped, despair gripping his heart.

Dumbledore spoke in a calm and reassuring tone:

"So, what do you think?"

Fujimaru could barely hold back tears as he spoke:

"I need to be there," his voice trembled strongly. "If I’m right, he was attacked by a Servant of the Holy Grail, and no one else will be able to stop him."

Dumbledore asked, widening his eyes:

"And how do you plan to stop him? A Servant is an extremely powerful and dangerous opponent. No human can stand against a Servant on equal terms."

"I am the last Master of humanity," Fujimaru replied with a sense of duty. "And I belong to an organization called Chaldea, which protects the world."

He paused, considering the serious implications of his next words.

"But... I’ll have to expose one of the Hogwarts students."

Dumbledore responded with an encouraging smile:

"We already know Miss d’Arc’s secret."

Fujimaru took a deep breath before saying:

"There’s another Servant of the Holy Grail at Hogwarts."

Dumbledore smiled kindly.

"May I ask who?"

"Her name is Mash Kyrielight."

Dumbledore solemnly nodded, understanding the full scope of the situation they were dealing with. Time was running out, and Mr. Weasley’s fate hung by a thread.

"So you’re saying we’re on the brink of the Holy Grail War?" Dumbledore clarified.

Fujimaru silently nodded and immediately continued.

"Worse. It has already begun. The latest news reports say blood has already been spilled, and it was spilled by Servants."

"May I clarify?"

"The Assassin-class Servant, exact name—Jack the Ripper. Mass murders of wizards." Fujimaru spoke evenly, as if reading a report, but Harry could feel how tense his figure was, how tightly clenched his fists were. Clearly, this topic was difficult for him. "The Caster-class Servant, exact name—Hans Christian Andersen. Mass disappearances of people. And there’s also an unknown flying object that caused destruction in London."

Dumbledore looked intently at Fujimaru over his half-moon glasses.

"Professor McGonagall, bring students d’Arc and Kyrielight here. Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, you will come with me and Mr. Fujimaru."

A minute later, McGonagall entered the office with Mash and Jeanne. Both girls clearly sensed the gravity of the situation, though Mash frowned after a moment, while Jeanne wore her usual expression of extreme self-assurance.

"What’s the mission, Master?" Mash asked Fujimaru, not wasting time guessing the meaning of such a large summons to the headmaster’s office at night. Instantly, deep blue-black armor appeared on her, and a huge cross-shaped shield materialized on her back. Only Jeanne stood beside her indifferently, her face expressing more boredom than interest.

"Jeanne Alter!" Fujimaru addressed her, but she didn’t even bat an eyelid in response.

"What?" she asked in an annoyed tone.

"Mission. Urgent."

Jeanne responded by showing him a rude gesture.

"A Command Spell..."

"Alright, alright, I’m listening," Jeanne reluctantly replied.

She straightened up, her pajamas imperceptibly transforming into a full set of coal-black armor, and her wand morphed into a sword.

"Who are we beating this time, Master?" she asked with a sneer.

Dumbledore didn’t waste any time.

"We need to get to the Ministry of Magic," he announced. "And quickly. The Department of Mysteries—that’s where we need to go. Arthur Weasley is there, and it seems he’s in trouble."

Harry and Ron exchanged glances, both feeling overwhelmed by the seriousness of the situation. Fujimaru moved with a sense of urgency, as if he had spent his entire life preparing for this moment. Jeanne d’Arc Alter and Mash Kyrielight followed, their faces filled with determination.

Dumbledore took a pouch of Floo Powder from the fireplace and handed everyone a pinch.

"Remember: the Department of Mysteries is not a place that welcomes guests," he warned the boys. "When stepping into the fireplace, say 'Ministry of Magic, Atrium' and wait for Fujimaru and me. Jeanne, Mash, you go right after us."

After receiving an affirmative nod from Fujimaru, Jeanne and Mash disappeared into the green flames of the fireplace. Then Ron vanished, followed by Harry.

"I hope we’re not too late," Dumbledore said quietly, more to himself than to Fujimaru.

"We have a chance," Fujimaru replied. "But we need to act quickly."

With those words, they too stepped into the fireplace, enveloped by emerald flames.

Chapter Text

Harry and the others found themselves in a spacious hall, finished with black marble that exuded coldness and impenetrability. At its very center, they saw a fountain with golden statues of a witch, a wizard, a goblin, a centaur, and a house-elf, from which water usually flowed, but now it stood motionless. The fires in the fireplaces along the walls were unlit, making them look like dark, hungry eye sockets. The Atrium was desolate, and not even a duty wizard was in sight. It seemed as if the silence itself was filled with anxiety and anticipation of something inevitable.

Harry got up from the floor and shook off the soot left over from the journey through the fireplace. He stepped out of the fireplace, from which green flames had just flickered. Soon after, green flames burst into life in neighboring fireplaces. Out of one gracefully stepped Jeanne, adjusting the folds of her dark cloak, while Mash awkwardly tumbled out of another and wheezed, choking on the soot. Fujimaru was by her side before she could fall, helping her to her feet. Jeanne paid no attention to Mash—she neither offered a hand nor uttered a word. She stood with her back to Mash, her haughty face expressing a sense of superiority, as if oblivious to what was happening around her. Shortly after, two more fiery flashes announced the arrival of Dumbledore and Fujimaru from another fireplace. To Harry’s surprise, Fujimaru emerged alongside Dumbledore, as if they had been together all along. Dumbledore appeared completely unfazed and surveyed the Ministry Atrium with a penetrating gaze.

"Miss d'Arc, would you be so kind as to assist your friend?" Dumbledore asked with a touch of irony in his voice.

Startled, Jeanne quickly removed the heavy shield from Mash's back and, without looking, pulled her close, jerking her upright. In doing so, she couldn’t resist grabbing Mash’s suspended shield to yank it sharply upward. From the deliberate shove and sharp slap between the shoulder blades, Mash's coughing immediately stopped, replaced by tears streaming down her face.

Finally, Mash got to her feet and picked up her shield from the floor. Fujimaru anxiously rushed to her side.

"How are you?" he asked, closely examining her face.

"I'm fine," she whispered weakly, trying to steady her trembling knees.

But Harry couldn’t help noticing the fear and pain in her eyes, the way she clung to her shield as if it were a lifeline. He had seen that look before in those who had suffered painful trauma. His heart involuntarily tightened with pity for her.

Dumbledore cleared his throat to draw attention.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," he said, his voice echoing loudly through the quiet atrium. "I hope you all arrived safely?"

A faint murmur of agreement was heard, drowned out by the echo of Dumbledore's own words.

"We are not here simply for pleasure, my friends," Dumbledore reminded them. "If we still wish to save someone, we must hurry. Arthur is in the Department of Mysteries, and it would be prudent for us to head there by lift. But be careful. It seems an unknown Servant has already been here, and who knows what we might encounter."

He strode forward confidently, indicating the way to the lift. When the doors closed behind them, the headmaster continued his speech.

"Let me remind you: we do not know exactly how this unknown Servant will react to each of you. When we exit the lift on the required floor, stay alert and let our wonderful ladies go ahead. They are better prepared than us for such encounters."

A sense of anxiety arose in the lift cabin, as if everyone present knew that things would only get worse. Silence fell, and then Mash, struggling to catch her breath, stepped forward. Her pale lips were tightly pressed together, but her eyes burned with determination.

"We stand together," she said quietly but firmly. "Let’s get to work!"

And, without waiting for a response, she was the first to step towards the lift doors. Impatiently, she jumped on the spot, causing the cabin to shake dangerously, accompanied by a terrifying screech from outside. Everyone, except Dumbledore, was genuinely frightened, while Jeanne flared up in anger.

"Quiet, you!" Jeanne irritably placed her hand on Mash's head, as if trying to push her into her shoulders. "One more trick like that..."

Her words were drowned out by the clatter of golden grilles, and a moment later, a cool female voice announced:

"Department of Mysteries."

Harry recognized this place. He expected to see Scrimgeour and his Aurors here, but instead found traces of a fierce battle and thick fog with an unpleasant smell of decay, making his eyes water and throat itch. Scrimgeour himself, resembling a lion in appearance, was seated behind a protrusion in the wall near the lift, encasing his head in some sort of bubble. Harry had seen a similar bubble on Cedric's face during the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. Noticing the visitors, Scrimgeour gestured for them to retreat.

Jeanne was the first to exit the lift. Ignoring Scrimgeour’s gestures, she took a few steps forward, squinting and sniffing the air, as if trying to catch an elusive scent.

"Cheap tricks of a cowardly cur..." she muttered, more to herself than to those around her.

Mash stepped slightly ahead of her and immediately assumed a combat stance, holding her shield in front, as if preparing to deflect an invisible attack.

"What are your orders, Master?" Mash asked, addressing Fujimaru and trying to speak loudly and clearly, though her voice still trembled.

Fujimaru spoke through a cloth covering his face, trying to protect himself from the harmful effects of the fog:

"Save Mr. Weasley, whatever it costs you. And try to learn as much as possible about this Servant."

Dumbledore and his students, without waiting for an invitation, stood wrapped in shining silhouettes. Neither Ron nor Harry knew this spell, but Dumbledore had taken care of them, surrounding them with reliable protection against the suffocating fog.

"What happened here?" Dumbledore asked Scrimgeour, approaching him.

"Albus, have you gone mad! Leave here immediately!" Scrimgeour urgently called to them. "Some... someone...” he hesitated. "There is some creature here, extremely dangerous. This fog... one of my rookies got poisoned by it, and I had to evacuate him with a couple of people. Several of my men went on reconnaissance and disappeared without a trace. There should be more ahead... This... This beast... You should have seen it! It single-handedly wiped out twenty Aurors in seconds!"

"And undoubtedly, no spells affect it?" Dumbledore calmly asked, as if stating the obvious, while wiping his glasses.

"How do you know?"

"We came here with someone who deals with such creatures as part of their duty..." Dumbledore evasively replied, placing his glasses back on his nose.

"Did you see this creature personally?" Fujimaru asked as clearly as the cloth allowed, trying not to betray his anxiety.

"I... saw... But..." Scrimgeour’s eyes widened, and his voice faltered. "I don't remember what it is... or who it is. It seems to erase itself from your memory, leaving only emptiness behind."

"No words, no special features? Maybe something about its appearance that didn't escape your notice?"

Scrimgeour responded with an empty gaze, full of horror and despair. Fujimaru, darkening, exchanged glances with Jeanne and Mash.

"Your target is Jack the Ripper," Fujimaru quietly but firmly stated, addressing the girls.

Mash nodded respectfully, while Jeanne emitted a chilling laugh that echoed through the fog. It was a laugh that made even the bravest tremble with fear, a laugh that seemed to belong to a being with the darkest and most twisted imagination. Rufus Scrimgeour felt his heart pounding in his chest and couldn't help but wonder if he had just made a deal with true evil, far scarier than even Voldemort himself. At that moment, she looked exactly like the Jeanne Alter Harry had seen in his nightmares.

"Don’t worry," Jeanne threw over her shoulder, noticing Scrimgeour's confusion. "We'll handle her."

Then, turning to Dumbledore, she added:

"And don’t you dare interfere. Your help won’t be needed here."

Without waiting for a reply, Jeanne opened a simple black door, and Mash followed her inside, trying not to lag behind.

"It seems no one asked for your help," Scrimgeour remarked as the door closed behind the girls. "Well, all the better for us. And you, Albus, I see you haven’t wasted time and found a worthy use for that girl."

"She found her own purpose," Dumbledore retorted. "And believe me, Rufus, Jeanne is exactly who we need right now. As for you, we definitely can’t do without you. We need to find Arthur."

"Do you think he’s still there?" Scrimgeour pointed towards the closed door. "After that thing went through my best fighters..."

"We have no choice," Dumbledore firmly said. "We must find him. And, if possible, alive."

"Alright," Scrimgeour rose to his feet. "But where do we go? We don’t even know where to look for him."

"I have an idea," Dumbledore thoughtfully said. "Long ago, I studied the archives of the Department of Mysteries. I remember there was a room that might help us. The Brain Room."

"The Brain Room?" Ron asked, shivering. "What kind of room is that?"

"It’s a special place," Dumbledore explained. "Preserved human brains are stored there, used to study the nature of thought and consciousness. They say these brains can react to external stimuli and even engage in telepathic contact with those nearby."

"And you think they’ll help us find my father?" Ron hopefully asked.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore nodded. "If Arthur was here shortly before the attack, there’s a chance the brains remembered his presence. Or they remembered whoever attacked him."

"But it’s dangerous," Harry objected. "What if these brains harm us?"

"There is a risk," Dumbledore agreed. "But we will be careful. Besides, we have no other choice. We must find Arthur."

"I’m coming with you," Scrimgeour resolutely said. "I can’t abandon my man in trouble."

"Good," Dumbledore nodded. "Then let’s go. Harry, Ron, stay close and don’t fall behind. Be ready for anything."

With these words, Dumbledore headed deeper into the Department of Mysteries, drawing the others along. Harry walked, gripping his wand tightly, carefully surveying his surroundings. He didn’t know what awaited them ahead, but he was prepared for any surprises. He had to find Mr. Weasley and help Dumbledore unravel the mystery of what was happening. And he really wanted to know how Jeanne’s confrontation with Jack the Ripper would end.

While Dumbledore, Scrimgeour, Harry, and Ron made their way through the dark corridors of the Department of Mysteries, Mash followed Jeanne, trying not to fall behind.

"I hope we succeed," Mash thought anxiously, lost in thought. On one hand, Jack posed a real threat and needed to be stopped. On the other hand, their plan seemed too cruel and risky to her.

"What if we’re wrong? What if there are other ways to resolve this situation?" With each step, her doubts about the correctness of their plan grew stronger.

But Mash resolutely pushed these thoughts aside. Trusting Jeanne’s determination and confidence, she followed her friend into the gray misty void to accomplish what they had come for.

Mash cautiously moved through the dense, jelly-like fog, trying not to fall behind Jeanne, who seemed to experience no difficulty moving at all. The silence was broken only by their muffled footsteps and Mash’s barely audible coughing, as she couldn’t get used to the caustic haze hanging in the air. It seemed as if the very air here was saturated with death and despair. With each step, Mash became increasingly anxious. She didn’t know what awaited them ahead, and this uncertainty frightened her the most.

Finally, they reached the site of the recent skirmish between the Aurors and the unknown assailant. The sight that greeted them was horrifying. In the dim light filtering through the fog, Mash saw the bodies of wizards in Auror uniforms lying on the floor. They were mutilated, slashed with numerous wounds, as if worked over not by a person but by a wild beast. Some bodies were torn apart, entrails spilled out, and their faces frozen in expressions of unbearable terror.

Mash shuddered and instinctively recoiled. She felt nauseous but managed to suppress the lump rising in her throat.

"He’s alive!" she suddenly gasped, noticing slight movement from one of the wounded. His chest was barely rising and falling, and dark blood oozed from a deep wound on his neck.

Mash wanted to approach him to offer first aid, but Jeanne stopped her with a gesture.

"We’ll deal with him later," Jeanne’s voice sounded muffled and detached. "We have other work to do now."

"But..." Mash began.

"No 'buts,'" Jeanne interrupted. "This man is beyond saving. And we don’t have time for sentimentality."

Mash tried to protest again, to say they couldn’t leave the wounded man, but Jeanne’s gaze—cold, resolute, and brooking no objections—silenced her. For a moment, Mash felt fear—not for herself, but for Jeanne, wondering if she had underestimated her friend’s ruthlessness.

"You… heartless!" Mash breathed, shaken by the sight before her.

A moment later, Jeanne’s eyes reappeared in front of Mash’s face. Jeanne’s gaze—completely devoid of compassion—literally pierced her. For a moment, Mash felt fear, wondering if she had underestimated Jeanne’s mercilessness.

Jeanne stared silently at Mash for a second, then calmly spoke:

"I am not the Joan of Arc you expected to see. And we don’t have time for this."

Mash uncertainly fell silent, ready to trust Jeanne’s decision, though doubting its correctness. They continued walking through the ominous fog until they reached one of the many doors scattered throughout the hall.

"Arthur Weasley should be here," Jeanne said, stopping. "At least, that’s what your Master said."

"What if it’s a trap?" Mash questioned.

"Then we simply kill everyone who’s in it," Jeanne replied matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural solution to the problem.

Mash nervously swallowed. She still wasn’t used to Jeanne’s cruelty, her readiness to kill without hesitation.

"I hope we succeed," Mash thought, trying to dispel her growing uncertainty. "We must save Mr. Weasley. And stop Jack."

With these thoughts, she prepared for battle, gripping her shield tighter.

Jeanne, without the slightest hesitation, kicked the door open forcefully, unwilling to waste time on formalities. Behind it lay a vast chamber, resembling a giant amphitheater or perhaps a stadium. The resemblance lay in the fact that the hall descended in tiers of benches, with a circular arena at its very center, enveloped in the same dense fog. Along the edges of the hall stretched long shelves lined with rows of gleaming glass spheres.

The room was filled with strange fog that seemed to have a life of its own. It shimmered in various shades of gray, sometimes thickening, sometimes dissipating, as if breathing. Mash involuntarily shivered, feeling how the fog enveloped her, seeping under her clothes and crawling into the deepest recesses of her soul.

"Be careful," Jeanne warned, noticing Mash curiously examining the spheres. "Don’t touch them. These are prophecy orbs."

"Prophecies?" Mash asked in surprise. "Real ones?"

"In this world—yes," Jeanne nodded. "But don’t listen to them. They can drive you mad."

She cautiously entered the hall, carefully looking around. Her sword was at the ready, but she tried to move as quietly as possible to avoid drawing attention.

"Is anyone here?" she called out, breaking the oppressive silence. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the vast hall, full of hidden threats and vague shadows.

No answer came, but she sensed someone’s presence in the room. Her senses were on high alert, and her heart pounded in her chest. It felt as if the darkness itself was lying in wait, biding its time to strike. An elusive silhouette, a barely visible shadow darted from one corner of the room to another. Jeanne knew well—such childish games wouldn’t deceive her. She didn’t play hide-and-seek with the unknown enemy but froze in place, holding her sword in front and peering intently into the fog. Her blade emitted a faint glow, illuminating a small area around her. She resembled a lone lighthouse amidst a raging sea of darkness. With each passing second, her blood boiled hotter with mounting rage.

"Come out and face me!" she demanded, her voice dripping with contempt.

Her shout reverberated through the hall, amplified many times over by the echo, and for a moment, it seemed the walls trembled from its power. But the only response was silence. Silence, broken only by the faint dripping of water somewhere deep within the hall.

In response to her words, a soft chuckle emanated from the fog, sounding like a snake’s hiss combined with the screech of metal on glass. The sound made Mash’s hair stand on end.

Jeanne stood motionless, listening intently to the silence, peering into the fog. Her patience was wearing thin. She felt anger boiling inside her, dark Servant energy surging outward, demanding release.

Suddenly, a short figure in a tattered dark cloak with a hood over its head emerged from the fog in front of her. Jeanne recognized those clothes, that manner of movement. She remembered her enemy all too well.

"Well, well, well," said Jack, her voice low and mesmerizing, like the purring of a predatory cat playing with its prey. "I’ve been wondering when someone would show up."

Before her stood a girl of about fourteen, with a pale face frozen in a sinister smirk. A mass of short blonde hair couldn’t conceal her unnaturally large eyes, glowing with an unhealthy gleam. In her hands, the girl clutched a pair of bloodied knives resembling cleavers.

Jeanne didn’t respond. She only gripped the hilt of her sword tighter, preparing for battle. Her eyes shot lightning, and her entire being radiated undisguised hatred and thirst for vengeance.

"Well, hello, Jack the Ripper!" Jeanne burst into her ringing, rolling laughter. "Shall we dance?"

Her laughter reverberated through the hall, reflecting off the walls multiple times, and in it one could hear not only unrestrained mirth but also soul-chilling fury. Mash involuntarily shuddered upon hearing that laugh. It was like the howl of a wild beast, the grinding of rusty iron, the cry of death itself. At that moment, she realized that Jeanne wasn’t just fighting an enemy; she was unleashing her dark essence, giving vent to her rage and pain.

Jack laughed—a sharp, irritating sound that grated on Jeanne Alter’s nerves. It seemed as if this laugh did not come from a human being but from some dreadful spawn of a nightmare.

"You can’t defeat me with that," she said, nodding toward Jeanne Alter’s sword. "I’m too fast, too agile for you."

Jeanne Alter did not utter a word, but her eyes flashed malevolently with anger and defiance, and her lips twisted into a sinister smile, revealing a row of snow-white teeth that appeared unusually sharp in the dim light of the hall. She knew Jack was right, but she refused to back down. Without waiting for any further moves from her opponent, Jeanne boldly lunged forward, intending to strike, but Jack seemed to dissolve into the mist, reappearing behind her. With a wicked grin, she made her move.

She attacked again, and this time her sword left a deep gash on Jack’s arm. Jack cried out in pain but immediately retaliated with a strike from her knives. Jeanne recoiled, dodging the attack, and then charged back into the fight.

Their battle resembled a deadly dance, filled with rage and desperation. Jeanne pressed Jack, delivering blow after blow, but Jack skillfully evaded, countering with swift and precise strikes of her knives. With every passing moment, the battle grew more fierce, more bloody.

Mash watched the fight, unable to intervene. She understood that she would only be a hindrance to Jeanne at this point. All she could do was wait and hope that Jeanne would emerge victorious.

Chapter Text

Jeanne Alter, without slowing down, pursued Jack the Ripper. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she seemed not to notice the fatigue as she swiftly moved through the halls of the Department of Mysteries. She leapt from wall to wall with an agility that betrayed her inhuman nature, her amber eyes fiercely searching for the fleeing figure in the dark cloak.

Jack was fast, like a shadow, but Jeanne did not yield. She felt that with each step, each jump, the distance between them was closing, and her fingers involuntarily clenched as if already feeling the fragile body of the little murderer. The hunter's excitement mixed in her soul with righteous anger and a thirst for revenge. But just as she was about to reach out and grab Jack, the cunning criminal suddenly veered left and disappeared behind one of the numerous shelves, knocking it over onto Jeanne, causing her to involuntarily lose balance and fall heavily to the ground.

"I can't let her get away!" flashed through Jeanne's mind. She instantly got back on her feet and once again rushed into the chase. This time, the stakes were higher. She had come too close to capturing the elusive killer, and failure was not an option. It was unacceptable to allow this creature to continue sowing death and chaos.

Jack weaved between the shelves as if knowing the hall like the back of her hand. She was only a few meters away, and Jeanne almost physically felt the tension thickening in the air, like before a storm. Her heart was pounding so hard that it seemed to drown out all other sounds. She was no longer just pursuing the enemy—she was hunting, like a wild beast driving its prey into a corner.

And then, when victory seemed near, Jack suddenly stopped and sharply turned around, brandishing her bloody cleavers. Jeanne did not expect such a turn. She tried to brake, but it was too late. By inertia, she continued moving forward, straight towards the sharp blades.

At the last moment, she managed to dodge to the side, but one of the cleavers still caught her, leaving a deep gash on her shoulder. Jeanne recoiled, feeling a trickle of blood run down her arm. But she barely noticed the pain. Her body was engulfed in rage, and her mind clouded with a thirst for vengeance.

She saw how Jack, taking advantage of her confusion, rushed to the nearest shelf and kicked it with all her might. The shelves shook, and glass spheres cascaded down like a waterfall, shattering with a clatter on the stone floor and scattering into thousands of shards.

"There it is!" giggled Jack, like a mad doll brought to life by the will of an evil wizard. Her voice was full of malice and insane glee.

She deftly caught one of the falling spheres, but it slipped from her fingers, described an arc in the air, and shattered on the floor with a deafening crash.

"You! It's all your fault!" roared Jack, and her voice carried hysterical notes.

With a sudden movement, she darted out from behind the shelf, which immediately collapsed with a crash, narrowly missing Jeanne, and lunged at her, brandishing her knives. Jeanne barely managed to jump aside, dodging the attack. The falling shelf hit several neighboring ones, and they, like dominoes, began to topple one after another. The hall filled with the roar of falling objects and the clatter of broken glass. It seemed as if the Department of Mysteries itself was shaking with the fury of destruction.

Jeanne and Jack found themselves at the epicenter of this chaos. They continued to fight, dodging flying shards from all sides and trying not to lose sight of each other in the rising dust. Jeanne felt herself overwhelmed by a wave of primal rage. She was like an enraged beast, ready to tear her enemy to pieces.

At one point, Jeanne lost sight of Jack, but immediately sensed her presence somewhere to the right. She sharply turned, raising her sword in front of her, and saw Jack leap out from behind an overturned shelf, aiming straight for her head. Jeanne managed to parry the blow, and the blades clashed with a clang. They stood motionless, staring into each other’s eyes. At that moment, they resembled two predators locked in a deadly struggle.

"I'll kill you for this!" hissed Jack, her pale face contorted in a grimace of hatred, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.

"Hah! We’ll see!" Jeanne shouted back and, with inhuman strength, pushed Jack away.

From the impact, Jack flew several meters and crashed into the wall. The wall couldn’t withstand the blow and cracked, covered with a network of deep fissures. But this did nothing to cool Jack’s fervor. She resembled someone possessed, a living embodiment of death and destruction. Jack looked hungrily at Jeanne and immediately sprang off the wall, intending to take her revenge. The small, blond girl with a mad smile on her lips flew at Jeanne with green eyes full of primal rage, intending to tear her apart with her bloody knives. But Jeanne was prepared for this strike. She met her with her usual self-satisfied smirk and, gathering all her willpower, leapt towards her, thrusting her sword forward like a spear, ready to pierce the enemy.

***

The separation happened quickly. Dumbledore and Fujimaru headed one way, Scrimgeour and Harry another. Ron followed Dumbledore, trying not to fall behind.

Harry and Scrimgeour cautiously advanced through the dark, winding corridors of the Department of Mysteries. Scrimgeour, as an experienced Auror, went ahead, illuminating the path with the Lumos spell. From time to time, he would stop, listening to every rustle, as if expecting an attack at any moment. Harry followed him, tightly gripping his wand in his hand. He felt uncomfortable in this strange, mysterious place, as if someone was watching them from the shadows.

"Do you think," Harry quietly asked Scrimgeour, "what Voldemort was looking for in London?"

"I don’t know," Scrimgeour honestly shrugged. "But something very valuable. And possibly connected to the Grail. That damned fog… It clearly has something to do with what’s happening. And it interferes with concentration, as if clouding the mind."

"Do you also think he’s hunting for the Grail?"

"Could it be otherwise?" Scrimgeour bitterly smirked. "That scoundrel always sought unlimited power. And the Grail… Who knows what possibilities it could give to whoever possesses it. And who knows how much blood he has already shed to obtain it…"

They continued walking in silence until they reached a door labeled “Archive of Magical Artifacts and Prophecies.”

"It seems we need to go here," said Scrimgeour, carefully opening the door.

They entered a vast hall filled with tall shelves disappearing into the darkness. It seemed these shelves stretched into infinity, lost in the gloom of the hall. The air here was stuffy and dusty, smelling of old paper, ink, and something else, vaguely unsettling. Scrimgeour confidently headed to the necessary shelf and began searching among the dusty scrolls and folders, muttering names and dates under his breath.

"Here," he finally said, pulling out an old, worn-out book bound in leather. "‘History of the Holy Grail Wars.’ It seems this is what we need. Take a look, Harry, maybe you’ll see something important."

Curiously, Harry peered over Scrimgeour’s shoulder. He opened the book, its pages covered in incomprehensible symbols, drawings, and diagrams made with faded ink.

"Various Holy Grail Wars are mentioned here," Scrimgeour said, attentively reading the text. "And each time, Servants — heroes of the past summoned through magic — participated in them."

"Servants?" Harry repeated. "The ones Fujimaru talked about?"

"It seems so," Scrimgeour nodded. "Look, here it mentions the Saber-class Servant — King Arthur. And here about the Lancer-class Servant — the Irish hero Cú Chulainn. And this…" Scrimgeour frowned, squinting at the illegible text. "It seems to mention the name Justicia Lizrich von Einzbern… A strange name. And some other — Zoken Mato…"

"Einzbern?" Harry repeated. "I’ve heard that surname somewhere…"

"It’s probably one of the ancient magical families," Scrimgeour suggested. "We’ll have to check the Ministry archives later. Listen further. Here it says that Assassin-class Servants have the ability to hide their presence and even erase memories of themselves."

"Like Jack the Ripper," Harry quietly said, recalling Scrimgeour’s words in Dumbledore’s office.

"So Dumbledore was right," Scrimgeour muttered. "This really is a Servant."

"Look, Scrimgeour," Harry pointed to a small drawing in the corner of the page. "Isn’t that… similar to the package that Voldemort’s guest had!"

The drawing depicted a small object wrapped in fabric. Next to it was an inscription in Latin, which Harry couldn’t decipher.

"Catalyst," Scrimgeour read. "An item connected to the hero and used to summon them as a Servant." So that’s what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was looking for!

Suddenly, they heard a loud noise coming from the neighboring hall. The sound was as if something very heavy had fallen to the floor.

"What was that?" Harry asked anxiously.

"I don’t know," Scrimgeour replied, closing the book. "But we’d better hurry. Let’s go, we need to warn Dumbledore."

They ran out of the archive and headed towards the source of the noise.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore and Ron cautiously entered the Brain Room. The room was round, with a high vaulted ceiling supported by columns carved with intertwining snakes. In the center of the room was a large crystal reservoir filled with a murky greenish liquid, in which brains of various sizes and shapes slowly floated. They pulsed and writhed as if alive, emitting a faint bubbling sound, and the sight made Ron feel nauseous.

"Don’t be afraid, Ron," Dumbledore calmly said, noticing his reaction. "They won’t harm you if you don’t provoke them. And try not to look at them for long, otherwise they might cloud your mind."

"What are they doing?" Ron asked curiously yet fearfully, trying not to look at the wriggling brains in the reservoir.

"They’re thinking," Dumbledore answered. "And remembering. These brains are a kind of archive of thoughts, ideas, memories. They react to mental impulses and can establish telepathic contact with those nearby. But this must be done very carefully, otherwise you might lose control of your own mind."

"And how does this help us?" Ron asked skeptically.

"We’ll try to find among these thoughts those that belong to Arthur," Dumbledore explained, "or to whoever attacked him. If we’re lucky, we might learn what happened and where they went."

Dumbledore approached the reservoir and, uttering some incantation, carefully submerged his right hand up to the shoulder. His face became focused, his eyes closed. Ron watched him, holding his breath.

Suddenly, Dumbledore shuddered and opened his eyes.

"I think I found something," he said, without removing his hand from the reservoir. "But it’s very strange…"

"What is it, Professor?" Ron asked anxiously.

"I see… a vision," Dumbledore said. "It’s a memory, but it’s somehow… distorted, as if someone tried to erase or alter it. I see Arthur, he’s wounded, but he’s not here. He…"

Dumbledore paused, frowning. His gaze was directed somewhere into space, as if seeing something Ron couldn’t.

"He was heading towards the Death Chamber," Dumbledore finally said. "And he’s not alone there… Something’s wrong… something’s preventing me from seeing clearly…"

Before Ron could ask anything, Dumbledore abruptly pulled his hand out of the reservoir and headed for the exit.

"Come on, Ron!" he called. "We have no time!"

They ran out of the Brain Room and raced through the corridors of the Department of Mysteries, heading towards the Death Chamber.

After leaving the Brain Room behind, Dumbledore and Ron swiftly walked through the corridors of the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore seemed to know exactly where to go, and Ron could barely keep up. Suddenly, Dumbledore stopped and gestured for Ron to freeze in place.

"Quiet," he whispered. "It seems we’re here."

They cautiously peeked around the corner and saw the door leading to the Death Chamber in front of them. The door was slightly ajar, and muffled voices and strange sounds came from behind it.

Meanwhile, Mash, making her way through the fog, noticed a slightly open door on the other side of the hall. She cautiously approached and peered inside. Before her eyes lay a vast hall with an empty archway, within which a mysterious shimmering veil fluttered in rhythm with unseen drafts. Unfamiliar voices filled her hearing, like the whispers of many invisible beings, and Mash involuntarily drew closer to the arch, trying not to reveal her presence. She carefully glanced at the arch, circled it, studying it with her gaze, assessing whether it posed any threat. The strange something beckoned her to pass through the arch, touch the veil, penetrate the mystery it concealed, and she would have done so had a voice not called out to her.

"Hey! Who’s there?" called a familiar male voice.

Turning around, Mash noticed a man lying not far away on the floor. He looked terrible and extremely ill, his face as pale as a sheet, covered in sweat. This man was literally bleeding out, yet he was alive, lying in a pool of blood amidst the splinters of a broken chair, sensing her presence. The man coughed convulsively, producing a gurgling sound. His face contorted in intense pain, and he weakly whispered:

"Help…"

He extended trembling hands towards Mash, weakened by exhaustion, and she unhesitatingly helped him up.

"You must be Mr. Weasley?" she timidly asked, draping his arm over her shoulders and supporting him by the waist.

He didn’t answer, only emitted a weak groan resembling a cough and feebly nodded his head in agreement.

"What are you doing here so late?" Mash quietly asked, trying not to betray her anxiety.

A mysterious, echoing sound reached her ears. It would fade, then grow louder, as if somewhere nearby a huge unknown creature was stirring in its sleep.

"A mission… guarding… secret…" Mr. Weasley whispered with difficulty; his breathing was erratic and labored. "And you… don’t look much like an Auror…"

The mysterious sound echoed again, but this time closer. It seemed as though the very darkness was thickening around them, ready to swallow them whole. Mash’s nerves relaxed slightly, and she exhaled in relief, deciding it was just her imagination playing tricks.

"We need to get out of here," Mash firmly muttered, unsure of how she wanted to respond. "Professor Dumbledore is there… he’ll help you."

Her brain desperately fought for every thought, but after a short nap, her thoughts were tangled, and she felt helpless against the questions.

"Dumbledore?" a faint hope sounded in Mr. Weasley’s voice. "Is he here too?"

This time, the suspicious noise repeated, but much closer. It seemed as if something was moving towards them through the wall…

"A train?" Mash gasped in horror, voicing her most unexpected guess.

Her fears were unfounded — a moment later, the tiny body of Jack the Ripper flew past Mr. Weasley’s back, followed a hundredth of a second later by Jeanne Alter. Their appearance was accompanied by the deafening crash of collapsing walls, unimaginable screams full of rage and pain, and the clanging of metal.

Startled by the noise, Mash instinctively squeezed her eyes shut and ducked, trying to shield Mr. Weasley. She didn’t even notice the ominous arch crumble behind her, burying part of the hall under its debris.

"What… what’s going on there?" Mr. Weasley weakly asked.

"Repairs?!" Mash blurted out the first thing that came to mind, filling the informational void.

"What repairs? The Ministry…"

"Unscheduled, of course!" Mash nervously giggled, feeling how little she could explain to him and how much she herself wanted to know.

Two dark silhouettes broke through the nearest wall and disappeared into the newly formed opening. Mash decided not to take any risks and, firmly gripping Mr. Weasley’s hand, directed her legs — and those of the injured wizard — towards the correct door.

"I’ll chop you up, monster!" Jack shouted as she zipped past Mash’s face.

Then came the sound of breaking glass, the crash of falling objects, and someone’s piercing scream full of pain and despair. Mash didn’t know who had emitted that scream, but it made her heart clench with fear.

Summoning all her willpower, Mash quickened her pace, dragging Mr. Weasley along with her. She had to get him out of there before it was too late.

Reaching the exit, Mash barely managed to shield herself when the wall separating them from the pursuit exploded into pieces as if made of sand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jack the Ripper, along with Jeanne, locked in a deadly embrace, breaking through the ceiling of the hall they were in. The rapidly ascending roar announced two pieces of news to Mash. First: she and Mr. Weasley were temporarily safe. The second piece of news momentarily puzzled Mash with a question about the cost of repairs in the ministry. Fountains of water were spouting somewhere, debris from walls and piles of dust were everywhere. All that was missing was a sea of blood, mountains of twisted corpses, and disfigured survivors weeping for their losses.

This is how Mash remembered her first encounter with Jeanne Alter when she dived together with Ritsuka into that ominous singularity that claimed the lives of countless innocent people. The year 1431, stained with blood, presented her eyes with an inhuman spectacle full of pain, suffering, and despair. She stepped into the unknown, expecting only to meet the great Jeanne d'Arc, who saved France. Jeanne Alter turned out to be the embodiment of her worst nightmare. Knowing how strong and dangerous Jeanne Alter was, Mash now wondered — why hadn’t her dispatch in 1994 helped? And isn’t she, Mash, just as ominous a harbinger as Jeanne Alter, but for this world and this time?

***

Professor Dumbledore, silent and thoughtful, approached the wounded Auror lying on the floor and carefully examined him, as if trying to see something hidden from the eyes of others. Scrimgeour, standing nearby, watched him with undisguised curiosity and hope.

"What do you see, Albus?" he inquired, his voice trembling.

The professor, without taking his eyes off the wounded man, thoughtfully furrowed his brow and replied:

"I see that this enemy doesn’t just kill. It feeds on fear. As if draining it from its victims, leaving behind only an empty shell. They tried their best to escape the traumatic attack they endured because they knew it greatly heightened the fear of this unknown killer, a sort of cat-and-mouse game where the stakes are human lives."

"Jack the Ripper feeds on fear," interjected Fujimaru, his voice steady, but Harry thought he detected undertones of heavy knowledge, as if Fujimaru had encountered something similar before.

"So the legends weren’t lying," Scrimgeour murmured, paling. "And what else do you know about this… Jack?"

"It’s the embodiment of the urban legend about the infamous London killer," Fujimaru explained, noticing the questioning looks from Harry and Ron. "The very one that stirred people’s minds during the Victorian era. Because of this, he has no real appearance, and no one knows what he looks like. Not even himself," he added after a pause, as if it was particularly important.

"So why do we see a girl?" Scrimgeour persisted.

"Apparently, this is a peculiarity of the local magic — Jack took on the form suggested to him by this world," Fujimaru speculated. "A form that evokes the greatest horror and revulsion in the consciousness of people."

"So you’re saying it’s some kind of boggart?" Ron asked incredulously, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant smell emanating from the fog.

Fujimaru shrugged as if it wasn’t that important.

"Well, you can scare a boggart with a spell, but as for Jack the Ripper… It’s not as simple as you think, Ron. This creature is far more dangerous. It feeds not only on fear but also on despair, pain, the very essence of the human soul. And stopping it with a single spell won’t work."

"How did you learn about this killer?" Harry asked, trying not to show how much Fujimaru’s words troubled him.

"It’s… part of my job," Fujimaru evasively replied. "Let’s say, thanks to the London Singularity." He paused, as if weighing his words. "In 1888, we, that is, specialists from our organization, were there and learned about this, shall we say, phenomenon, as one of the participants in those events."

"The London Singularity?" Harry asked. "What is that? The term sounded unfamiliar and alarming.

"Imagine a distortion of time and space," Fujimaru began to explain. "An anomaly that disrupts the natural course of history. Something similar occurred in London more than a hundred years ago. And Jack the Ripper was part of that anomaly." He paused again, as if hesitating to continue. "Although it couldn’t happen in our time, it doesn’t mean similar problems won’t arise in the future… And it seems that future has already arrived."

"Alright, so what should we do about Jack the Ripper?" Ron bluntly asked, nervously glancing around as if expecting the killer to jump out from behind every corner.

"We can’t yet precisely determine his weakness, since this isn’t exactly the same Jack we encountered before," Professor Dumbledore replied, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "Our main task is to prevent him from spreading terror and panic among us. And for that, we need to act quickly and decisively."

"Is there a chance that Mash and Jeanne will handle it?" Harry asked, sincerely hoping for a positive answer.

"Of course, they’ll manage…" Fujimaru began but suddenly fell silent, as if listening to something. His gaze became distant, and a look of deep sorrow appeared on his face.

"What is it?" Harry asked, noticing the change in his mood.

"Jack," Fujimaru softly pronounced. "This child of despair. Her essence is the grief and pain of countless unborn children, deprived of life before they could see the light. She yearns for love and warmth she never knew, seeking her ‘mother’ in each of her victims. But all she can offer is death. She is doomed to wander endlessly in search of her lost paradise, and her sorrow knows no bounds."

"You speak of her as if you pity her," Hermione noted.

"In a sense, that’s true," Fujimaru nodded. "Servants aren’t soulless instruments of murder. Each of them has their own story, their own tragedy. And Jack is no exception. Her hatred, her cruelty — it’s merely a reflection of the pain she carries within herself."

"But that doesn’t justify her actions," Harry countered. "She kills innocent people."

"True," Fujimaru agreed. "And that’s why we must stop her. But it’s important to remember that she’s not just a monster but a victim of circumstances, a product of human cruelty and indifference."

A second later, the ceiling several meters from them collapsed with a crash, enveloping everything in a dense, impenetrable fog.

"Take cover!" Fujimaru commanded, though it was unnecessary. Dumbledore and his students had already moved behind one column, and Scrimgeour dove behind another, ensuring everyone was alright. Fujimaru remained in place, peering into the fog and listening intently. His posture was tense, like a beast ready for battle.

From the fog came the thin, girlish voice Harry recognized from his dream, full of malice and mockery:

"Why aren’t you afraid of me?"

Harry peeked out from behind the column, trying to make out the speaker. Through the swirling fog, he noticed Jeanne looming over a prone figure shrouded in mist. In Jeanne’s right hand, flames flickered, illuminating the gloomy space around her and forcing the fog to recede.

"I’m not afraid of anything!" Jeanne arrogantly and menacingly replied. "And I never was."

The figure on the floor — undoubtedly Jack — seemed confused and looked at Jeanne doubtfully.

Suddenly, Jack the Ripper darted to the right, attempting to flee. Jeanne reacted quickly, her flaming sword following her movements. Jack cast a quick glance over her shoulder to assess the situation. To her surprise, Jack saw a large, burly man standing a few feet away, his wand threateningly pointed at her. Scrimgeour was determined not to let Jack escape, and he was joined by Harry and Ron, wands at the ready.

"It seems our little friend decided to play hide and seek," Dumbledore’s voice rang out nearby. "Well, let’s not spoil her fun."

Harry turned and saw Dumbledore standing next to him, peering intently into the fog. In his hand was a wand emitting a faint silvery glow.

Jeanne seemed to know that Jack was trying to escape. She soared upwards, her armored boots thudding loudly on the marble floor. Flames licked her hair and enveloped her armor, creating an imposing silhouette. Her resolute expression seemed enough to intimidate even Jack. He knew he couldn’t compare with her.

"You won’t get far, Jack the Ripper," Jeanne shouted. "Your days of terror are over!"

In a fraction of a second, Jack understood and sharply turned, vanishing into the fog. Jeanne lost sight of her. She stopped and took a deep, controlled breath, trying to focus on her feelings.

"Where did she go?" Harry asked, his wand still at the ready.

"I don’t know. I don’t feel anything…" Jeanne replied, her eyes scanning the fog in all directions, then jumped into the hole recently created by her and Jack in the ceiling.

They all stood motionless, trying to listen for any sounds that might indicate Jack’s location. Suddenly, Ron cried out when he heard something.

A moment later, a silhouette much larger than Jack’s appeared in the fog — it was Mash, supporting Mr. Weasley.

"Dad!" Ron exclaimed joyfully and ran to meet them.

The others followed suit.

"Where did you find him, Miss Kirielight?" Dumbledore inquired.

"There… some kind of hall with an arch…" Mash responded hazily.

Their shared joy was short-lived.

"Mash! Jack the Ripper escaped!" Fujimaru addressed her. "Jeanne Alter is pursuing her."

"They can’t have gone far," she responded and leapt upwards.

"Let’s get out of here already," Dumbledore softly yawned.

***

In the Ministry Atrium, not a stone was left upon a stone. Chaos and destruction reigned everywhere. Harry could barely recognize the once majestic hall. Now it presented a sad sight. Shards of the broken fountain lay scattered everywhere, mixed with fragments of marble statues and chunks of wall cladding. In its center gaped a huge hole, from which a column of water still rose, as if a wounded beast was spewing out its last remnants of life. The walls of the hall were cracked or destroyed, exposing steel reinforcement and a tangle of magical conduits, sparking and humming with residual tension. Everything around was covered with a layer of dust, ash-gray in some places and suspiciously white in others, as if it wasn’t dust but finely crushed glass, sparkling in the light of emergency torches. Only the fireplaces remained intact, and even then, not all of them. It seemed as if the very magic here was distorted, turned inside out.

Dumbledore meticulously surveyed the scale of the destruction and listened — apart from the trickling water and occasionally falling chunks of walls, a sinister silence prevailed here. Harry noticed Jeanne and Mash standing nearby and was about to approach them when something caught his attention at the far end of the hall. Approaching Jeanne, he heard a discontented:

"Next time she won’t get off so easily."

Jeanne stood leaning against one of the few remaining intact columns, irritably looking at her feet. Her usually spotless sword was covered in a strange dark substance resembling dried blood. Mash stood beside her, her shield lowered, looking tired and drained. She turned on her heels and headed towards the waiting group. Several wizards in lemon robes with the emblem of crossed wand and bone on their chests emerged from the nearest fireplace.

Dumbledore began speaking with them about something. Harry, however, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the spot where he had just noticed movement. There, in the shadow of the ruined arch, something dark and indistinct flickered. It resembled a human figure but was too blurred, as if woven from the very darkness itself.

Taking advantage of the moment, Harry cautiously separated from the others and, trying not to draw attention to himself, moved toward the shadow he had spotted. He didn’t know exactly what he had seen there, but he felt it was important, that he needed to find out more.

As he approached, he made out two figures. One of them was familiar to him—it was Bellatrix Lestrange. She stood leaning against a broken column, quietly saying something to her companion, who turned out to be…

Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing before him, as if emerging from a nightmare, was Jack the Ripper, the very Servant whom Jeanne and Mash had just been fighting. But now she looked completely different. Instead of bloodied cleavers in her hands, she held an ordinary school backpack, and her face bore no trace of the insane fury that had distorted it during the battle. She seemed almost… normal.

Bellatrix was saying something to her, and Harry, without even knowing why, crept closer to eavesdrop.

“I couldn’t…” Harry heard Jack say. “I was interrupted. Next time I’ll be more careful.”

And then something incredible happened. Jack joyfully jumped up and hugged Bellatrix, burying her face in her shoulder. Harry was shocked. This was the same Bellatrix Lestrange who had tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom with sadistic pleasure, reveling in their pain and driving them mad with endless torment. And yet here she was, lifting Jack off the ground and speaking to her in a gentle whisper. This was a side of Bellatrix that Harry had never suspected existed. Not even Moody could have imagined such a thing. Whether Dumbledore could have foreseen it, Harry didn’t know, nor did he ask himself that question.

Bellatrix’s fingers lightly touched Jack’s cheek. Her expression revealed unexpected tenderness, sharply contrasting with the cold cruelty Harry had always associated with her. Though her voice was quiet, Harry heard every word clearly.

“Let your real name be Jack the Ripper, but to me, you will always be my little Delfi,” Bellatrix whispered softly, her voice full of love and warmth. Harry could almost feel those emotions.

Jack’s confusion and resistance melted away in the face of her Master’s sincerity. Silently, Jack clung to Bellatrix in an embrace, feeling a small comfort in this moment of maternal tenderness. Bellatrix’s attentive gaze and gentle tone showed that she truly understood everything.

It was almost unbelievable—Bellatrix Lestrange, a Death Eater who was presumed to have fully devoted herself to the cruel and evil cause of Lord Voldemort, had somehow discovered maternal feelings within herself.

Harry was deeply shaken. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. But he couldn’t deny the reality of what was happening. Worst of all was realizing that Bellatrix, the Death Eater who had always been his enemy, had now become a Master. And the Servant of the Holy Grail, the embodiment of the legend of the brutal and bloody Jack the Ripper, was under her control.

Watching their embrace, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what this meant for the future. What other secrets and surprises lay hidden in the hearts of his enemies? How would this unexpected moment of tenderness affect the coming war? Only time would tell.
Just as unexpectedly as he had noticed them, they vanished, leaving Harry alone with yet another unsolvable mystery.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore's office. Dawn was breaking outside the window, painting the sky in delicate pink hues. Harry, clenching his fists, stood before Dumbledore, his eyes burning with despair and anger.

"I saw her, Professor!" Harry's voice trembled. "At the Ministry! It was... the Servant?"

Dumbledore, sitting behind a massive oak desk, smiled gently. His blue eyes, usually sparkling with mirth behind his half-moon glasses, were now filled with compassion.

"It’s not just about that, Harry," he said quietly, adjusting his silver beard. "I knew that Tom himself would never come to the Ministry that night. He’s too cowardly for that. Too cautious. That’s why he sent the Servant."

"But..." Harry stumbled, running a hand through his hair. "What’s the point of all this? Why did he need to send the Servant?"

"Do you know everything, Harry, about the events of last night?" Dumbledore asked, looking intently at him. Then he turned his gaze to Jeanne, still clad in shining armor. "Did you notice anything remarkable about Jack the Ripper’s behavior, Miss d'Arc?"

Jeanne, like a predator sensing prey, tensed. Her crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light of the office.

"There was a moment," her low, raspy voice cut through the silence, "when we knocked over one of the shelves in the Hall of Prophecies. For a second, I thought she wanted to seize one of them. The one labeled with your name, Potter."

Dumbledore abruptly stood up, his cloak billowing like the wing of a giant bird. He approached Harry and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Professor Snape," began Dumbledore, his voice sounding hollow, "discovered that you’ve been dreaming of a certain door in the Department of Mysteries for months now. Of course, Voldemort’s desire to hear the prophecy concerning him had been tormenting him ever since he regained his body. When he imagined this door, it also appeared in your dreams. The prophecies in the Ministry of Magic are well-protected, Harry. Only those directly connected to them can take them from the shelf without losing their minds."

Harry went cold. He remembered his dreams, torturous and incomprehensible, and now everything fell into place.

"So," he whispered, "Voldemort wanted me to..."

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "He either had to come to the Ministry of Magic himself, risking exposure, or force you to retrieve the prophecy for him. That’s why mastering Occlumency became even more crucial for you. But Voldemort was much craftier—he used the non-magical Servant, hoping that Jack the Ripper would surely obtain the prophecy he so desired."

Fujimaru, who had been silently standing in the shadows, let out a low whistle.

"Using a cannon to kill sparrows," he muttered.

"Sorry?" Harry asked, not catching his words.

"Using the Servant for such a task..." Fujimaru shook his head. "Does he really spare no means?"

"On the contrary," Dumbledore replied. "It was a justified move on his part, as the Servant cannot be stopped by any means available to us. That’s how it would have turned out if Jeanne and Mash hadn’t intervened."

"But now all the prophecies have been destroyed," Jeanne remarked, not hiding her satisfaction.

"Once, I heard a saying about how weak we are to live without knowing our future," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Some people live to fulfill prophecies, others live to fulfill desires..."

"Excuse me, Professor..." Mash interjected, interrupting the headmaster. Her voice faltered. "I thought Jeanne Alter would handle the mission entrusted to her. But if Harry’s words are true, does that mean his followers are becoming Masters?"

Jeanne smirked smugly, her crimson eyes flashing dangerously. She rubbed her hands together, as if anticipating a bloody massacre.

"You see," she began, drawing out her words, "weak creatures are unworthy of my attention. Voldemort was the strongest among them, so I chose him. I plan to enjoy the moment when I destroy him personally and show everyone who’s in charge. So much is said about him! How much triumph is there in killing his pawns when he himself is the most coveted target?"

With these words, Jeanne flashed her eyes and licked her lips with such relish, as if she had just eaten her favorite treat. But Mash stared wide-eyed at Dumbledore.

"It’s enough to defeat Voldemort, and his followers will scatter in all directions," Dumbledore replied, looking intently at Mash. "Some will surrender willingly, some will lie, but all of them will return to ordinary lives. Those who can’t will meet an inglorious fate. In the end, each of them is just an ordinary person with their own problems and concerns. Over the years of Voldemort’s absence, they’ve built families, taken important positions in their careers. Some will follow him to the end, and some will turn away from him. Our task is not to cut down everyone indiscriminately, but to wait until the field ripens and it’s time to harvest."

Dumbledore spoke, gazing thoughtfully into Mash’s eyes, and at the end, he gave her a kindly smile. Then he looked at Jeanne.

"Sometimes, even an underestimated opponent suddenly gains strength and acquires formidable allies," he continued. "But what makes us strong is our ability to adapt to changes and overcome difficulties regardless of obstacles. We must be ready for any development and remain vigilant so as not to fall victim to lurking danger. So, what is the secret of victory for a strong warrior like both of you, Mash and Jeanne?"

Jeanne, like a panther about to leap, leaned forward. Her voice, full of fire and fury, rang out like a battle cry:

"Victory for me is a brilliant demonstration of superiority! If I must fight, I’ll fight not only for my life but also for the destruction of my enemy. I don’t care if my enemies have grown stronger or gained new allies—I’ll find ways to defeat them by any means necessary. And let them tremble with fear, knowing that I’m coming for them!"

Mash paused for a moment, her gaze lowered, and her words sounded calm but firm, like steel:

"For me, the secret of victory lies in being stronger and using my advantages wisely, maintaining composure in battle and controlling my emotions. Only then can I defeat even the most powerful enemies. Not succumbing to rage, but also not losing determination."

Dumbledore nodded, satisfied with their answers. He turned his gaze to Fujimaru, who had been silently observing everything this whole time, as if piecing together a complex puzzle.

"It seems this time everything will be a little different from usual?" Dumbledore asked, a barely noticeable anxiety in his voice.

"True," Fujimaru replied, his gaze serious and focused. "Our opponents are making bold and unexpected moves, and we still don’t see the full arrangement of pieces on the board. When the picture becomes clear, we’ll be forced to adapt quickly. I don’t know how well we’ll manage, but I believe in our victory."

"Sometimes the most unexpected and yet correct solution to a complex problem is the most obvious," Dumbledore noted meaningfully, slightly squinting.

"What do you mean, Professor?" Fujimaru frowned, trying to decipher another of Dumbledore’s riddles.

"I mean to tell all of you that your main task right now is to meet your beds," Dumbledore replied, looking at Ron, who was already openly nodding off, struggling to stay upright. "Not all of you will do this at Hogwarts," he added, turning to Jeanne and Mash, smiling again. "I think our lovely ladies should take on their proper forms if they don’t intend to trade dream adventures for real ones anytime soon. Come, I’ll show you how."

Dumbledore picked up a soot-covered, well-worn teapot and asked,

"So, have all of you used a Portkey before?"

Jeanne, Harry, and Ron nodded in agreement. Mash and Fujimaru responded with puzzled looks.

"Don’t worry, nothing bad will happen," Dumbledore commented on their expressions, winking slyly. "On the count of 'three,' touch the teapot, and you’ll be where you need to be…"

"Wait, Professor," Harry suddenly blurted out, as if struck by a realization. "What was that prophecy about? What does it mean?"

Dumbledore hesitated, his face clouding over.

"Ah..." he drawled, "it was merely a recording of a prophecy from the Ministry of Magic archives. The actual prophecy was made in the presence of a certain individual, and that person has the ability to recall everything that was said in detail."

"Who was it?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.

"It was me," Dumbledore sighed. "It happened sixteen years ago, on a cold, damp night, in a room above the Hog’s Head Inn. I went there to meet a candidate for the position of Divination teacher, although at the time I didn’t even want to keep the subject in the school curriculum. However, the aforementioned candidate was the great-great-granddaughter of a famous, highly gifted seer, and I felt I should at least meet her out of basic courtesy. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she didn’t possess even a trace of the abilities her great-great-grandmother had. I told her—hopefully politely—that I didn’t consider her suitable for the vacant position. And then I turned to leave..."

Dumbledore suddenly rose, as if pricked by something, and strode quickly toward a black cabinet near Fawkes’ perch, who watched the proceedings with silent curiosity. Bending down, Dumbledore unlatched it and pulled out a shallow stone basin adorned with intricate carvings and runes. Then, like a magician, he returned to the table, set the Pensieve on it, and without a word, touched his wand to his temple. From there, thin silver threads of thought stretched out; Dumbledore, frowning in concentration, extracted several strands and dropped them into the basin. Then, taking a deep breath, he gently tapped his wand against the silvery, shimmering contents of the Pensieve.

Above the basin, a figure wrapped in numerous shawls began to form, like a ghost emerging from mist. Her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, appeared unnaturally large, like an owl’s. Without taking her eyes off the basin, the figure began to slowly rotate, resembling a strange, hypnotic dance. When Sybill Trelawney—it was unmistakably her—opened her mouth, her usual mysterious, otherworldly voice was replaced by a rough, hoarse tone—one that Harry had heard once before during a genuine prophecy.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will not know the full extent of his power... And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

It seemed as if the entire room froze, listening to these words. The figure of Professor Trelawney, still slowly rotating as if in a trance, began to sink back into the silvery mass until it disappeared without a trace.

A dead silence settled over the office. Only the ticking of numerous clocks on the walls broke it. Neither Dumbledore nor Harry, nor the portraits on the walls, uttered a sound. Even Fawkes, usually lively and curious, fell silent, staring at the Pensieve with piercing, intelligent eyes.

"Professor Dumbledore..." Harry finally whispered, hesitant to break the silence. Dumbledore, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the Pensieve, seemed lost in his thoughts, unreachable to those around him. "Is... is this... what does it mean?"

Dumbledore slowly raised his head, his gaze distant, as if he were still submerged in his memories.

"It means," his voice was barely audible, "that the only person capable of ultimately defeating the Dark Lord was born at the end of July nearly sixteen years ago. And by that time, his parents had already defied Voldemort three times."

Harry felt as if an icy hand gripped his heart, preventing it from beating.

"So... is it me?" he croaked, unable to believe his ears.

Dumbledore sighed, as if this conversation was incredibly difficult for him.

"The strangest thing, Harry," he said softly, "is that it might not be you at all. Sybill’s prophecy applies to two boys from magical families—both were born at the end of July that year, and both sets of parents were members of the Order of the Phoenix, narrowly escaping death at Voldemort’s hands three times. One of these boys, of course, is you. The other is Neville Longbottom."

"But then..." Harry desperately tried to process what he’d heard. "Then why was my name on the prophecy and not his?"

"The label was changed when Voldemort attacked you as an infant," Dumbledore explained. "The Keeper of the Hall of Prophecy decided that Voldemort knew whom Sybill had meant and therefore tried to kill you specifically."

"So, maybe... maybe it’s not me after all?" Harry asked desperately, clinging to this thought like a lifeline.

"I’m afraid," Dumbledore spoke slowly, as if each word caused him pain, "there’s no doubt—it is you, Harry."

"But you said... Neville was also born at the end of July... and his mom and dad..."

"You’re forgetting the next part of the prophecy, Harry," Dumbledore shook his head, "the part that gives the final trait of the boy capable of defeating Voldemort... The Dark Lord himself will mark him as his equal. And he did that, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar—a blessing and a curse at the same time."

"What if he made a mistake?" Harry exclaimed, unable to accept this terrible truth. "What if he marked the wrong person?"

"He chose the boy he considered most dangerous to him," Dumbledore said. "Notice, not a pure-blood wizard—though according to his principles, others aren’t worth considering—but a half-blood, like himself. He recognized himself in you before he even saw you, and thanks to his failed attempt on your life, you gained powers that allowed you to escape him not once, but four times—something that neither your parents nor Neville’s managed, nor anyone else in the world."

"Why did he do it then?" Harry couldn’t feel his hands or feet—they were frozen stiff. "Why did he try to kill me that first time? Why didn’t he wait until Neville and I grew up? Then he could have seen which of us was more dangerous and attacked him..."

"Perhaps that would have been more logical," Dumbledore agreed. "But you forget that Voldemort only knew the approximate content of the prophecy. The Hog’s Head, chosen by Sybill for its cheapness, had long attracted a far more motley crowd than the Three Broomsticks. You can never be sure you’re not being overheard in that inn. Of course, when I went to meet Sybill Trelawney, I didn’t suspect I’d hear anything valuable. But we were lucky—the eavesdropper was discovered almost immediately and thrown out."

"So he only heard..."

"Only the beginning, where it says the boy will be born in July to people who thrice defied Voldemort. Thus, he couldn’t foresee that attacking you carried the risk of transferring part of his power to you and marking you as his equal. It never occurred to Voldemort that attacking you was dangerous, that it would have been wiser to wait and learn more. According to the prophecy, he truly doesn’t know the full extent of your power..."

"But that’s not true!" Harry choked out, feeling despair overwhelm him. "I don’t have any power he doesn’t know about, and I don’t know how to fight like... take Jeanne, for example!"

Jeanne, who had been standing motionless like a statue, slightly flinched at the sound of her name. A faint blush appeared on her pale cheeks.

"I am the Servant of the Holy Grail, Harry," she said softly. "I live to fight. That’s my essence."

Dumbledore looked at both of them with compassion, his gaze filled with tenderness and sorrow.

"Harry, you shouldn’t compare yourself to your companions," he said gently. "Each of you has your unique abilities, your strength, and your destined path. You can’t know or do everything, but you possess other valuable qualities that may be just as important in our fight against darkness. Don’t forget that."

But Harry wasn’t cheered by their words. His gaze was fixed on emptiness, as if he hadn’t heard Dumbledore’s words.

"In the Department of Mysteries, there’s a room that’s always kept locked," Dumbledore continued, his voice quiet but imbued with incredible strength. "Inside it lies a power simultaneously more wonderful and more terrible than death, than the human mind, than the forces of nature. Perhaps it’s also the most mysterious of all the treasures stored there. This power you possess in abundance, while Voldemort, on the contrary, lacks it entirely. It’s what protects you from being completely subjugated by Voldemort, as he cannot dwell in a body where so much of this power resides, deeply abhorrent to him. In the end, it even became irrelevant that you never learned to isolate your consciousness. The name of this saving power is love."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to cope with the overwhelming emotions. One thought pounded in his head, refusing to let go.

"And the end of the prophecy?" he croaked, not particularly interested in the answer. "‘Neither can live...’, how does it go?"

"‘...while the other survives,’" Dumbledore finished, his voice barely audible.

"And that means," Harry swallowed hard, "that eventually one of us will have to... kill the other?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied simply.

A long pause followed, which no one dared to break. Somewhere far beyond the walls of the office, faint voices could be heard—probably the first students heading down to the Great Hall for breakfast. It seemed unbelievable that there were still people in the world who ate, laughed, and remained oblivious to the fact that Servants of the Holy Grail were roaming the earth, and a full-scale war over possession of it was about to erupt, capable of destroying everything they held dear.

"I owe you one more explanation, Harry," Dumbledore said after a pause, breaking the oppressive silence. "You might have wondered why I never made you a prefect. Honestly... I thought the burden of responsibility you already carry is too great. Now, Harry," Dumbledore pointed to the old, soot-covered teapot, "touch it. It’s time to return."

Without a word, Harry touched the teapot. He looked up at Dumbledore, unsure of what to say. At the last moment, he saw a tear, glinting in the rising sun, roll down Dumbledore’s cheek and disappear into his long silver beard. And at that moment, Harry felt the familiar, incomparable sensation of moving through space. Dumbledore’s office, the Pensieve, Jeanne, and Mash—all vanished as if dissolved into thin air, leaving behind only a poignant sense of loss and impending doom, from which there seemed to be no escape.

Chapter Text

The greatest happiness for Harry was to be reunited with his dear godfather, Sirius, after so many days of separation. The joy of finding him alive and well seemed incredible, and Harry felt as if he were soaring into the clouds, reborn.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place greeted them with a solemn silence, broken only by the faint creaking of floorboards and the rustle of ancient tapestries on the walls. The house was gloomy, bearing traces of its former grandeur, yet at the same time cozy, imbued with an almost imperceptible magic. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, treading carefully, followed Sirius upstairs to Harry's bedroom.

The room was small but tastefully furnished. A heavy dark wooden bed, covered with a fluffy blanket, occupied most of the space. By the window stood an antique writing desk cluttered with books and scrolls. The dim light of a candle crackling in a bronze candlestick cast whimsical shadows on the walls, creating an air of mystery.

Sirius, smiling as he watched his friends, pointed to the bed:

"Make yourself comfortable, Harry. Feel at home."

Harry, still unable to believe his luck, sat down on the bed. The mattress turned out to be surprisingly soft, and the pillows fluffy like clouds. He felt the fatigue accumulated over the past few days beginning to leave him.

"Thank you, Sirius," he said sincerely. "I'm so glad to see you."

Sirius ruffled his hair:

"I'm glad too, Harry. Very glad."

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Kreacher, the house-elf who served the Black family, shuffled into the room. His large, bulging eyes stared curiously at Harry.

"Kreacher has brought a blanket for young Master Harry Potter," he croaked, handing Harry a neatly folded blanket. "Kreacher is pleased that young Master is safe."

Harry, surprised but flattered, accepted the blanket:

"Thank you, Kreacher."

Kreacher bowed deeply, nearly touching his nose to the floor, and, muttering something under his breath, shuffled away.

"Don't pay him any mind," Sirius said, noticing Harry's confusion. "He's a bit… peculiar. But deep down, he's a loyal elf."

Harry nodded, still impressed by his encounter with Kreacher. He wrapped himself in the blanket, feeling its warmth envelop him.

"Rest, Harry," Sirius said. "You need to gather your strength."

With those words, he left the room, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the silence and peace. He was home. He was safe. He was with Sirius. And that was all he needed at that moment. He drifted off to sleep, feeling a tranquility he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

***

In the morning, Harry was awakened by the clatter of a tray placed on the bedside table. Blinking, he saw a cheerful house-elf standing over him, carrying a tray with buttered toast, jam, and a cup of tea. Harry blinked several times, rubbing his tired eyes, utterly astonished by the sight of the elf. Ignoring how this came about, he weakly smiled in gratitude and began to savor the gift appreciatively.

Morning burst into the room with insistent knocking and the clinking of dishes. Harry, squinting against the bright light streaming through the cracks in the curtains, propped himself up on the bed and saw Kreacher standing by the bedside table with a tray in his hands.

"Breakfast for young Master Harry Potter," croaked the elf, placing the tray on the table. "Kreacher hopes young Master enjoys it."

On the tray steamed a cup of strong tea, emitting an invigorating aroma, and next to it lay a stack of golden toasts with butter and jam. Harry, unaccustomed to such treatment, smiled shyly:

"Thank you, Kreacher."

The elf seemed pleased with the effect produced. He adjusted Harry’s blanket, surveyed the room with a proprietary glance, and, shuffling contentedly, exited, muttering to himself.

Harry, still sleepy, reached for the tea. Taking a sip, he felt warmth spread through his body, driving away the remnants of sleep. His gaze fell on a crumpled newspaper lying at the edge of the bed. Curious, he unfolded it and, to his surprise, found it was a Muggle newspaper — he would have recognized the "Daily Prophet" out of a thousand.

"Where did this Muggle newspaper come from?" Harry muttered, scanning the headlines.

Harry quickly read through the paper, glancing at the headlines and chuckling at local news. He burst out laughing when he stumbled upon an article about a cat stuck in a tree. Reading was simple and pleasant, as if Harry had found a connection to the world where he once belonged.

Harry smiled and set the newspaper aside. The room was still shrouded in shadow, but Harry could hear the sounds of life stirring beyond the room. Taking another sip of tea, he decided to wake up properly and wait for Sirius to plan their next steps. Harry knew that whatever happened next, he was surrounded by people who loved him and would do everything to protect him, giving him a tremendous sense of comfort. He was grateful for everything he had, and for the unexpected Muggle paper that brought a piece of his old life into this enchanting new world.

There was a knock at the door, and the Weasley twins entered the room.

"Harry, are you up?" Fred called cheerfully.

"Great news!" George chimed in. "Mum says we’re going to St. Mungo’s today! To visit Dad!"

"That’s… that’s great," Harry replied automatically, not taking his eyes off the newspaper. "How is he?"

"Better than before," Mrs. Weasley answered, entering the room after the twins. "He has many puncture wounds, but the healers promise to cure him soon."

"Thank Merlin," Hermione whispered, appearing in the doorway with Ron and Ginny.

"What are you reading, Harry?" Ron asked, peering over Harry’s shoulder.

"A Muggle newspaper," Harry replied, not looking away from the article. "And it seems we’ve got problems. Serious problems."

"What happened?" Ginny asked, alarmed.

Harry handed her the newspaper.

"See for yourselves."

Ginny took the newspaper and began reading aloud:

Passenger Plane Crash: A Mystical Catastrophe

A thorough investigation has been launched into the crash of the passenger plane A320 en route to Northern Scotland. The cockpit voice recorder and flight data recorder were meticulously examined to determine what led to the fatal disaster. The audio recording shows that everyone on board, including the crew and passengers, experienced excruciating pain and screamed loudly. The crew abruptly directed the plane downward, leading to a rapid loss of altitude. None of the crew managed to take any action to recover the plane from the dive, resulting in tragedy and the death of over two hundred passengers. It was suggested that the catastrophe could have been avoided if the pilots had engaged the autopilot. However, recent reports indicate that the pilots preferred to make a manual approach and explain their decision not to engage the autopilot. Rescuers found passengers strapped into their seats, further confirming this information. Additionally, numerous eyewitness accounts reported a red flash on the horizon before the crash.

Ginny faltered, her face turning pale.

"A red flash?" she asked, raising her eyes to Harry. "Like back at the graveyard?"

"Yes," Harry nodded. "It was Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse. He aimed at Jeanne but missed… and hit the plane."

A heavy silence hung in the room. Everyone was silent, stunned by what they had heard.

"Hundreds of people died," Hermione said quietly. "Because of us."

"Not because of us," Harry countered. "Because of him. Because of Voldemort."

"But… how is that possible?" Ron asked, bewildered. "How can you shoot down a plane with one spell?"

"I don’t know," Harry shook his head. "But it was definitely the Cruciatus Curse. I saw that flash. And I saw the plane start to fall."

"It seems Voldemort is getting stronger," Jeanne remarked, entering the room. "And he no longer intends to hide."

"What do you mean?" Fred asked.

"Look," Jeanne handed them another newspaper, this time the "Daily Prophet." "It seems the magical world can no longer hide what’s happening from the Muggles."

Harry took the newspaper and began reading aloud:

The Daily Telegraph

September 27, 1995

The Terrorist Group 'Death Eaters': Who They Are and What They Want?

Since its emergence, the terrorist group 'Death Eaters' has instilled fear and anxiety among the population of Great Britain. These mysterious bandits boldly seize power in regions and commit horrific crimes day and night, threatening the lives and well-being of many people in our country. Several tragic events over the last few months have alarmed the government and prompted it to take extreme measures to ensure the safety of our citizens.

We know little about who actually comprises this mystical group. The people behind the 'Death Eaters' remain hidden in the shadows and operate extremely secretly, posing a serious threat to public safety in Great Britain. They have shown no clarity in their demands and goals other than wanting to attract public and governmental attention.

However, we can establish that this group has some political motives. Some sources say that the 'Death Eaters' are behind a series of murders related to opposition against a supposed Ministry of Magic. Conflicts between the two camps are extraordinarily high, and some sources consider the 'Death Eaters' group to be an instrument of this supposed Ministry of Magic in this struggle. In any case, the fact remains: the 'Death Eaters' have become enemies of law and order, and their crimes have brought much suffering and pain to our country.

"Death Eaters, Ministry of Magic," George whistled after reading. "Now they’re writing about this in Muggle newspapers! We’ve really come to this!"

"It’s all Voldemort," Harry said. "He’s no longer hiding. He’s started acting openly. And it seems he has gained new allies."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"Read on," Harry turned the page and continued reading.

The Guardian

October 12, 1995

Mysterious UFO Attacks and Other Enigmatic Incidents in London

Recently, London has witnessed several mysterious incidents that remain unresolved. One of them involved UFO strikes that occurred right in the city center, causing horror and fear among the government and the public. These strikes were the largest and most destructive attack on London since World War II.

No one knows who or what is behind these mass destructions, but some sources are already trying to link them to the mysterious organization known as the 'Death Eaters.' This group is notorious for its terrorist activities, and although there is currently no evidence linking them to specific incidents, some experts believe the 'Death Eaters' may be responsible for these destructions as well as other mysterious incidents occurring in London.

Moreover, mass murders and disappearances may be linked to little green men. There are also rumors of a real Jack the Ripper or his imitator returning after a hundred years to continue his terrifying actions.

"Jack the Ripper?" Ron asked. "Again?"

"It seems he never stopped killing," Jeanne noted. "It’s just that the magical community managed to conceal his crimes from the Muggles before."

"And what about the UFOs?" Fred asked. "Could they really be the flying fortresses Dudley mentioned?"

"Maybe," Hermione replied. "Remember, Fujimaru said that some Servants can create entire armies, summon various creatures? What if one of them can summon… or create… flying objects?"

"You mean Voldemort summoned a Servant who controls UFOs?" George asked skeptically.

"Or not just Voldemort," Jeanne added meaningfully. "We don’t know how many Masters are involved in this war. And what their goals are."

"But why attack London?" Ginny asked. "What do they want to achieve?"

"Chaos," Harry answered. "Fear. Confusion. They want to destabilize the situation, sow panic. And in such an atmosphere, it will be easier for them to act."

"And it seems they’re succeeding quite well," Ron remarked, pointing to the next newspaper Hermione began reading.

The Times

November 5, 1995

Mysterious Events in London: Between Death Eaters and Mysterious Gangs

London has recently witnessed a series of mysterious and enigmatic events, causing outrage and concern in our society. Since the summer, several horrific crimes have occurred, including murders, disappearances, and destructive UFO attacks. Despite the efforts of law enforcement agencies, these terrorist acts continue to instill fear and terror on our streets.

At the same time, many sources suggest that these incidents may be linked to a mysterious and dangerous group known as the 'Death Eaters.' Although there is no evidence connecting them to specific incidents, some specialists believe the 'Death Eaters' may be responsible for these horrific crimes.

The mysterious leader of the 'Death Eaters' avoids public and governmental attention, and so far, no one knows who they really are. We can assume that this group shares political ideas with other terrorist organizations, guided by principles of violence and fear. Some sources link them to extremism and societal division, as their victims include influential politicians as well as ordinary citizens.

Nevertheless, we cannot ignore the possibility that these events may be caused by other mysterious forces, such as little green men and, of course, Jack the Ripper. In some forensic circles, it is said that the real Jack the Ripper or his imitator may be among us today, having returned after a century to continue his brutal work. Though it sounds unthinkable, we cannot rule anything out, considering the nature and circumstances of these horrifying crimes.

Therefore, we urge all citizens to be cautious and warn their loved ones about this mysterious and deadly threat. We need to unite to stop this gang of terrorists and cleanse the streets of London. We must do everything possible to return our society to normal life and rid ourselves of the looming threat.

"It seems the magical world can no longer hide what’s happening from the Muggles," Hermione said. "Too much is happening. Too many strange, unexplainable events."

"And what do we do now?" Ginny asked.

"Wait," Harry replied. "And be ready for anything."

"And stick together," Ron added.

"And perhaps listen to what Dudley said," Hermione suggested. "His dreams might be the key to solving the mystery."

"And also," Harry added after a pause, "we need to tell Dumbledore everything we’ve learned. He needs to know what’s happening. And I think it’s time to have an honest conversation with Fujimaru and Masha. I have a feeling they’re hiding a lot."

Out on the street, Harry felt the cold wind hitting him directly in the face, making him feel a refreshing coolness in his lungs. His mind was filled with thoughts of Voldemort and what awaited them in the near future. But he couldn’t think about it alone. His friends were there to help him through all these difficulties.

London greeted them with an unusual, ominous silence. Usually bustling streets filled with people rushing about their business now seemed deserted and lifeless. Even the Christmas decorations hanging here and there couldn’t dispel the oppressive atmosphere.

"Strange," Ron muttered, looking around. "Where has everyone gone?"

"I don’t know," Hermione replied, "but I don’t like it."

Harry remained silent. He felt anxiety growing, a chill running down his spine. The scar on his forehead tingled slightly, as if warning of danger. Suddenly, he remembered: he had felt similar sensations on the night he witnessed the crash of the Airbus. Then the sky was also cut by a strange crimson flash, and then… Then he saw a huge machine, engulfed in flames, falling to the ground. Could this somehow be connected to what’s happening now?

Suddenly, their attention was drawn by a strange metallic sound coming from around the corner. They cautiously peeked out and saw a tank slowly moving down the street. Soldiers in camouflage uniforms, weapons at the ready, walked alongside it.

"What does this mean?" Harry whispered, hardly believing his eyes. He suddenly remembered that Dudley had been seeing strange dreams about flying fortresses lately. Could these events be connected?

"It seems the Muggles are also preparing for war," Masha said, her voice tense.

"But why tanks in central London?" Ron wondered.

"Maybe they’re looking for Death Eaters," Hermione suggested. "Or… Servants. Or those flying fortresses."

At that moment, a tall figure cloaked in a black cape emerged from around the corner. Harry instinctively reached for his wand, but immediately recognized Moody.

"Moody!" he exclaimed, feeling relieved.

"Potter!" Moody growled in his raspy voice. "What are you doing here?"

"We’re going to St. Mungo’s," Harry replied. "And you?"

"Patrolling," Moody answered briefly. "The city is restless. Death Eaters could be anywhere. And not just them."

"You mean Servants?" Jeanne asked, stepping forward.

"And them," Moody nodded. "Be careful. And it’s better for you to get to the hospital quickly and stay out of sight. Yes, Potter, and tell Dumbledore – let him keep an eye on Snape. I have suspicions about him. Big suspicions. And also," Moody lowered his voice, "it seems someone in the Ministry is leaking information."

With those words, Moody turned and, limping, walked away. Harry and his friends exchanged glances. Moody’s words only heightened their anxiety.

"It seems things are bad," Ron said.

"Worse than ever," Hermione agreed. "We need to be extremely careful."

"And stick together," Harry added firmly, gripping his wand. "And maybe listen to what Dudley said. Maybe his dreams mean something."

They continued on their way, trying not to draw attention to themselves. But the oppressive atmosphere in the city wouldn’t let them relax. Every rustle, every sound made them flinch and look around. They felt they were being watched, that danger lurked at every step. And Harry couldn’t shake off a strange sense of déjà vu related to the plane crash. It was as if he saw that crimson flash in the sky again, as if he felt that horror and despair once more.

"Do you think," Harry asked Hermione as they passed another patrol, "Dudley could have dreamed of that very object? You know, the one that’s now wreaking havoc in London?"

Hermione thought for a moment.

"Quite possible," she replied. "If we believe Fujimaru, Servants can influence reality, alter space and time. What if one of them can enter people’s dreams? Or project images from another dimension?"

"You mean this flying thing – something like… a materialized dream?" Ron asked skeptically.

"I don’t know," Hermione shrugged. "But it would explain why Dudley saw it before it appeared in London. And why Muggles call it a UFO – they don’t know what it really is."

"But why would a Servant attack London?" Harry asked. "What benefit does he get from it?"

"Maybe it’s a test," Jeanne suggested. "Or a show of strength. Or maybe part of some plan we don’t understand yet."

"In any case, we need to be on guard," Harry said. "And tell Dumbledore everything. He needs to know what’s happening."

At that moment, they turned the corner and stumbled upon a newsstand. In the display was a fresh issue of the "Daily Mail" with a screaming headline:

Daily Mail

December 20, 1995

Apocalypse on the Streets of London: Government Fails to Cope with Terrorist Attacks and UFO Assaults

Shock and horror have gripped our nation following a series of terrorist attacks, brutal murders, and mass disappearances of citizens. All this is happening against the backdrop of constant UFO attacks, which only increase the fear and anxiety of our citizens. The whole situation is spiraling out of control, leaving our political leaders and law enforcement agencies in a difficult position. This mysterious terrorist group, known as the 'Death Eaters,' attacks our people and instills fear in the hearts of peaceful citizens. Our hapless leaders cannot find a suitable solution to this threat, and society is plunging into darkness.

"It seems things are really bad," Ron muttered, reading the headline.

"And that’s putting it mildly," Hermione noted, scanning the article. "Listen: ‘…UFO attacks appear real, and this only heightens the fear and anxiety of our people…’"

"So, Muggles really see these flying objects," Harry frowned. "And they’re panicking."

"Not surprising," Jeanne said. "Imagine you’re an ordinary person who knows nothing about magic. And suddenly you see a huge, incomprehensible thing in the sky destroying everything around. Anyone would panic."

"And what does 'The Times' say?" Fred asked, pointing to a stack of newspapers nearby.

George picked up the top copy and began reading:

The Times

December 24, 1995

Civil Liberties Under Threat Due to Mad Terrorist Group and UFO Attacks

The situation in London remains extremely tense due to the terrorist group known as the 'Death Eaters' and the utterly insane UFO attacks. Today, the government announced that it highly values the security of our society and will take any measures to protect it. Regarding the most important decisions being made, the government has already announced the imposition of a curfew and the deployment of the British army onto the streets.

Over the past few days, civil liberties have been severely restricted to prevent terrorist attacks, assaults, disappearances, and UFO attacks. The measures our leaders are taking now go far beyond the democratic frameworks we have in our country. But when the threat becomes as mad as in this case, we must act extraordinarily decisively.

"A curfew?" Ginny asked. "Army on the streets? Is it really that serious?"

"It seems so," Harry nodded. "Voldemort and his allies are sowing chaos. And Muggles don’t know how to deal with it."

"What if…" Ron began but stopped.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"What if the magical world decides to intervene?" Ron finished. "I mean, openly. To protect the Muggles."

Everyone fell silent, pondering this idea.

"That would be…" Hermione began but also fell silent.

"Risky," Jeanne finished for her. "It would violate the Statute of Secrecy. And we don’t know how Muggles would react."

"But if we do nothing," Harry countered, "innocent people will die. Like those who were on the plane."

"You’re right," Hermione agreed. "But we need to think everything through carefully. And consult with Dumbledore."

"And with Fujimaru," Jeanne added. "He knows more about Servants and how to fight them."

"Right," Harry nodded. "We need to gather all the information as soon as possible and develop a plan of action. Otherwise, it might be too late."

They continued on their way, discussing what they had read in the newspapers and speculating about what lay ahead. The atmosphere of fear and uncertainty thickened with each step.

Upon reaching the hospital, they realized everything had changed there too. The building, which had always been full of visitors, was now surrounded by armed guards, and everyone was thoroughly checked at the entrance. Harry and his friends had to undergo several checks before they were finally allowed inside.

The war for the Holy Grail had already begun. And it was being fought not only in the magical world but also in the Muggle world. And no one knew how it would end.

Chapter Text

Harry stood on a deserted street in London, peering into the face of a classmate. He hadn't expected to run into Sam Brightwood here, a Muggle-born boy with dark hair and a serious expression. Harry was still amazed at how quickly Sam had mastered the materials on Defense Against the Dark Arts. Now they stood in London against the backdrop of a state of emergency, where the entire magical community was on the verge of being discovered by Muggles.

"Well, I must say, Sam, you really study well and grasp everything quickly," Harry said, looking at Sam with pride [[3]].

"Thank you, Harry," Sam replied modestly but beamed with satisfaction.

They looked at the dilapidated building with the sign "Chisti and Lozokhod Limited" when Sam suddenly clenched his fist and turned away.

"Is something wrong, Sam?" Harry asked, feeling that an awkward pause had fallen.

"Uh... I think I need to go home quickly," Sam replied, hurriedly pulling out his wand from his jacket pocket.

"Sam, is everything okay?" Harry asked, seeing that the Muggle-born wizard was tightly gripping his wand.

"My older brother," Sam said, barely holding himself together. "That selfless genius enlisted in the army, and now he's patrolling the streets along with the other soldiers... Harry, how can I help him? How can I protect him? He's just an ordinary person, like everyone else... a Muggle! And I'm a wizard!"

Sam gestured desperately as he spoke and eventually buried his face in his hands.

"You understand, Harry! I'm glad, very glad that I've touched this world of wonders and can dive into this magical fairy tale at any moment. Millions of people around the world could envy me for living one foot among great wizards and incredible wonders! But with the other foot, I live here, and here over the past few months, some kind of catastrophe has been unfolding, and its roots go deep into the world of magic."

Harry looked at Sam with sympathy.

"Everything will be fine, Sam," he consoled his classmate. "We're here, we're with you, Sam. The whole Ministry is with us, and Dumbledore himself — a great man whom even Voldemort feared and could never defeat — is with us. Give me your hand, Sam!"

Sam obeyed, looking at Harry with red eyes, and Harry placed his hand on top of Sam's.

"Don't worry about your brother. He'll be alright. The entire magical world is working to defeat Voldemort."

Harry himself didn’t believe what he was saying, but he tried to sound convincing. He didn’t know how the War of the Holy Grail would unfold, nor how many Masters were on Voldemort’s side. He knew how important it was to support Sam right now, yet he tried not to spout nonsense or make impossible promises. Attempting to imagine what the upcoming War of the Holy Grail might turn into, Harry felt uneasy. His imagination painted the most horrifying pictures. Remembering Jeanne’s words about the Servants capable of influencing the Universe, he instantly envisioned falling toward the event horizon of a black hole, slowly stretching out, unaware of disintegrating into individual atoms. No human could do such a thing, and all his wand-waving tricks seemed useless compared to that. It was like trying to stop a missile with a thermonuclear warhead using a spear and a stone ax when the missile was already approaching its target and soon would obliterate everything in the blast zone, leaving only shadows of people, animals, and plants melted into a black, shiny mass behind.

Mash noticed Harry's confusion and approached him.

"We will definitely win," she said, placing her hand over Harry’s and Sam’s hands. "We will all get through this together," she added, smiling at both of them.

Harry felt his heart skip a beat when Mash touched his hand. He couldn’t believe that she was there, next to him, ready to help in any situation. He knew she was strong and smart, and that she would now be by his side in any trial. He looked at her and saw determination and confidence in her eyes. He felt her readiness to do anything to protect her friends and loved ones.

"Thank you, Mash," he said, smiling back at her.

"You’re welcome, Harry," she replied, returning his smile.

They looked at each other, and at that moment, Harry realized that she was his new loyal friend and ally. A sense of certainty pricked his heart. He looked at Sam and saw fear and anxiety in his eyes. In response, Harry also felt uncertainty in the face of the troubles that awaited him ahead, but he felt that he had no right to make mistakes because he understood the responsibility placed upon him.

***

Mr. Weasley occupied a bed at the far end, near the window. Harry was relieved to see him sitting up, supported by several pillows, reading the "Daily Prophet" under the single ray of sunlight falling directly on his bed. He put down the newspaper and, seeing who was coming, cheerfully smiled.

"Hello!" he said, tossing aside the newspaper. "Molly, Bill just left; he has to go to work but promised to drop by later."

"So, how are you, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and worriedly looked at his face. "You still don’t look too good."

"I feel excellent," he replied cheerfully and extended his healthy arm to hug Ginny.

"If they would just remove the bandages, I could go home."

"And why aren’t they removing them?" Fred asked.

"The wounds haven’t healed yet and are still bleeding a little, but otherwise, everything is fine," Mr. Weasley explained cheerfully and reached for his wand lying on the bedside table. He waved it, and six chairs appeared. "Apparently, I got lucky."

"So, will you tell us what happened?" Fred asked, pulling his chair closer to the bed.

"Well, you already know, right?" Mr. Weasley gave Harry a meaningful smile. "It’s very simple. I got tired during my shift, dozed off, and someone sneaked up on me. Strangely, I don’t remember who it was. When I woke up, I was in another place, and she was there." He nodded towards Mash.

Feeling awkward, she lowered her head.

"Is it in the 'Prophet' already?" Fred pointed to the discarded newspaper.

"No, of course not," Mr. Weasley said with a smile tinged with bitterness. "The Ministry doesn’t want the public to know that such things are happening there. And there was a riot there last night."

He cast a significant glance at Jeanne, but she didn’t flinch — standing there with her usual smug expression.

"Where were you when it happened?" George asked.

"That’s my business," his father cut him off with a slight smile.

He grabbed the "Daily Prophet," unfolded it, and said:

"When you came in, I was just reading about the arrest of Willy Widdershins. It turns out that summer incident with the erupting toilets was his doing. Once, his spell backfired, the toilet exploded, and they found him unconscious among the shards, covered head to toe in..."

"When you say you were 'on duty,'" Fred interrupted quietly. "What exactly were you doing?"

"You heard your father," Mrs. Weasley whispered. "We don’t discuss this here! So, what about Widdershins, Arthur?"

***

Several days passed. Harry and his friends visited Mr. Weasley every day in the hospital, and with satisfaction noted how his wounds were healing. Mr. Weasley didn’t lose his optimism and bravely tried new medical practices, including allowing a local trainee healer to stitch up his wounds.

Deciding not to interrupt the very lively family discussion about the treatment methods chosen by Mr. Weasley, the kids decided to visit the cafeteria.

They walked down the corridor, then through several double doors and found themselves in front of a decrepit staircase adorned with portraits of rather stern-looking healers. On their way up, the healers called out to them, diagnosed them with strange ailments, and offered creepy treatment methods. Ron was seriously offended when a medieval wizard shouted that he had a severe case of scaly rash and followed him through six more portraits, shoving aside their inhabitants.

But, stepping onto the landing, he stopped dead in his tracks: his gaze fixed on the door with the sign "SPELL DAMAGE," behind which began the ward corridor. Through the window in the door, a blond curly-haired man with bright blue eyes pressed his nose to the glass and smiled a meaningless radiant smile, showing all his pearly whites.

"Wow!" Ron exclaimed, staring at the face.

"It can't be!" Hermione gasped. "Professor Lockhart!"

Their former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed the door open and stepped onto the landing in a long lilac robe.

"Welcome! You, I see, want my autograph?"

"Not much has changed," Harry whispered, and Ginny, standing next to him, smiled.

"Oh... how is your health, Professor?" Ron asked somewhat guiltily.

It was his faulty wand that so damaged the professor’s memory that he ended up in St. Mungo’s Hospital. But since this happened at the moment when he was trying to completely erase Harry and Ron’s memories, Harry wasn’t full of sympathy.

"I am perfectly healthy, thank you!" Lockhart announced enthusiastically, pulling a rather scruffy peacock feather from his pocket. "So, how many autographs do you need? You know, now I can write in cursive!"

"Thanks, we don’t need any right now," Ron said and turned to Harry, making big eyes.

And Harry asked:

"Professor, is it okay that you're walking around the corridor? Shouldn’t you be lying in your ward?"

Lockhart’s smile faded. For a few moments, he scrutinized Harry’s face, then said:

"Have we met before?"

"Yes... it happened. You taught us at Hogwarts, remember?"

"Taught?" Lockhart became slightly worried. "Me? Really?"

Then the smile reappeared — so suddenly that it was a bit frightening.

"I taught you everything you know, didn’t I? So, what about the autographs? Shall I give you exactly a dozen so you can give them to your little friends and no one is left out?"

But at that moment, a head popped out from the door at the far end of the corridor, and a voice full of maternal care said:

"Gilderoy, you little rascal, where have you run off to?"

A kindly-looking healer with tinsel in her hair hurried down the corridor towards them, smiling warmly.

"Oh, Gilderoy, you have visitors! How lovely — and it’s Christmas too. Poor lamb, you know, no one visits him, I don’t understand why, he’s such a dear!"

"We’re handing out autographs," Lockhart informed her with a dazzling smile. "They demanded a lot; can I refuse? I hope we have enough photographs?"

"Just listen to him," the healer said, taking Gilderoy by the arm and smiling tenderly at him as if he were a two-year-old. "A few years ago, he was a famous person, and now he loves giving out autographs again — we really hope this is a sign of recovery, that his memory is returning. Please, come this way. You see, he’s kept in isolation; he must have slipped out while I was delivering Christmas presents. Usually, the door is locked… Not because he’s dangerous! But…" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "he’s a little dangerous to himself, poor thing… he doesn’t remember who he is, wanders off, and doesn’t know how to get back… How nice that you’ve come to visit him."

"Well, we…" Ron helplessly gestured towards the ceiling. "Actually, we…"

But the healer continued to smile expectantly at them, and Ron’s confused muttering of “we wanted to have tea” hung in the air. They sadly exchanged glances and trudged after Lockhart and the healer down the corridor.

"Not for long," Ron whispered.

The healer pointed her wand at the door of Janus Thickey Ward and said:

"Alohomora."

The door swung open, and, firmly holding Gilderoy by the arm, she led him into the ward and seated him in a chair by the bed.

"This is where patients on long-term treatment stay," she quietly explained to the kids. "Irreparable damage from spells. Of course, with the help of strong medicinal potions and charms, in successful cases, we achieve some improvement. Gilderoy seems to be gradually coming back to himself, and Mr. Bode shows significant improvement: his speech is returning, though so far he speaks in a language unknown to us. Well, I have to distribute more Christmas presents, so you can chat for now."

Harry looked around. By all appearances, the ward was the permanent residence of its patients. There were far more personal belongings piled up around the beds than in Mr. Weasley’s ward; the wall above Lockhart’s headboard was plastered with his photographs. He beamed radiantly from each one and waved cheerfully at visitors. Many of them he had signed himself, in childish block letters. As soon as the healer placed him in the chair, Gilderoy pulled a fresh stack of photographs towards him, grabbed the quill, and started signing them frantically.

"You can put them in envelopes," he advised Ginny, tossing them onto her lap one by one as he finished signing.

"You know, they haven’t forgotten me, no, I get loads of fan mail… Gladys Gudgeon writes every week… Wish I knew why…" He paused momentarily in mild confusion, then beamed again and resumed signing autographs with renewed energy. "Apparently, it’s due to my handsome appearance…"

Opposite lay a mournful-looking wizard with an earthy complexion staring at the ceiling; he muttered something under his breath and seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Two beds away from him lay a woman whose entire head was covered in fur. Harry remembered something similar happening to Hermione in their second year. Fortunately, in her case, the phenomenon had been temporary. At the far end of the ward, two beds were screened off by colorful curtains to allow patients and their visitors some privacy.

"And these are for you, Agnes," the healer said cheerfully, handing the furry woman a small stack of Christmas presents. "See, you haven’t been forgotten. And your son sent an owl — he writes that he’ll visit you this evening. Isn’t that nice!"

Agnes barked several times.

"And for you, Broderick, look, they sent a potted plant and a beautiful calendar with different funny hippogriffs for each month. It’ll be fun, won’t it?"

The healer approached the muttering wizard, placed a rather ugly plant with long swaying tentacles on the bedside table, and used her wand to attach the calendar to the wall.

"Oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?"

Harry whipped his head around. The curtains at the far end had been drawn back, and two visitors were walking down the aisle between the beds: a robust-looking old woman in a long green dress with a moth-eaten fox stole and a pointed hat adorned with nothing less than a stuffed vulture, and behind her, shuffling dejectedly, was Neville. Then it dawned on Harry who those two were at the far end of the ward. He started looking around — trying to distract his friends so Neville could leave unnoticed, avoiding questions, but Ron had also turned around upon hearing the name Longbottom, and before Harry could stop him, he called out: "Neville!" Neville flinched and shrunk as if a bullet had whizzed past.

"Neville, it’s us!" Ron jumped up. "Did you see? Lockhart’s here! Who did you come to see?"

"Your friends, Neville, dear?" the grandmother said kindly, heading towards the group.

Neville looked as if he’d prefer to sink into the ground. His chubby face flushed crimson, and he avoided looking at anyone.

"Ah, yes," the grandmother said, scrutinizing Harry, and extended her wrinkled, claw-like hand. "Yes, yes, of course. I know who you are; Neville holds you in high regard."

"Thank you," Harry said and shook her hand.

Neville avoided his gaze, looking down and blushing even more.

"And you, undoubtedly, are a Weasley," the old woman continued, regally extending her hand first to Ron and then to Ginny. "Yes, I know your parents — not closely, of course — very respectable, very respectable people. And you must be Hermione Granger?"

Hermione was astonished that the old lady knew her name, but dutifully extended her hand.

"Yes, Neville has told me about you. You’ve helped him out more than once, haven’t you? He’s a good boy." The old woman cast a stern, appraising glance at her grandson. "But, I’m afraid, he hasn’t inherited his father’s talent."

She nodded towards the distant beds; the stuffed vulture on her head swayed threateningly.

"What?" Ron exclaimed in surprise (Harry wanted to step on his foot, but doing so inconspicuously in jeans is much harder than in a cloak). "Is that your dad there?"

"What’s this I hear, Neville?" the old woman said sternly. "Didn’t you tell your friends about your parents?"

Neville took a deep breath, looked at the ceiling, and shook his head. Harry couldn’t remember ever feeling sorry for anyone as much as he did for Neville right then, but he couldn’t help him.

"There’s nothing to be ashamed of," Mrs. Longbottom said angrily. "You should be proud of them, Neville, proud! They didn’t sacrifice their mental and physical health for their only son to be ashamed of them!"

"I’m not ashamed," Neville stammered, still avoiding looking at any of his friends. Ron stood on tiptoe to see the patients at the far end.

"Interesting way you demonstrate that," the old woman said. "My son and his wife," she continued, majestically turning to Harry and the others, "were tortured into insanity by followers of You-Know-Who."

Ginny and Hermione clapped their hands to their mouths, Ron stopped craning his neck towards Neville’s parents, and immediately deflated.

"They were Aurors and highly respected people in the wizarding community," the old woman continued. "Extremely talented, both of them. I… Yes, Alice? What is it, dear?"

Neville’s mother had quietly approached them in her nightgown. She was no longer the round-faced happy woman from the original Order of the Phoenix photograph that Moody had shown Harry. Her face was gaunt and aged, her eyes appeared enormous, and her hair had turned gray, thin, and dull. She seemed reluctant to speak, or perhaps couldn’t at all, and only made timid movements, extending something to Neville.

"Again?" the grandmother said with slight weariness in her voice. "Very well, dear, very well… Neville, take it, it doesn’t matter what it is."

But Neville had already extended his hand, and his mother dropped an empty wrapper from "Best Ever Exploding Chewing Gum by Drubbles" into it.

"It’s wonderful, dear," Neville’s grandmother said in an overly cheerful voice and patted her daughter-in-law on the shoulder.

And Neville quietly said:

"Thank you, Mum."

Alice shuffled back to her bed, humming wordlessly. Neville defiantly looked at his friends: go ahead, laugh, but Harry thought he had never seen anything less funny in his life.

"Well, it’s time for us to be off," Mrs. Longbottom sighed, pulling on long green gloves. "Pleased to have met you, young people. Neville, throw the wrapper in the bin; she’s given you so many that you could wallpaper a room with them."

But Harry noticed how, before leaving, Neville discreetly slipped the wrapper into his pocket. The door closed behind them.

"I didn’t know," Hermione said, almost crying.

"Neither did I," Ron responded hoarsely.

Both looked at Harry.

"I knew," he said gloomily. "Dumbledore told me, but I promised to keep quiet… That’s why Bellatrix Lestrange was sent to Azkaban — she tortured them with the Cruciatus Curse until they went insane."

"Bellatrix Lestrange?" Hermione whispered in horror.

"The one they wrote so much about?"

A long silence ensued. It was broken by Lockhart’s angry voice:

"Listen, did I learn to write in cursive for nothing?!"

***

The days went by as usual, and after the recent embarrassment at the hospital, the friends tried not to think about it, but Harry couldn’t forget one thought. The friends tried to act normally, but the oppressive atmosphere looming over the magical world made itself known. Harry, Ron, and Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom, and each of them tried to cope with it in their own way.

One day, sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Harry decided to share his observations with his friends.

"Remember, I told you that Bellatrix Lestrange seems to have become a Master?" he began, nervously fidgeting with the edge of his cloak.

"Yes," Hermione nodded, tearing herself away from her book. "You said you saw her at the Ministry with Jack the Ripper."

"Exactly," Harry confirmed. "And she was acting… strangely."

"Strangely?" Ron repeated, setting aside his chess pieces. "In what way?"

"She was talking to Jack as if he were a child," Harry explained. "Calling him Delphi, although he clearly didn’t like it."

"Delphi?" Hermione frowned. "I’ve never heard that name."

"Neither have I," Harry admitted. "But it seemed to me that maternal feelings had awakened in Bellatrix."

Ron snorted.

"Maternal feelings? In Bellatrix Lestrange? Come on, Harry. She’s a crazy sadist!"

"I know," Harry agreed. "But… there was something off about her behavior. As if she… were fighting with herself."

"Maybe it’s the influence of the Servant?" Hermione suggested. "We don’t know exactly how the Grail affects the Masters. Maybe it awakens hidden traits, emotions…"

"Or drives them mad," Ron added grimly. "Which, actually, is what happened to Bellatrix."

"In any case," Harry said, "I told Dumbledore about it. He promised to take it into account."

"And what?" Ron crossed his arms over his chest. "Is he going to do something about it?"

"I don’t know," Harry shrugged. "He didn’t tell me much. But I think he’s devising some sort of plan."

"And us?" Hermione asked. "Can we do anything?"

"We can," Harry nodded. "First, we need to continue DA training. The more people are prepared for battle, the better. Second, we need to try to find out more about the Servants. About how they operate, what their weaknesses are."

"And how are we going to do that?" Ron asked skeptically.

"I’ll talk to Fujimaru and Mash," Harry replied. "They should know more about this war than we do."

"And are you sure they’ll tell us everything?" Hermione doubted. "They’ve kept us in the dark so far."

"I’ll try," Harry said. "I think it’s time for an honest conversation."

"I wonder who helps them with the Servant summoning?" Hermione mused. "Fujimaru once mentioned that it’s a complex procedure… and that the most difficult part is done by the Grail…"

"What difference does it make?" Ron shrugged. "You’re so interested in this question as if we have any chance… of becoming Masters ourselves."

Hermione looked at Ron with confusion.

"I know for sure that Harry is supposed to become a Master. It’s his direct duty, isn’t it, Harry?"

Instead of answering, Harry stood there blinking. Not knowing what to say, he spread his arms and, turning on his heels, quietly muttered:

"I don’t know."

He wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming a Master. He couldn’t even imagine what it meant to be a Master. What he knew about the Servants frightened him, and the idea of becoming a Master scared him even more because of the nightmares in which Jeanne Alter kept appearing to him. He didn’t know whom the Grail would summon to aid him, and he sincerely hoped that in the War for the Grail, he wouldn’t be assigned the role of Master.

***

Ron entered the dark alley where the fog was so thick it was impossible to breathe. The walls were covered with dirty stains and mold, and the wind chilled him to the bone. A few flickering street lamps barely illuminated his path. Ron felt the gazes of hidden eyes in dark, unknown corners, exuding hatred and malice. His soul filled with a premonition of inevitable danger.

His heart beat faster when he heard someone’s footsteps, rustling, and scraping somewhere in the distance. Ron tried to call for help, but only a sinister hiss came from his throat. He shifted from foot to foot, not knowing where to go. He felt as if someone was watching him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something horrifying was happening nearby, unseen by him.

And then he saw them — huge, living shadows, ghosts of tombs carrying echoes of terror and death. Ron tried to run, but quickly realized his legs wouldn’t obey. They were rooted to the ground like the roots of a sick tree. And then he heard the mad laughter, the laughter of otherworldly creatures; laughter more terrifying than any ghost, any poltergeist; laughter that sounded close to him, and at the sound of it, Ron wanted to scream, releasing his inhuman fear.

When Jack the Ripper emerged from the fog, Ron Weasley felt as if the entire world had collapsed beneath him. He looked down and saw deep cracks in the ground, and below them, pitch-black darkness filled with eternal suffering and pain. Jack looked inhuman — his eyes were red, as if he saw the world differently from others. He moved as if he were the embodiment of fear — his movements fluid, his silhouette seemingly dancing with every step, and when he turned, his clothes rustled, and it seemed as if all the darkness of this world and another, unknown to Ron, was sewn into them.

Ron Weasley tried to run, but his legs refused to obey. He stopped when he realized he could no longer escape. His eyes widened when he saw the sharp silver blade in Jack’s hand. As Jack moved towards him, the smell of blood hit Ron’s nostrils. He tried to scream, but his scream caught in his throat, leaving Ron in utter silence.

The alley was shrouded in thick, impenetrable fog, which melted on tongues of flame as if the fog were alive. Ron Weasley tried to inhale, but it felt as if the fog was clogging all his airways. At that moment, Jack the Ripper seemed to be everywhere. He was simultaneously in front and behind, and his hands were sharp, like razors.

Ron couldn’t tear his gaze away from Jack’s malicious smirk, and that smirk seemed more terrifying to Ron than anything else in the world, but he couldn’t look away. Hundreds of Jack the Ripper’s teeth sparkled, looking like sharp horseshoes, ready to tear their victim to pieces.

And then Jack the Ripper, like a marionette, pulled knives from behind his back. They gleamed in the darkness, like the eyes of a beast ready to attack. Ron screamed, but his scream was lost in the fog choking his throat. He knew it was too late to play the hero; he was too small against the backdrop of the general horror. And then Jack the Ripper began his bloody dance.

The thick fog enveloped Ron, not allowing him to breathe. He stood on the shore of a dark lake, unable to escape the invisible death.

Suddenly, the figure of Jack the Ripper, the embodiment of madness and bloodlust, appeared before him. He slowly approached Ron, holding a sharp blade in his hand. Ron realized he wouldn’t survive; now he was in a world ruled by cursed infinity.

"Your name is forever written in my horror story," Jack said, raising his blade over Ron.

At that moment, Ron saw deep and mystical things flashing before his eyes. He saw eternal hell, the curse hanging over this edge of the world, and vague images of those who would still be imprisoned in the abyss.

Death came slowly, plunging Ron into the dark lake of madness. Bloody whirlwinds rose around Ron and dragged him into the depths of this world. Once again, this eternal encounter with horror claimed a new victim for the world of darkness and madness, leaving behind only decay and bloodshed.

Chapter Text

The room is white, sterile, like an operating room. Cold, making his teeth ache. But not the usual cold, rather a chilling one, as if he ended up in a crypt. Ron pried his eyelids open; his head was buzzing as if someone had hit a bell with a sledgehammer. "Was it a dream?" a wild thought flashed. The alley, the fog, that... Jack. Nonsense, it couldn't be. But as soon as he inhaled, his throat began to scratch, as if sandpaper had been run over it. His tongue burned with bitterness, unpleasant and metallic. And then it dawned on him — it wasn’t a dream. Not at all a dream. Fear — here it was, right beside him, breathing down his neck. And this fear smelled of blood and steel.

His hands were shaking like those of a seasoned alcoholic. Cold, sticky sweat poured down his back in torrents. "It can't be," Ron kept telling himself, "it was a dream, definitely a dream. The alley, the blade, that girl... all fantasies, hallucinations after butterbeer." But doubt, like a snake in the grass, had already crept into his soul. And then his gaze fell on his hands. A sigh. Mother of God! It was as if some beast had clawed at them, talons no smaller than those of a werewolf. Jagged, crimson streaks crisscrossed his skin, oozing blood. Blood — there it was, real, not in a dream. And the stench of that cursed fog lingered in his nostrils, refusing to dissipate. That’s when it hit Ron: Jack the Ripper wasn’t just a bedtime story. He was real, alive, and breathing the same frosty mist that nearly tore his lungs apart.

"What the hell was that?" pounded in his temples like a woodpecker against a tree. An icy pit of anxiety gnawed at his chest. "A dream? Could it have been a dream? But there are no such vivid dreams that leave marks on your skin and reek of the grave." Ron began to tremble — small, convulsive shakes, like a puppy abandoned in the cold.

He knew this feeling — primal, primeval terror. And this was definitely not a dream. The scratches on his hands were like a verdict. The alley wasn’t the end of the nightmare but only its beginning, a cursed antechamber of hell. Ron sensed something was wrong. Not just "wrong," but catastrophically wrong. The fog… It was back, in the room. Thick, dense, like vile jelly. Breathing was impossible — the air felt like lead in his lungs. Ron jerked, wanting to leap off the bed, to escape from this filth. But his legs were limp, unresponsive, as if nailed to the floor. His hands in front of his face — he couldn’t see his fingers, only gray haze. The fog enveloped him from all sides, suffocating him, trapping him in its sticky web. Ron opened his mouth, trying to gulp air — in vain. Instead of air, only thick gray sludge, burning his throat and lungs.

Silence in the house, like in a tomb. Grimmauld Place, number twelve. The old, cursed house, full of shadows and whispers of the past. Everyone was asleep. Harry was upstairs in his room, Sirius somewhere deep in the house, lost in the oblivion of sleep. And Ron was alone in this white room, alone with his terror. Outside the walls lay nighttime London, but here, inside the house, another world. A world of fog and fear.

And then a sound. Quiet, almost inaudible. A creak of the floorboard downstairs. A step. Another step. Light, stealthy footsteps. But in this silence, they thundered like lightning. Ron froze, his heart pounding like crazy. Could it be… could she have returned? Jack the Ripper. Come to finish what she started.

The steps drew closer. Slowly, inexorably. Each step was a nail in the coffin lid. Ron realized — there was nowhere to run. The house was a trap. The fog — a wall. He was locked in here, like a mouse in a mousetrap. And she just needed time to get to him. To finish her bloody work. To take his soul into her foggy world. A world of pain and suffering. A world where no one would hear his screams.

Ron closed his eyes. He surrendered. Useless to fight. Useless to call for help. No one would hear. No one would come. Only the fog and the steps. The steps of death. He waited. Waited for the strike of the blade. Waited for darkness.

The fog in the corner stirred, bubbled, like boiling tar. And from this gray murk emerged a figure. A girl. Just a child — no older than fourteen. Fragile, thin, like a stalk. Her light hair, almost white, cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves. Her face was childlike, innocent, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips shaped like a bow. A doll, not a girl. And her eyes… That’s when it got unsettling. Her eyes were large, clear, like heavenly lakes. But in that clarity, something was off. They were too calm, too empty. As if they reflected the sky without seeing the world. And in that childish innocence lay a chilling cold. The cold of indifference. The cold of soullessness.

She was dressed as if from an illustration in an old book. A white, lacy dress, like that of a porcelain doll. A clean, starched apron. And only in her hand — a blade. Thin, gleaming, like a silver needle. But in that needle lay death. Cold, calculated, merciless death. The death of a child.

Jack the Ripper. In the guise of an angel. Now that was truly a twist. Scarier than anything he could have imagined.

Jack took a step closer, gliding like a shadow. She smiled. And that smile… Ron felt shivers running down his spine. Not the sweet smile of a child, no. There was something… wrong about it. Too wide, too forced. Like a mask glued to her childish face. Behind the mask — emptiness. And cold.

"Well, Harry," Jack cooed, her voice like the chime of shattered glass. Sweet, but cutting. "Are you scared? What did you expect? Did you think I’d just leave? Let you breathe my fog for free? Don’t hold your breath, darling."

She leaned closer, so close that Ron felt her icy breath on his cheek. The smell was like from a grave — damp earth and rotting flowers. And something else… something sweet, cloying, nauseating. Like overripe fruit starting to rot from within.

"You know, Harry," Jack continued whispering, her voice almost tender, but this tenderness only made it scarier. "You… you’re kind of growing on me. Well, for a boy who needs to die, anyway. Your eyes are green, like spring grass. Such a shame to ruin such beauty."

She ran the blade lightly across his cheek — gently, almost tenderly. But Ron felt the cold of the steel — icy, penetrating to the bone. Goosebumps rose on his skin, not from the touch, but from sheer terror.

"Maybe you’ll change your mind?" Jack continued, as if oblivious to his paralysis. Her voice turned almost dreamy. "Maybe you'll come to me willingly? Into my foggy world. It's nice there. Quiet. No pain. Just eternal sleep. And… I’ll be there. Always. Like mother and child. Together. Forever."

She pressed her cheek to his, even closer. The cold of her body seeped through his clothes, chilling him to the core. Ron froze, holding his breath, afraid to move, afraid to startle this eerie doll pretending to be human.

"But if you don’t want to play nice," Jack's voice suddenly changed, becoming hard, steely. The smile vanished like smoke in the wind. Her eyes grew colder, emptier, like abandoned wells. "Then we’ll do this the hard way. I don’t like being argued with. I don’t like waiting. I want what’s mine now. And I’m going to get it. Understand, Harry? Or should I explain more clearly? Like this, perhaps?"

The blade flashed again — now at Ron’s throat. Thin, sharp, like a scorpion’s sting. Ron saw the reflection of his own terror in its gleaming surface. And he understood — she wasn’t joking. She would kill him. Right here. Right now. In this white room, filled with fog and cold. And no one would hear his last scream.

Ron didn’t move. He froze like a rabbit before a snake. Words stuck in his throat, like a lump of stones. Thoughts scattered in every direction, leaving only emptiness and animal fear. "Harry? She thinks I’m Harry? What the…?" But even this strange thought couldn’t break through the wall of fear. The main thing now — don’t breathe. Don’t move. Don’t provoke her. Maybe then… maybe she’ll reconsider? Maybe she’ll let go? Nonsense. She won’t let go. She is death. Death in the guise of a child. And death has come for him.

The cold of the blade at his throat — like the kiss of death. Ron felt the metal biting into his skin, scratching, leaving a thin line of pain. Soon blood would flow. Soon… the end. He closed his eyes. He accepted his fate. Whatever will be, will be. Useless to fight. Useless to call for help. No one will save him. No one will hear. Only the fog. And the blade. And the cold, soulless eyes above him. This — the last thing he would see in this world. Darkness. And the childish face of death.

And then — a flash. Blinding red, like molten iron. The darkness receded, the fog torn to shreds by a whirlwind of fire. Jack’s blade froze an inch from Ron’s throat. The blow never came. Before Ron stood a wall of black metal, reflecting the red light. Joan of Arc Alter’s sword.

She appeared out of nowhere, a whirlwind of black cloak and crimson fury. Jeanne. She had been here, nearby, in the next room. Sleeping? No, not sleeping. Sensing. Knowing. A Servant’s instinct — sharper than any sense. Danger — like an electric shock, woke her, brought her to her feet, and threw her into battle. And now she was here, a wall between Ron and death. A red fury, the embodiment of wrath and vengeance.

"Hands off, Ripper," growled Jeanne, her voice like the screech of metal on stone. Angry, hard, without a trace of doubt. "This one’s mine. Touch him — and you’ll regret it."

And the battle began. Not a dance — a clash of beasts. Fierce, frenzied, without rules or mercy. Jeanne’s sword and Jack’s blade clashed in a vortex of steel and fire. The clang of metal — deafening, ear-splitting, like thunderclaps in a confined space. Sparks flew in fountains in every direction, illuminating the room with a ghastly, flickering light. Shadows danced on the walls, distorting the fighters’ figures, turning them into demons from nightmares.

Jack — lightning. Her movements swift, elusive, like a shadow in moonlight. Her blade slid like a snake, trying to breach Jeanne’s defense, to sting, to poison. Her strikes frequent, like raindrops in a storm, each deadly.

Jeanne — a rock. Unshakable, impenetrable. Her sword — a wall of black metal, parrying blow after blow, unwavering, unyielding. Her movements powerful, sweeping, like hammer blows. Raw, untamed, crushing force. She didn’t dance, she crushed. She didn’t evade, she overwhelmed. She was a wall of rage, and this wall advanced on Jack.

Ron gasped for air. The fog was thick, caustic, burning his lungs from the inside, like acid. The stench was suffocating, nauseating, clogging his nose and mouth, preventing him from breathing. Through this haze, only flashes of red and white were visible. Jeanne and Jack. The fighters seemed like ghosts in the fog. Their figures blurred, disappeared, reappeared out of nowhere. Ron could barely tell — who was friend, who was foe. Only sounds — the clang of metal, Jeanne’s growls, Jack’s quiet hissing — pierced through the foggy veil.

But even in this haze, he felt her. Jack. Her presence like a cold wind, piercing to the bone. Malice thick, tangible, like poison in the air. And her gaze… even without seeing her eyes — Ron felt that gaze. Cold, calculating, hungry. The gaze of a predator who had chosen its prey. And the prey — him. Ron. Even if she fought Jeanne — that didn’t mean she forgot about him. No. She remembered. She waited. And as soon as Jeanne got distracted — she would return for him. She would definitely return.

The battle — a whirlwind of red and white in the gray mist. Ron squinted, trying to make out anything through the foggy veil. Flashes — that’s all he could see. Jeanne’s red cloak flickered like tongues of flame, the black blade of her sword slicing through the fog like a shadow. Jack’s white dress drifted like a ghostly blot among the swirling mist, her silver blade gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Sounds — that’s what was real. The sharp, piercing clang of metal, as if someone was hammering on an anvil right in his ear. Frequent, dull blows, like heavy fists pounding on wood. Jack’s quiet, serpentine hissing, like the whisper of death. Jeanne’s low, animalistic growl, full of rage and pain.

Ron caught glimpses of movement. Jeanne slashed downward, powerfully, broadly, as if trying to split the earth with her sword. Her cloak billowed like a whirlwind, her black hair lashed against her back like waves. Strength in every movement, raw, untamed, devastating. She struck like a battering ram, like a hammer, like a hurricane.

Jack slipped away from the blows, like a shadow, like smoke. Her movements quick, sharp, like the beat of a bird’s wing. Her blade darted around Jeanne’s sword, like a wasp circling a bear’s head. Her strikes pinpoint, precise, like needle pricks. She didn’t fight — she stung. She didn’t crush — she cut. She was fast as the wind, agile as a cat, deadly as poison.

Ron saw sparks — bright flashes between the fighters’ figures. Metal grated against metal, sparking fiery bursts. The smell of ozone, burnt metal, and something else… blood? No, not yet blood. Only steel and rage. Two forces collided in an uneven battle. Strength against agility. Fury against cunning. And the fog — witness to this battle, hiding details, leaving only flashes and sounds.

And suddenly — a turning point. Jeanne’s power began to prevail. Her sword strikes grew heavier, more inevitable. Jack was no longer lightning, but a spark, evading the advancing storm. Her movements became smaller, more frantic, tinged with panic. Her blade bounced off Jeanne’s black metal sword more often, failing to breach her defense or cause harm.

Jeanne advanced. Step by step, relentlessly, like fate itself. Her sword hacked and hacked, each blow pushing Jack back, cornering her. Fury overwhelmed her, making her invincible, unstoppable. She was a wall of wrath, and this wall crashed down on Jack, ready to crush her, grind her into dust.

A blow. Another blow. Jack’s blade faltered, veering off to the side. Jeanne’s sword passed by, but the rush of air from its movement knocked Jack off her feet. She was flung backward, stumbled, and fell onto the floor amidst the fog. Her white dress spread out like a stain on the gray carpet.

Jeanne stood over her, her sword raised for the final blow. The shadow of her figure fell over Jack, obscuring her from the light. Silence hung in the room for a moment, broken only by Jeanne’s heavy breathing.

And suddenly… Jack laughed. Quietly, weakly, but her laughter rang out in the silence like cracking ice. A horrifying, unchildlike laugh.

"Alright," Jack whispered, her voice weak but still full of malice. "Enough for today. You… you’re strong, whoever you are. Stronger than I thought. But… this isn’t over. I’ll be back, Harry. I’ll definitely be back. And then… then you’ll be mine. Completely. And your soul… too."

She rose — slowly, wobbling, like a broken doll. Her dress was dusty, her hair disheveled, her pale face whiter than chalk. But her eyes remained cold, empty, brimming with malice and hunger.

Jack looked at Ron — a long, intense stare, as if trying to memorize every feature of his face. Then she smiled again, crookedly, ominously. And… raised her hand. She puckered her lips into a bow shape, mimicking a kiss. An air kiss. A childish, innocent gesture. But in her execution, it became terrifying, frightening, like a curse.

"Goodbye, Harry," Jack whispered, her lips barely moving. "Until we meet again. In the fog."

And she dissolved into the fog. Vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. Only a faint haze remained, swirling in the air, and the smell of ozone and fear lingered in the room.

Ron stood. Motionless. Staring into the void where Jack had just been. The fog had dissipated, but his mind was still clouded. Dull, heavy, as if cotton stuffed his brain. Sounds around him seemed distant, muffled, indistinct. The room was white, calm, as if nothing had happened. But… it had. It had just happened. Here. Nearby. Death. Breathing in his face. Smiling. Promising to return.

His body wouldn’t obey. His legs were limp, unable to support him. His hands shook minutely, convulsively. His heart raced wildly, like a bird trapped in a cage, beating against the bars. His breathing was ragged, uneven, as if after a long run. Cold sweat trickled down his back, sticky and unpleasant. The taste of iron and fear lingered in his mouth.

Ron lowered his eyes. He saw his hands. The scratches were red, jagged, bleeding. His skin was pale, like chalk. He realized — this wasn’t a dream. Reality. Cruel, merciless reality. Jack the Ripper existed. She had been here. She had wanted to kill him. And she would return. Definitely return.

Fear didn’t let go. It froze in his blood, in his bones, in his very soul. Ron was like a paralyzed man. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think clearly. Only one word pulsed in his head. "Jack. Jack. Jack." And an image — the childish face of death, a crooked smile, empty eyes, a gleaming blade.

Ron was in a stupor. In shock. As if he had surfaced from deep water, trying to gulp air, but instead of air, only cold water flooded his lungs. He was alive, Jeanne had saved him. But… for how long? What would happen next? How could he live now, knowing that death breathed down his neck, that at any moment the fog might return, and with it — her. Jack.

And then — movement again. A shadow in the doorway. Jeanne. She had returned. Standing motionless, like a statue of a black angel. Her cloak fluttered in a light whirlwind, her sword lowered but still ready for battle. Her gaze was calm, unruffled, as if she had just gone for a walk in the park, not fought to the death with a demon from the fog.

She looked at Ron. In her eyes, neither compassion nor pity. Only… something resembling assessment. As if surveying the battlefield after the fight, tallying losses, evaluating damage. She nodded briefly, almost imperceptibly. As if checking a box on an invisible list. "Alive. Survived. For now, adequate."

And she left. As quietly as she had come. Dissolved into the shadow of the corridor, leaving Ron alone in the white room. Alone, with his fear, his memories, his nightmares.

But… the fog. It hadn’t completely disappeared. A faint haze still swirled in the corners, whispering something indistinct, like a sinister spell. And Ron felt it. Felt some foreign, unseen presence in the room. As if Jack’s shadow still lingered, hiding in the corners, breathing down his neck, waiting for her moment.

Safety? No. There was no safety. No peace. Only waiting. Waiting for a new attack, a new nightmare, a new encounter with Jack the Ripper. Darkness had caught up with him. And now it wouldn’t let go. Never. He was on the edge. On the edge of light and darkness, reality and nightmare, sanity and madness. And there was no turning back. The decision had been made. The battle had begun. And how it would end — unknown. Only the fog knew. And silently whispered its ominous prediction.

Ron stared at the spot where Jeanne had just stood. Gratitude? Appreciation? Yes, perhaps. Somewhere deep inside, a faint ember of relief flickered. But above it — a thick layer of fear. Sticky, suffocating fear, preventing him from breathing, preventing him from thinking. Jeanne had nodded — like a queen to her loyal dog who had carried out an order. And she left. Left him here. Alone. In this white room, like a cage for the insane. Trembling, like a leaf in the wind. Haunted by nightmares that no longer seemed like nightmares. Reality was worse than any nightmare.

Safety? Ha! What safety? Jeanne had left — and with her went the illusion of protection. The fog was still here. Not as thick, not as suffocating, but… here. Swirling in the corners, whispering something incomprehensible, like malicious jeers. And Ron felt it. Felt that he wasn’t alone. Something was here, in the room, besides him. Something invisible, intangible, but… dangerous. As if someone was sneaking up to the door, quietly, unheard, waiting for the moment to burst in and tear him apart. Jack? Maybe Jack hadn’t left at all? Maybe she was hiding somewhere in the shadows, playing cat and mouse with him, reveling in his fear? Or… was it something else? Something worse than Jack? Something from the fog itself? From that darkness beyond reality? Madness — that’s what it was. Madness creeping up on him, quietly, unheard, ready to swallow him whole.

Darkness — there it was. Not somewhere out there, beyond the door, not in some dark alley. Here. Inside him. It had caught up with him, engulfed him completely, like a black, suffocating wave. And now — that was it. There was no turning back. Darkness wouldn’t let go. Never. Its embrace was cold, sticky, like the hands of a corpse. And Ron felt it. Felt that he was a prisoner. A prisoner of darkness. And the only thing left for him — to wait. Wait… for whom? A brave soul? A hero? A savior? Nonsense. No one would come. No one would save him. He was alone in this world of horror. Alone, face-to-face with the darkness.

The boundaries were erased. Reality had crumbled to dust. Nightmares had become reality. Madmen danced a waltz with gods. The world had flipped, broken, shattered into pieces. And Ron found himself amidst the wreckage of this world. In a hopeless situation. Trapped between light and darkness. And he understood — it was too late to retreat. Too late to run. The step had been taken. The Rubicon crossed. The thin line breached. And there was no going back. Never. Madness awaited him on this threshold. Hungry, insatiable, ready to devour his mind, his soul, his very essence. And the decision had already been made. Not by him. By fate. By darkness. By madness. It didn’t matter — by whom. What mattered was that the path had been chosen. And this path — led into darkness. Into madness. Into the unknown.

Suddenly, a pure night enveloped Ron’s room; a gentle breeze swept away the thick, impenetrable fog. The room was white again, calm, but… different. A cold emptiness lingered, like the imprint of death’s touch.

Ron cautiously looked around. Exhaled with relief. The fog was gone. Jack had disappeared. But… the fear remained. Sitting somewhere inside, refusing to let go. Ron whispered her name — softly, under his breath, as if testing fate. Jack… The Ripper… Silence answered. Only the night gazed through the window with millions of stars. But in this silence lurked something ominous. The dark, infinite expanse of the room seemed like a silent warning. It loomed over Ron, like the relentless cry of someone else’s pain, belonging to someone Ron couldn’t help.

Ron slowly rose from the bed. His legs were still weak, but they held. He approached the window. Above him stretched the starry sky. But it wasn’t the beauty of the starry heavens that caught his eye. Madness — that’s what he saw in this night. A sea of madness: boundless, merciless, ready to swallow him whole. Struggle — that’s what awaited him. A struggle for survival on the brink of light and darkness, on the edge of sanity and madness.

The battle had begun, and he had to finish it. Defeat the darkness within himself, around himself, in this cursed world. Ron raised his head and gazed into the high sky. Determination lit up in his eyes, a faint but stubborn flame. A light sparked in his heart. Not the bright, blinding light of a hero, but a weak, trembling light, like the flicker of a candle in a storm. But it was light. And he wasn’t alone. Jeanne was near. She had saved him, assured him that he wasn’t alone, that there were people willing to do anything for him, believing that he could survive and win.

Ron took a deep breath. Clean, fresh air filled his lungs with strength. A promise sounded in his heart — a promise to himself. To conquer his fears, overcome his weaknesses, grow stronger, survive.

Confidence sprouted in his soul like a fragile seedling. The sky was clear, starry, as if confirming his decision. Ron looked at the stars and whispered softly, but firmly:

"I’m not alone… I’m not weak… If necessary, I will fight in this war for the Grail… And I… will bring us victory."

He closed his eyes and placed his hand over his heart. His voice grew firmer, more confident:

"I am ready. And I am not afraid. If it’s necessary, I will learn everything I need from Fujimaru… And I… will become a Master in this war for the Grail."

Chapter Text

Morning greeted Ron with a heavy head and a sticky feeling of fear that had seeped into his very flesh. Jack's night attack — like an imprint on his soul, one that couldn't be erased or forgotten. Tell someone about it? No. They'd only make him feel even more like an idiot. He already felt pathetic, helpless, like a rabbit cornered. At breakfast, he sat in silence, morosely poking at his plate. Heavy thoughts weighed him down like leaden weights, pulling him down, not letting him lift his head.

At the table sat Jeanne. Calm, unruffled, as if there had been no night battle. No trace of fatigue, no hint of concern. It was as if instead of a fight with a killer Servant, she'd spent the night cozily reading a book by candlelight. And this calmness of Jeanne’s… irritated him. It angered him. Ron felt deceived, left alone with his fear. "What if all of this was just a dream?" a wild thought flashed, a faint hope that everything was just a nightmare.

Finishing breakfast at the same time as Jeanne, Ron rose from the table after her. He tried to appear as nonchalant as possible, waiting a few seconds before following her. He needed to talk. He needed to find out. He needed… to do something about this lump of fear and confusion stuck in his throat.

"Jeanne, wait!" he called out to her, his voice trembling, betraying him completely.

Jeanne stopped, turned around. Her gaze — amber, piercing, like an X-ray. Not bewilderment or curiosity, but… wariness. As if she had been expecting this conversation but didn’t want it.

"What is it, Ron?" she asked, her voice even, emotionless. No trace of irritability, no hint of coquetry. Just cold politeness.

Ron faltered. Words — like birds caught in nets. Thoughts — a swarm of bees buzzing in his head. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say. Ask? Thank her? Accuse her? Everything mixed into one tangled mess.

"I…" he began, then stumbled. "I wanted… to thank you. For last night. That was… that was you, right?"

The words came out uncertainly, pitifully. Ron lowered his gaze, feeling his cheeks flush. Stupid. He looked stupid. Like a schoolboy thanking his teacher for a good grade.

Jeanne’s reaction was unexpected. Not embarrassment, not despair. More like… irritation. Hidden, but palpable. As if he had touched a forbidden topic. As if words of gratitude were not fire, but poison she was afraid to accept.

"Don’t mention it," Jeanne replied curtly, her voice sharper than usual. "It was… necessary."

No rambling words, no hesitation. Just cold detachment. And then — a sharp turn on her heels and a quick step toward the girls' dormitory. As if she were running away from him, from his gratitude, from his questions.

"She’s strange," Ron muttered under his breath, feeling growing bewilderment. "One moment she saves me, the next she runs away like I’ve got the plague."

Doubts stirred again in his soul. Did all of this really happen? Or was it just a product of his fevered imagination? But in the evening, glancing under his shirt, he saw them. The scratches. Deep, jagged, crimson against pale skin. Evidence of last night’s reality. Proof that Jack the Ripper was not a dream. And that Jeanne had indeed saved his life.

***

The holidays dragged on excruciatingly slowly. Each day for Ron was a test of nerves. He flinched at every rustle, constantly looking over his shoulder, as if expecting to see a flash of white dress and the gleam of a silver blade in the shadows. His friends, noticing his nervousness, bombarded him with questions, but Ron only brushed them off, mumbling something incoherent about a bad dream and a headache. To his relief, Jack didn’t appear again. But this relief was deceptive. Fear — like poison — had soaked into him, poisoning every breath.

Mr. Weasley’s return, alive and well, was a ray of light in this realm of shadows. He thanked Harry, Mash, and Jeanne profusely for saving his life, oblivious to how each word made these three squirm with discomfort. Harry — because he had witnessed the attack through Voldemort’s snake eyes, feeling like an unwitting accomplice. Mash — because of her usual clumsiness, which this time nearly cost Mr. Weasley his life. And Jeanne… Jeanne simply couldn’t stand gratitude. Fred and George, as always, turned it all into a joke: "Want to see Jeanne d’Arc panic? Just say 'thank you' to her."

On the last evening before departure, when the common room buzzed with anticipation of returning to Hogwarts, Mr. Weasley, agitated and out of breath, burst inside, disrupting the general merriment.

"Harry, Ron," his voice trembled, "I need to speak with you urgently. Alone."

He led them from the noisy room to a quiet corner where no one could overhear. Harry exchanged worried glances with Ron. Something had happened. And this "something" clearly wasn’t good.

"What happened, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked, trying to stay calm.

"I received a message… from reliable sources…" Mr. Weasley lowered his voice to a whisper, glancing around as if expecting an attack at any moment. "The Death Eaters are planning an attack. On you. On the way to Hogwarts."

Ron felt a chill run through him. "Again?" a panicked thought flashed. "Not again…" But why them? What made them so important to the Death Eaters that they would risk an attack?

"The Ministry has taken measures," Mr. Weasley continued, still cautiously looking around. "You will be escorted by Aurors. And… you’ve been provided with special transport. Safe transport."

"What kind of transport?" Ron asked, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice.

"The Knight Bus," Mr. Weasley replied. "It will pick you up directly from Grimmauld Place."

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. Relief and… anticipation? The Knight Bus — not just safe transport. It was an adventure. But behind this anticipation lurked fear. They knew the threat was real. And they couldn’t imagine how serious it would turn out to be.

***

Mr. Weasley walked ahead, almost running, nervously glancing around every so often. Harry, Ron, Mash, and Jeanne followed, trying not to fall behind. Every step along the deserted street echoed dully in the ringing silence. London seemed deserted, holding its breath, waiting for disaster. There were no passersby, no cars. Only rare shadows flickered in the windows of houses, and the wind howled in empty alleys.

Harry felt the tension thickening in the air, like before a storm. He knew something was going to happen. Something terrible. But what? And when? The unknown — worse than any torture. It gnawed at him from within, making him flinch at every sound, seeing enemies in every shadow.

Harry’s gaze slid over the figures of his companions. Mash — next to him, shoulder to shoulder. A fragile, short girl, almost a child. But in her eyes — an unchildlike determination, readiness for battle. A Servant. Fujimaru’s Shield. And next to her — Jeanne. Tall, slender, with a proud posture. In her amber eyes — a cold flame, knowing neither fear nor doubt. A Servant. Fujimaru’s Sword. They were warriors, born for battle. And him?

Thoughts swirled in Harry’s mind around the looming War for the Holy Grail. He wanted nothing to do with it. His war — with Voldemort. His destiny — to face the Dark Lord, to win or die. And this… this was someone else’s game. A game of Masters and Servants. A game he didn’t want to participate in.

He literally felt sick at the thought of summoning a Servant. Calling upon the souls of past heroes, forcing them to fight for some artifact… No. This wasn’t for him. He wasn’t a Master. He was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. And his purpose — was different. He looked at Mash, trying to understand how this fragile girl could be a warrior, a Servant whose purpose was to fight and die. There was nothing special about her, nothing heroic. An ordinary girl, like many at Hogwarts. And that scared him even more. If Servants were just like everyone else, how could one risk their lives?

Memories of dreams — like a punch to the gut. He had seen Jeanne’s past. Her cruelty, her rage, her hatred. Two million killed… A number that didn’t fit in his head. And yet… sometimes a light flickered in her eyes. Warm, human light. Light that said even in the darkest soul, a spark of goodness could remain. And that light… drew him in. Fascinated him. Made him believe that even Jeanne Alter, the embodiment of vengeance and destruction, could be… different. He didn’t understand these feelings of his. Fear mixed with admiration, disgust — with attraction. Too complicated. Too incomprehensible.

But thoughts of Jeanne — only intensified his fear of the War for the Grail. If she, so strong, so invulnerable, could die in battle… what awaited others? What awaited him? He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to picture Jeanne — dead, with a lifeless gaze. No. He wouldn’t allow it. He would do everything to protect her. Even if it meant… meant what? Entering this cursed war? Becoming a Master?

No. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. His path — was different. He had to focus on Voldemort. On his fate. And the War for the Grail… let it remain for others. For those ready to take risks. For those who weren’t afraid of death. For those who… didn’t love.

The tension in the air became almost tangible. Harry’s heart beat faster, his palms sweaty. He felt they were approaching. Their destination. Danger. Battle.

And the thought was unbearable. Battle. Again. Risking his life again. His own. Others’. He was tired of it. Tired of being a hero, the boy who had to save the world. He wanted to just live. Study at Hogwarts, play Quidditch, laugh with friends. But… could he? Did he have the right? While Voldemort — was alive. While a threat loomed over the entire world. While… Jeanne and Mash — were ready to fight for him. For everyone.

His conscience, like a sharp claw, scratched at his soul. He couldn’t just stand aside. He couldn’t let others risk their lives while he hid behind their backs. That would be… cowardly. Despicable.

But he couldn’t enter the War for the Grail either. He didn’t want to. He was afraid. Afraid not for himself. For the Servants. For Jeanne. For Mash. For those he might summon — and doom to death. He saw himself in that role — a Master giving orders, sending others to certain death. And that vision made him sick.

The internal conflict tore him apart. Duty and fear. Responsibility and unwillingness to take risks. The desire to protect — and inability to protect everyone. He felt trapped, caught in the web of his own contradictions.

"I should… I shouldn’t… I want… I don’t want…" Thoughts darted in his head like caged birds. And there was no answer. No way out. Only pain. And fear. And a growing sense of hopelessness.

He stole a glance at Jeanne. She walked beside him, calm and confident as always. And at that moment, Harry felt… envy. Envy for her confidence, her strength, her readiness to fight. He wished he could be like her. But he couldn’t. He was different. He was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived — and who wanted more than anything to just live. A normal life. Without wars. Without deaths. Without choices that determined the fate of the world.

But there was no choice. Fate had already chosen for him. And all he could do was move forward. Toward danger. Toward battle. Toward his destiny.

***

A sudden roar shattered the silence. Out of nowhere, as if emerging from the darkness itself, appeared the triple-decker blue bus, the Knight Bus. Ron flinched but immediately felt the tension gripping him begin to ease. The appearance of the bus meant one thing — safety. Relative, of course, but still. Ron’s long-held dream of riding this magical bus had finally come true. Seeing the friendly faces of Stan Shunpike, the conductor, and Ernie Prang, the driver, Ron even managed a smile.

Climbing aboard and settling into free seats, Ron felt a surge of gratitude. Mr. Weasley and the Order of the Phoenix’s Aurors had done everything possible to protect them. Protective charms, a special route, escort — all of it spoke to how serious the threat was. Ron understood that every step in this war was precious, and mentally thanked everyone who risked their lives for their safety.

The bus shot forward, picking up speed. Outside the window, blurred outlines of houses, streets, and trees flashed by. The air filled with the smell of ozone and something else — elusive, magical. Snow, which had begun falling shortly before their departure, now silvered the landscape outside, creating an illusion of a fairy-tale journey.

Arrival at Hogwarts brought a sigh of relief from Ron. The school, with its tall towers and sturdy walls, seemed like an impregnable fortress, an island of safety in a raging sea of danger. "Finally," Ron thought, "we’re home." The thought surprised him. Usually, the prospect of returning to school didn’t excite him much. But now… Now he was glad to be here. Meeting Snape seemed like the lesser evil compared to the possibility of another encounter with Jack the Ripper.

***

Returning to Hogwarts didn’t bring Harry the peace he longed for. Barely had he stepped over the threshold of the castle when a flurry of questions about the upcoming Dumbledore’s Army meeting overwhelmed him. The students, excited and full of determination to learn self-defense, eagerly awaited the continuation of the lessons. Understanding the responsibility on his shoulders, Harry quickly made a decision.

"The lesson will take place as usual, at eight o’clock in the Room of Requirement," he announced, trying to sound confident.

The crowd dispersed, discussing the upcoming meeting, while Harry headed to the Gryffindor common room, hoping for a few minutes of rest. But his plans were not meant to be. Barely had he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady when a familiar voice stopped him.

"Looks like you’re easily convinced, Potter. Easier than the Goblet of Fire yielding to someone’s will," Jeanne said, approaching him. Her voice carried a hint of irony, but her amber eyes were serious.

Harry was taken aback. He didn’t immediately understand what Jeanne was talking about.

"What do you mean?" he asked, frowning. "No one was planning to age prematurely…"

"And haven’t you wondered, Harry," Jeanne paused, lowering her voice, "who could have put your name in the Goblet of Fire? Besides Barty Crouch Jr., of course. Because my name was called too."

Jeanne’s words struck Harry like a bolt of lightning. He paled, unable to believe his ears. Could it be… could it really be her?

"You… you did it?" he stammered, his voice trembling. "But why?"

"How would I know?" Jeanne shrugged, but something resembling… uncertainty? flickered in her eyes. "It would’ve been too simple to just walk up and toss in a slip of paper. I never even touched the Goblet."

Harry stared at her wide-eyed, trying to process what he’d heard. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t her.

"But… if not you, then who? And why was your name called?"

"The Grail, Harry. It seems to have a will of its own. And quite a nasty temper, I must say."

"The Grail?" Harry repeated. "You mean…"

"Exactly," Jeanne nodded. "It seems the Grail chooses whom to drag into its game. And it didn’t choose us by accident."

Harry was silent, unsure what to say. Thoughts swirled in his head, refusing to settle.

"But why? Why would the Grail drag us into the Tournament?" he finally asked.

"No idea," Jeanne spread her hands. "Maybe it’s just bored. Or maybe… maybe it has some plan."

"A plan?" Harry frowned. "What kind of plan?"

"Who knows? The Grail — it’s complicated. And dangerous."

Harry felt a cold lump rising in his throat. Jeanne’s words sounded ominous. If the Holy Grail truly had its own will and pursued its own goals, it changed everything. It meant they weren’t just participants in the War for the Grail, but pawns in someone else’s big, dangerous game.

"But why didn’t you kill Voldemort?" he asked, trying to distract himself from unpleasant thoughts. "What exactly happened?"

"A backup plan, Harry," Jeanne sighed. "The powerful always have a Plan B. Voldemort is no exception. Yes, he was resurrected right before our eyes. But killing him wouldn’t have achieved anything. It would’ve only delayed the inevitable."

Harry gazed into Jeanne’s amber eyes, searching for answers to the questions swirling in his mind. Confusion, fear, bewilderment — all tangled into one knot, preventing him from focusing.

"But you’re a Servant…" he forced out, not knowing what else to say.

"And what of it?" Jeanne raised an eyebrow slightly. "That doesn’t mean I don’t have my own opinions. Or that I’m obligated to blindly follow someone’s orders."

Harry tried to gather his thoughts. He remembered a conversation with Hermione, who had once mentioned the ability of Servants to influence dreams. Could it be true? Were those nightmares he’d seen…

"Those dreams…" he began, his voice trembling, "was that you? Did you show me… your past?"

Jeanne didn’t answer immediately. She silently looked at Harry, and something resembling pain — or was it defiance? — flickered in her amber eyes. Then she slowly nodded.

"Yes," she said quietly. "That was me."

Harry felt the ground slipping out from under his feet. He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to stay upright. Shock, horror, disbelief — all mixed in his soul, clouding his mind. He had seen it. Seen it with his own eyes. Cruelty, blood, death. Hundreds, thousands, millions…

"How many?" he breathed, barely audible. "How many were there?"

Jeanne didn’t look away. Her face remained calm, expressionless, like a stone mask.

"Two million," she replied, her voice steady, without a trace of regret. "Roughly. It’s impossible to count exactly."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to push away the horrifying images surfacing in his memory. Two million… Impossible to imagine. Impossible to comprehend. Impossible to accept.

"And you… you don’t regret it?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"No," Jeanne shook her head. "They betrayed me. They condemned me to death. I merely responded in kind. Justice, Harry. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Justice?" Harry felt a wave of anger rising within him. "Two million dead — that’s justice?"

"And would you have preferred I obediently climbed onto the pyre?" steel notes entered Jeanne’s voice. "To be torn apart by a mob? For my death to become their entertainment? No, Harry. I chose a different path. The path of vengeance."

"But why didn’t you kill the Death Eaters?" Harry changed the subject, trying to calm down. "You could have."

"Death Eaters are just pawns, Harry," Jeanne shrugged. "Tools in Voldemort’s hands. Kill one group, and others will take their place. No point wasting energy on trifles. You have to strike at the root."

Harry listened to Jeanne, and a cold horror seeped into his bones. Her calmness, her calculation, her ruthlessness — it all frightened him. He realized that before him stood not just a girl, but a warrior, a Servant for whom death was merely part of the game. And this realization made him uneasy. He felt small, helpless, like a hare caught off guard by a wolf. He wanted to run, hide, disappear. But he couldn’t. He had no right. He had to be strong. For his friends. For himself. For… Jeanne?

Thoughts tangled, words stuck in his throat. Desperately, he tried to find the right words, to not reveal his fear, his confusion, his… admiration? Yes, admiration. As terrifying as Jeanne was, he couldn’t help but admire her strength, her confidence, her… beauty?

"Do you think…" he finally forced out, his voice trembling, "do we have a chance? A chance to win?"

The question sounded foolish, naive. But Harry needed to hear an answer. He needed to reassure himself that all this wasn’t in vain. That they had at least some hope.

Jeanne looked at him. And in that moment, something changed. The coldness in her amber eyes — vanished. As if ice melted under the sun’s rays. Her face softened, a slight smile appearing at the corners of her lips. Not the ominous, crooked smile he’d seen in his dreams. No. This smile was… warm. Genuine. Human.

Jeanne took his hands in hers. Her palms were surprisingly gentle, warm. Not the hands of a warrior, a killer. But the hands… of a girl. A simple girl. One he was beginning to… understand.

"There’s always a chance, Harry," she said softly, looking into his eyes. "The main thing is not to give up. And to believe. In yourself. And in those who are with you."

Her words, her gaze, her touch — all instilled in Harry an inexplicable confidence. Fear didn’t disappear, but it receded to the background. He felt he wasn’t alone. That beside him stood a strong, reliable ally. And perhaps… something more.

He squeezed her hands in his, not wanting to let go. At that moment, it seemed to him that an invisible thread stretched between them, binding them together. A thread woven from fear, pain, hope, and… something else, for which he couldn’t yet find a name.

Chapter Text

Harry sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, smiling wearily. Today's lesson on casting the Patronus Charm had gone surprisingly well. He glanced around the room: about twenty students, including Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Seamus, Neville, Dudley, and other members of Dumbledore's Army, were enthusiastically practicing summoning their corporeal Patronuses.

The air was filled with silvery light. Hermione’s otter splashed playfully in an imaginary stream, Luna’s hare hopped around the room making everyone smile, Ron’s terrier chased its own tail excitedly, and Seamus’s fox moved gracefully among the students. Jeanne’s Patronus—a majestic fiery phoenix—hovered near the ceiling, illuminating the room with warm golden light. Its feathers seemed to radiate heat, and each flap of its wings created a gentle breeze. Mash’s Patronus—a mighty lion with a golden mane—paced around the room, exuding strength and calm.

Dudley had already summoned his owl, which circled above his cousin’s head, hooting contentedly. Agatha, focusing on happy memories—nighttime strolls under the stars, reading astronomy books, early successes in Transfiguration—had conjured an elegant white swan that glided smoothly through the air, emanating peace and beauty.

Only Sam was having trouble. From the tip of his wand emerged only a white mist that dissipated without taking any form. Harry noticed that Sam looked pale, his eyes filled with anxiety.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Harry asked, approaching him. “Are you worried about your brother?”

Sam nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“His name is Edward,” he said quietly. “He’s in London right now, on duty… And it’s… dangerous there.”

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Harry tried to reassure him. “Edward isn’t alone. London is being patrolled not only by soldiers but also by Aurors. They’ll protect him. Now focus. Think of something happy. Your happiest memory.”

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath. And then—a silvery light burst from the tip of his wand, taking the shape of a graceful white tiger. The tiger elegantly arched its shoulders and leaped into the air as if playing.

“Great job, Sam!” Harry patted him approvingly on the shoulder. The other students applauded.

Fujimaru, observing the students’ progress, smiled. Catching his gaze, Ron remembered the promise he had made.

“Fujimaru-san,” Ron addressed him, “you said you’d teach us how to handle Servants. Maybe… maybe now is the time?”

Fujimaru thoughtfully stroked his chin.

“To be honest, Ron, I’ve been thinking about that lately too,” he replied. “And I think you’re right. It’s time.”

“Hooray!” Fred exclaimed, jumping up. “Finally, we’ll learn how to become cool Masters!”

Fujimaru smiled, though a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes.

“It’s not that simple, Fred,” he said. “Becoming a Master is a great responsibility. And a great risk. But… I’m ready to share what I know with you. Only…” He looked around at the gathered students. “Instead of boring theory, I think I’ll tell you a story. A story about how I myself became a Master.”

The students buzzed with excitement, exchanging curious glances. Hermione, who had been skeptically observing the proceedings, also leaned forward, ready to listen. Fujimaru smiled, seeing the interest in his words. He cleared his throat.

“It happened a few years ago,” he began, “in an organization called ‘Chaldea.’ We were tasked with ensuring the survival of humanity. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? But it was true. A serious danger threatened us, and we had to prevent it.”

Fujimaru paused, looking at his listeners. A shadow of sadness passed through his eyes.

“In Chaldea, there were forty-eight candidates for Masters. Forty-eight young people, ready to risk their lives to save the world. And I… I was among them. To be precise, I was the last, the forty-eighth. The most inexperienced, the weakest, the most… unsuitable. They only took me into Chaldea because they didn’t have enough people. I was a backup option, a nobody, a failure.”

He gave a bitter smile.

“And then, one terrible day, a catastrophe occurred. An explosion. All the Master candidates, except me, were critically injured. Our director, Olga-Marie Animusphere, disappeared. Only I, Mash, and Doctor Romani were left… And we had to take responsibility for saving the world.”

Fujimaru fell silent, lost in memories. His face turned sorrowful, pain appearing in his eyes. Harry felt a pang of sympathy in his chest. He understood what it meant—to be the last, the weakest, underestimated. And he understood what it was like to shoulder an unbearable burden.

“And then…” Fujimaru continued, “I had to become a Master. Summon a Servant. And travel to the past to fix mistakes and save the future. It was terrifying. Incredibly terrifying. I wasn’t ready. I was scared. But I had no choice.”

He raised his eyes to the students, and a spark ignited in his gaze.

“And you know what? I succeeded. We succeeded. We won. Because we weren’t alone. Friends, allies, Servants who believed in us were by our side. And we believed in them.”

Fujimaru’s story sparked a flurry of questions.

“How do you choose a Servant?” Hermione asked, raising her hand. “Can you summon someone you like? Someone… who will be easy to get along with?”

Fujimaru smirked.

“Summoning a Servant isn’t like choosing a dish at a restaurant, Hermione. It’s… a lottery. You can use a catalyst—an item connected to a specific hero—to increase the chances of summoning them. But even then, there’s no guarantee.”

“And if there’s no catalyst?” Neville asked, leaning forward.

“Then the Grail chooses the Servant that best matches your essence, your inner qualities,” Fujimaru replied. “It might not be who you expect, but trust me, it will be who you need.”

“You mentioned that Servants can be disobedient…” Colin Creevey interjected. “What if my Servant refuses to obey? Or worse, attacks me?”

A chill ran down Colin’s spine as he imagined his summoned Servant attacking him, and he shrank back in fear.

Fujimaru gave a reassuring smile.

“Don’t be afraid, Colin. Every Master has a means of control—the Command Spells. Three absolute orders that a Servant cannot disobey.”

He raised his right hand, showing the back of his palm. On his skin glowed three crimson symbols resembling intricate hieroglyphs.

“These are mine,” Fujimaru said. “My Command Spells. They are the sign of the contract between Master and Servant, a guarantee of obedience.”

The Creevey twins held their breath, examining the symbols on his hand.

“Will we have the same ones?” Dennis asked admiringly.

“Yes,” Fujimaru nodded, “but their form may differ. They depend on many factors: the Master’s personality, the summoned Servant, the circumstances of the summoning…”

“What circumstances?” Neville asked impatiently.

Fujimaru smiled mysteriously.

“We’ll talk about that another time, Neville. Today, I want you to understand the main thing: Command Spells are not just a means of control but also a powerful tool that can unlock a Servant’s potential.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione didn’t understand.

“Each Servant possesses unique abilities,” Fujimaru explained. “But with a Command Spell, the Master can temporarily enhance those abilities, overcome limitations, or even… save the Servant from mortal danger. For example, order them to teleport instantly to you to protect against an enemy attack.”

The students exchanged impressed looks. The idea that they could command mighty heroes of the past evoked both awe and trepidation.

“But what happens to the Servant if the Master dies?” Neville asked, frowning. “Does he… disappear too?”

Fujimaru paused before answering. His face darkened.

“That’s one of the saddest aspects of the War for the Holy Grail, Neville,” he said softly. “The death of the Master breaks the contract. The Servant loses the source of magical energy that sustains their existence in this world. And… yes, they begin to fade.”

“But how can that be?” Fred exclaimed. “That’s… unfair! The Servant fights, risks their life, and then just vanishes because of the Master’s mistake?”

“That’s the rule, Fred,” Fujimaru sighed. “But it’s not all hopeless. The Servant has a chance. If they manage to form a new contract—with another Master or even another Servant—they can remain.”

“And if they don’t make it in time?” Ron asked, concern evident in his voice.

“Then… they return to the Throne of Heroes,” Fujimaru replied. “Back to where they came from.”

“So they don’t die completely?” Hermione clarified.

“You could say that,” Fujimaru nodded. “They simply cease to be part of this world.”

“What about morality?” Ginny suddenly asked. “What if the Servant doesn’t want to fight? What if they refuse to follow the Master’s orders?”

Fujimaru nodded, acknowledging her concern.

“That’s a complex question, Ginny. Servants aren’t soulless puppets. They have their own beliefs, their own principles. And sometimes those principles can conflict with the Master’s orders. Moral dilemmas are an integral part of the War for the Holy Grail.”

“So what should you do in such a case?” Ron asked.

“Try to understand your Servant,” Fujimaru answered. “Find common ground. Convince them of your righteousness. Or… accept their refusal.”

“And if…” George began, but Fred interrupted him.

“What if we kill the Master of an enemy Servant?” Fred grinned slyly. “Problem solved, right?”

Fujimaru shook his head.

“That’s not the solution, George. First, a Servant will never attack their own Master. It’s impossible due to the nature of the contract. Second, even if you kill the Master, the Servant doesn’t necessarily disappear immediately. They’ll have time to find a new ally. And third…” He paused. “It’s simply wrong. The War for the Holy Grail isn’t a slaughter. It’s… a test. A test of strength, will, spirit.”

“Can you… negotiate with an enemy Servant?” Hermione asked. “Persuade them to join your side?”

Fujimaru smiled.

“Theoretically, yes. If the Servant becomes disillusioned with their Master, if they see you as a more worthy ally… If they themselves wish to fight on your side… Then, yes, it’s possible. But it’s extremely rare.”

The students fell silent, digesting what they had heard. The information about Servants, Command Spells, moral dilemmas, and the possibility of re-contracting was both thrilling and frightening.

***

The Dark Hall. A long table covered with a black cloth. The flickering of candles in a tall red candelabra cast eerie shadows on the silver plates and the faces of those gathered. The Death Eaters occupied their seats, maintaining a reverent silence. The air was heavy with tension, anticipation of something important, something terrifying.

At the head of the table sat Voldemort. His pale face seemed carved from stone, his crimson eyes burning with an unhealthy fire. He appeared absent, lost in his dark thoughts, yet his gaze vigilantly followed every movement in the hall. He had waited for this moment. For too long. Nearly sixteen years he had been deprived of power. But now… now he was strong again. And he was ready to reclaim what he believed belonged to him by right.

Bellatrix Lestrange, seated to Voldemort’s right, dared not break his silence. She knew her master was contemplating plans upon which their fate depended. Her loyalty was boundless, but even she felt the icy terror emanating from Voldemort.

Opposite Bellatrix sat Jack the Ripper. A small, fragile figure in a white dress, she seemed utterly out of place here. But behind that innocent appearance lurked a bloodthirsty essence. She, too, remained silent, her eyes lowered, but her posture betrayed tense anticipation. No one knew her true intentions except herself.

To Voldemort’s left sat the Malfoy family. Lucius, with his aristocratic manners and cold gaze, his wife Narcissa, maintaining an outward calm, and their son Draco, pale and nervous. Next to them—a short man in a blue suit, large glasses perched on his nose. Someone favored by Lucius Malfoy. A presence felt as sharply as that of the Dark Lord himself.

And one more figure was present in the hall. Not at the table, but somewhere in the shadows, near the wall. A blurred, light silhouette, indistinct outlines. An unknown. He was there invisibly, but his presence loomed as a potential threat. He watched. He waited. And his goals were unclear to everyone.

Suddenly, Voldemort rose. Slowly, majestically, as if awakening from a long sleep. All eyes turned to him. The silence became deafening.

“My loyal followers,” Voldemort’s voice was quiet, yet everyone heard him. “I am pleased to inform you that our hour is near. Victory is within our grasp.”

He surveyed the gathered crowd, and a predatory, cruel smile appeared on his lips. He was satisfied. With what, it was unclear, but he was satisfied.

“We have achieved great success. But…” Voldemort paused, and his smile vanished. “Not all have lived up to my expectations. Some of you… have failed your missions.”

Voldemort’s gaze settled on Jack. The small figure in the white dress shrank under his icy stare.

“You,” Voldemort addressed Jack. “You were supposed to kill Potter. But you failed. Why?”

Jack lifted her head; her eyes reflected a mixture of fear and… defiance.

“I was interrupted, my Lord,” she replied, her voice trembling but tinged with some audacity. “Some Servant. She protected Potter.”

“A Servant?” Voldemort slightly raised an eyebrow. “And who is this Servant?”

“I don’t know her name, my Lord,” Jack shrugged. “She didn’t introduce herself. But she was strong. Tall, in black armor, with white hair and amber eyes. She fought with a sword.”

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully. It seemed he knew whom she spoke of.

“Well,” he finally said, “you did all you could, Jack. I don’t blame you. But… we need more Servants. Many more.”

“You’re right, my Lord,” the man in the blue suit interjected. His voice was quiet but confident. “We need to focus on the War for the Holy Grail. This is our chance.”

Voldemort looked at him with interest.

“The War for the Holy Grail…” he repeated. “Do you think it’s worth it?”

“Absolutely,” came the reply. “The victor takes all.”

“And what about Potter?” Jack interjected, earning a withering glare from Voldemort.

An unknown figure joined the conversation, their voice distorted and devoid of emotion, seeming to come from nowhere.

“The War for the Holy Grail is a contest,” the voice echoed in the hall. “A contest that will attract the best. Perhaps even Potter.”

“An interesting thought,” Voldemort mused, stroking his chin. “The War for the Holy Grail…”

He surveyed the gathered crowd once more.

“We must prepare,” he said. “Gather all our forces. And then…”

Harry abruptly opened his eyes. Cold sweat streamed down his face. A moment later, a sharp pain shot through his scar, as if someone had driven a hot nail into his forehead. Harry groaned, clutching his head. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Thoughts—fragments of someone else’s memories, someone else’s emotions—swirled in his mind, preventing him from focusing.

In his ears rang laughter. A chilling, maniacal laugh, full of triumph and… joy. He was happy. Unbelievably happy. Something had happened. Something… good for him. And this “good” was horrifying for everyone else.

“Harry! Are you ok?! HARRY!”

Someone’s voice broke through the haze of pain and foreign laughter. A strong hand shook him by the shoulder. Harry focused and saw Ron in front of him. His face was twisted with fear and concern.

“Ron…” Harry croaked, trying to sit up. “He… Voldemort… He’s happy…”

“What happened?” Ron repeated, helping Harry sit up. “Did you have another nightmare?”

Harry shook his head. It wasn’t just a nightmare. It was… a vision. A connection to Voldemort that was growing stronger, more dangerous.

“He… he hoped for this,” Harry whispered, unsure where these words came from. “He waited for this…”

Harry took several deep breaths, trying to fight off nausea and dizziness. The scar still hurt, but the pain gradually subsided. He looked at Ron, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I need… I need to tell Dumbledore,” he said, his voice still trembling.

Ron nodded.

“Yes, of course. I’ll go with you.”

Harry smiled gratefully at him. He knew he could count on his friend. But there was still fear in his heart. Fear of Voldemort, of his joy, of what was about to happen. Ron didn't dare tell anyone about Jack the Ripper's nighttime attack just yet.

Chapter Text

The morning light, filtering through the tall windows of the Great Hall, seemed dim and cold. Next to Hermione's plate lay an open newspaper. The headline screamed about new horrors that had befallen London. Harry glanced at it, and a chill ran down his spine. Since these strange, frightening events began, he had been living in constant tension, expecting more trouble.

"London in Flames! New Attacks by Unknown Creatures! The City on the Brink of Chaos!"

"... Witnesses report sightings of an incredibly huge creature with inhuman strength in different parts of London. Some describe it as a giant yeti, others as some kind of nightmare spawn. This creature, nicknamed by the public as the 'London Yeti,' attacks military patrols, crushing vehicles and spreading panic among soldiers."

"... Last night, around 10:00 PM, several witnesses observed the 'Yeti' literally tearing apart an armored car at the intersection of Oxford Street and Regent Street. According to witnesses, the monster made no articulate sounds, only an insane roar that deafened ears..."

"... Authorities claim they are taking all necessary measures to ensure citizens' safety but advise against visiting central London districts after dark..."

"... Some 'experts' link the appearance of the 'Yeti' to recent Death Eater attacks, suggesting it is the result of some dark magical experiments. Others assert that it is an unknown scientific creature awakened due to... (followed by a list of fantastic theories ranging from global warming to alien invasion)..."

"... One of the psychologists we interviewed, Dr. N. (name blacked out with a marker), warns of possible mass hysteria and urges citizens to remain calm and not succumb to panic..."

Harry turned away from the newspaper, feeling nausea rise to his throat. He had already seen enough horrors. Nightmares, visions, the deaths of loved ones... But this... This was something new. Unfathomable. Terrifying. It was as if reality itself was distorting, turning into a waking nightmare.

He felt his scar throb. Not strongly, but enough to remind him of Voldemort’s presence. To remind him that all this was just the beginning. That greater trials lay ahead.

Harry placed his spoon on the edge of his oatmeal bowl, which he hadn’t touched. His appetite was gone. He raised his gaze and met the concerned looks of Ron and Hermione.

"Aren’t you hungry?" Hermione asked worriedly, noticing that Harry hadn’t touched his breakfast.

Harry remained silent, unable to tear his eyes away from the newspaper article. He felt a dull, creeping fear growing inside him. No, not quite fear. Fear and... despair.

"Harry?" Ron nudged him lightly on the shoulder.

"I..." Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "I don’t think I’m ready for this."

"For what 'this'?" Ron didn’t understand, stuffing his mouth with scrambled eggs.

"For all of this," Harry gestured around the hall, as if trying to encompass everything happening, "The War for the Holy Grail. The Servants. Voldemort... I... I just can’t."

Ron froze with a mouthful, staring at his friend in surprise. Hermione frowned, concern evident in her eyes.

"Harry, do you realize that..."

"Yes, I realize!" Harry interrupted her, his voice trembling. "I know Voldemort needs to be stopped. But... The War for the Holy Grail? Summoning some Servants, risking their lives... My life... This... this is too much."

"So you’re not a hero after all?" Ron finally chewed his eggs and smirked. "And here I thought..."

"Ron!" Hermione shot him an angry look. "This isn’t the time for jokes!"

"And I’m not joking," Ron shrugged. "It’s just... strange. I always thought Harry would be the first to rush into battle. But it turns out..."

"I’m not afraid to fight!" Harry flared up. "But..."

He fell silent, unable to find the words. How could he explain to them what he felt? This fear, this uncertainty, this despair... And those dreams...

"Did you have nightmares again?" Jeanne, sitting nearby, leaned forward, looking intently at Harry.

Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want to talk about the dreams. He didn’t want to recall those terrifying images that haunted him.

"He... Voldemort... He was happy," Harry muttered. "Something happened. Something... good for him."

"This is bad," Hermione frowned.

"Very bad," Ron agreed, putting down his fork. "But, Harry, you can’t just... give up."

"Why not?" Harry looked at him defiantly. "I’m not a Master. I don’t want to be one."

"But..." Hermione began, but Jeanne interrupted her.

"Harry," her voice sounded soft but firm, "you can say all you want about not wanting to participate in this war. But it won’t change anything. The war has already begun. And Voldemort won’t stop until he gets what he wants. And the Servants... The Servants are already here. And they are fighting. On his side."

She fell silent, staring intently at Harry. He felt her gaze on him — heavy, piercing. It was as if Jeanne was trying to peer into his soul, to see what he himself was hiding.

"You’re afraid," Jeanne didn’t ask; she stated it.

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because she was right. He was afraid. Afraid of this war. Afraid of responsibility. Afraid... of losing.

"It’s normal," Jeanne unexpectedly softened her tone. "Being afraid is normal. But fear shouldn’t control you, Harry."

A faint squeak, like a sob, came from nearby. Mash, sitting next to Hermione, shrank into herself, trying to become invisible. But no one paid attention to her. All eyes were on Harry.

He remained silent, head bowed. Jeanne’s words weighed heavily on his soul. He knew she was right. He knew he couldn’t stay on the sidelines. But... how much he wished all of this was just a terrible dream.

Jeanne sighed, turned away, and shrugged.

"Do as you see fit, Potter," she threw over her shoulder.

"You said something good happened?" Ron, as if remembering, returned to the interrupted conversation, tugging at Harry’s shoulder. "For Him, right?"

Harry nodded, unable to meet his friend’s eyes.

"But what?" Ron insisted. "What does it mean?"

"I don’t know," Harry shook his head. "Just... he was happy. Very happy."

"This... this doesn’t bode well," Hermione muttered nervously, fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

The newspaper on the table — like a black hole, pulling him into a whirlpool of madness and despair. Harry stared at it, and images of a ruined London rose before his eyes: smoking ruins, overturned cars... He tried to drive these visions away, but they kept returning, like ghosts haunting him. These weren’t just newspaper horror stories. This was reality. Or... soon would be reality.

"The London Yeti," Death Eaters, Servants, the War for the Holy Grail... It all tangled in his mind into one terrifying knot, causing nausea and dizziness. He felt small, helpless, like a grain of sand before an approaching tsunami. Who was he to stand against all this?

He remembered past battles. He had survived. But at what cost? He didn’t want new victims. He didn’t want to see the world crumbling around him. But... did he have a choice?

"Where will we return to after the holidays?" he suddenly asked, surprising even himself with the question.

The question sounded muffled, as if from underwater. Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"To where there will be war, Harry," Ron answered quietly. "You know that yourself."

Harry nodded. He knew. Too well. And it only made things scarier.

"We won’t hide," Hermione said firmly. "We will fight."

"We’ll give them hell!" Jeanne smiled, but there was no joy in her smile. Rather... determination. And... rage.

Harry looked at his friends. At their resolute faces. And felt something warm stir in his chest. Gratitude. And... shame. For his fear, for his cowardice, for his desire to run away, to hide, to forget everything.

They are ready to fight. And me? Am I not?

He clenched his fists. No. He wouldn’t be a coward. He wouldn’t leave his friends. He would fight. Even if he was scared. Even if he didn’t believe in victory.

But... participate in the War for the Holy Grail? Summon Servants? No. Not yet.

Harry’s gaze fell back on the newspaper. A black hole, ready to swallow him whole. He couldn’t look away.

"I’ll go to Dumbledore," he suddenly said, overcoming the oppressive sense of foreboding.

"I’m coming with you," Ron immediately responded.

***

The Room of Requirement had transformed. Instead of the usual training mannequins and mirrors — semi-darkness, the flicker of candles placed around the perimeter, and a heavy sense of the unknown hanging in the air. The members of Dumbledore’s Army sat on the floor, forming an irregular circle. In the center stood Fujimaru. He looked tired, shadows etched on his face, but his gaze remained sharp and attentive.

"So," he began, his voice quiet but clear, "you want to know about the War for the Holy Grail. You want to know how to become Masters."

He scanned the gathered crowd, as if weighing each word.

"The rules are simple. Two paths to victory. The first — destroy all enemy Servants. The second — seize the Grail. If, of course, its location becomes known."

"And if it doesn’t?" Neville asked.

"Then only the first path remains," Fujimaru shrugged.

"But..." Hermione began, "Voldemort has already summoned Servants. There are many of them. And they... are strong. How can we win?"

"You don’t have to fight alone," Fujimaru pointed out, as if reading her thoughts. "The War for the Holy Grail can take different forms. There have been cases where Masters united into teams, clans. Their Servants fought side by side."

"So, we can... unite?" Ron clarified.

"Yes," Fujimaru nodded. "This... increases your chances."

An excited whisper swept through the room. The thought that they weren’t alone, that they could fight together, gave them strength.

"And how many Masters are on Voldemort’s side?" Harry asked, trying to remain calm. "How will we know?"

"That is unknown," Fujimaru replied. "The war is just beginning. New Masters can appear at any moment. The Grail chooses them itself."

"Itself?" Agatha, sitting next to Dudley, repeated. "So the Grail... is sentient?"

"In a way," Fujimaru hesitated. "It... reacts to the situation. If one side is too weak, it may summon new Masters to balance the odds."

"Or..." Luna suddenly spoke, her voice dreamy, "... it might summon a Ruler."

"A Ruler?" Ron repeated.

"A Ruler-class Servant," Hermione explained, "a special Servant with... additional powers."

"Correct," Fujimaru confirmed. "A Ruler can control the course of the War, influence other Servants, and even... change the rules. But this is extremely rare. And the appearance of a Ruler is always a bad sign. It means the War has spiraled out of control."

"And if..." Harry faltered, hesitant to ask the question that had tormented him since morning, "... if someone doesn’t want to participate in the War? Can they... refuse?"

Fujimaru looked at him with understanding and... regret.

"You can, Harry," he answered. "But that doesn’t mean the War will bypass you. Other Masters, other Servants... they can attack you at any moment. Even if you don’t participate in the War, you remain a target."

"But we can’t just wait to be killed!" Hermione exclaimed, clenching her fists.

"We will defend ourselves," Ron said firmly, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. "We won’t give up."

"The War for the Holy Grail is no game," Fujimaru surveyed the gathered students. "It’s a brutal battle where the stakes are very high. And victory... comes at a steep price. But..."

He paused, as if choosing his words carefully.

"But, what?" Ron asked.

"You can form temporary alliances with other Masters," Fujimaru said firmly.

"And if we lose?" Hermione’s voice trembled. "What will happen to us? To the Servants?"

Fujimaru sighed.

"The losing Master loses the right to a wish. That’s the best-case scenario. Worst case... they lose their life. As for the Servants..." he hesitated, "after the Grail manifests, one of the Masters will be able to make a wish. If the Grail deems the wish worthy, it will be granted."

"But only a Servant can touch the Grail," Hermione recalled.

"Correct. So the Master will have to rely on their Servant."

"It sounds... risky," Ron muttered, nervously rubbing his hands.

"The War for the Holy Grail is always risky," Fujimaru agreed. "But don’t forget, your Servant — a hero of the past with incredible strength and skills — will be fighting on your side."

"But why would they do that?" Dudley suddenly asked, who had been silent until now. "What’s in it for the Servants? They’re all... different. Not all of them dream of saving the world."

Dudley’s question made everyone pause. Indeed, what motivates the Servants? What drives them?

Fujimaru nodded.

"That’s a very important question, Dudley. And the answer isn’t simple. The thing is, Servants... they also strive for the Grail. Each of them has their own wish. Their own dream. Their own goal, for which they are willing to fight."

"So we and the Servant are competitors?" Ron frowned. "How can we cooperate with them then?"

"Not exactly competitors," Fujimaru corrected him. "More like allies pursuing the same goal — reaching the Grail. But what to do with it afterward — that’s a matter of negotiation."

"What kinds of wishes can Servants have?" Hermione asked.

"All sorts," Fujimaru replied. "Some dream of returning to life, others of correcting past mistakes, still others of reuniting with lost loved ones... And some..." he hesitated, "... some may wish for something... destructive."

"Destructive?" Luna repeated, her wide eyes widening further. "How destructive?"

Fujimaru’s expression darkened.

"Very destructive, Luna. A Servant’s wish can be dangerous not only to enemies but to the entire world. That’s why it’s so important to know what your Servant desires. Understand their motivation. And... be prepared for any turn of events. The War for the Holy Grail is not just battles, but... negotiations. Diplomacy. Sometimes... betrayal."

Fujimaru pronounced the last word with particular bitterness. He fell silent, as if recalling something heavy.

"Well," he broke the silence, "that’s enough for today. You have much to think about. Remember, the War for the Holy Grail is a serious trial. And it’s already close."

He rose from the floor, brushing off his clothes.

"If you have any questions — you know where to find me."

With those words, Fujimaru left the Room of Requirement, leaving the students alone with their thoughts and anxieties. Harry watched him go, feeling unease growing in his soul. Fujimaru’s words about the Servants’ wishes, the possibility of betrayal, the catastrophic consequences — all weighed heavily on his shoulders. He understood that ahead lay not just a battle with Voldemort, but something far more complex and dangerous. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

"We need to see Dumbledore," Harry said, addressing Ron and Hermione. "Right now."

Ron and Hermione nodded in agreement. They too felt the need to talk to the headmaster, to get advice, explanations.

Leaving the Room of Requirement, they quickly headed toward Dumbledore’s office. Along the way, they spoke little, lost in their thoughts.

The headmaster’s office greeted them with its familiar semi-darkness and the quiet crackling of magical instruments. Dumbledore sat at his desk, sifting through some papers. Seeing them enter, he smiled warmly.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione. What brings you to me at such a late hour?"

Harry briefly recounted his vision, Voldemort’s happiness, his fears and doubts. Dumbledore listened attentively without interrupting. When Harry finished, the headmaster thoughtfully paused.

"Yes, Harry," he finally said, "your concerns are not unfounded. Voldemort is gaining strength. And his joy... it foretells something ominous."

"But what?" Hermione asked. "What is he planning?"

"I’m afraid I can’t provide a precise answer," Dumbledore shook his head. "But one thing is clear: we must be prepared for anything."

"And what about the War for the Holy Grail?" Ron asked. "Fujimaru-san told us many... frightening things."

"The War for the Holy Grail is an ancient and dangerous force," Dumbledore agreed. "And it has already begun. Whether we want it or not."

"But Harry doesn’t want to participate," Hermione interjected. "He doesn’t want to become a Master."

"I understand your feelings, Harry," Dumbledore looked at him sympathetically. "But sometimes we have no choice. Sometimes we must do what we must, even if we’re afraid."

"But I’m not afraid for myself," Harry said quietly. "I’m afraid for others. For the Servants. For..."

He fell silent, unable to bring himself to say Jeanne’s name.

Dumbledore nodded as if he understood who was being referred to.

"Fear is a natural feeling, Harry. But it should not paralyze you. Remember, you are not alone. You have friends, allies. And... there are those who are ready to fight alongside you. Even if you yourself do not want to."

Harry was silent, pondering Dumbledore's words. He understood that the headmaster was right. But... how scared he was.

After leaving Dumbledore's office, Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed towards the Gryffindor common room. They walked in silence, lost in their thoughts. Suddenly, Harry stopped.

"Wait," he said. "I need... I need to do something."

Ron and Hermione looked at him in surprise, but Harry had already turned and quickly headed in the opposite direction. He knew where he needed to go. And whom he wanted to see.

He found Jeanne in one of the empty classrooms. She was standing by the window, looking at the darkening sky. Hearing footsteps, she turned around.

"Harry?" There was surprise in her voice.

"Jeanne," Harry approached her, "I need... to talk to you."

"About what?" Jeanne looked at him intently.

Harry hesitated, not knowing how to begin. He wanted to ask her about many things. About her past, her wish, her feelings. But the words stuck in his throat.

"I..." he began, "I'm scared, Jeanne."

Jeanne did not respond, only continued to look at him. There was no condemnation, no mockery in her amber eyes. Only... understanding.

"I don't want this war," Harry continued. "I don't want to lose anyone. I don't want... you..."

He fell silent again, unable to utter what was on the tip of his tongue. I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want to lose you.

Jeanne seemed to understand him without words. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Harry," her voice sounded soft, almost tender, "I know you're scared. I am too... sometimes I'm scared."

This admission surprised Harry. Jeanne, fearless, invulnerable Jeanne — afraid? It was hard to believe.

"But... you're a Servant," he muttered. "You're... you're a warrior."

Jeanne smirked, but there was no joy in her eyes.

"Being a Servant doesn't mean you don't feel fear, Harry. It means being able to overcome your fear. To fight, no matter what."

"And if... if I can't?" Harry lowered his head, unable to look her in the eye. "If I can't handle it?"

Jeanne placed her hand on his shoulder. Her touch was unexpectedly warm, calming.

"You will handle it," she said firmly. "You're stronger than you think, Harry. And you... you're not alone."

Harry raised his head, meeting Jeanne's gaze. In her amber eyes, he saw not only confidence but also... something else. Something that made his heart beat faster. Care? Compassion? Affection?

"Jeanne..." he began, but didn't know what to say.

She interrupted him, gently squeezing his shoulder.

"No words are needed, Harry," she said. "I understand."

And in that moment, in the silence of the empty classroom, under the light of the setting sun, Harry felt that some special connection had formed between them. An invisible thread connecting their souls. A bond born out of fear, pain, hope... and perhaps, something more.

He didn't know what awaited them ahead. He didn't know if they could win this war. But one thing he knew for sure: he didn't want to lose Jeanne. He couldn't lose her.

And, not understanding what he was doing, Harry stepped forward and hugged Jeanne. Awkwardly, clumsily, but... sincerely.

Jeanne froze for a moment, seemingly surprised by his action. But then... then she returned the embrace, pressing against him. And in that moment, Harry felt the tension gripping him start to recede. Fear and despair were replaced by warmth and... hope.

They stood like that for several minutes, silently embracing each other. And that silence was enough. Because sometimes words are unnecessary. Sometimes it's enough just to be together.

Finally, Jeanne gently pulled away.

"We need to go," she said, her voice slightly trembling. "It's late."

Harry nodded, unable to tear his gaze from her. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay here, in this silence, in this twilight, next to her. But he understood that it was impossible.

"Yes," he croaked. "It's time."

They left the classroom and silently headed towards the Gryffindor common room. But this short meeting, these few minutes spent together, changed something in Harry. He was still afraid. But now... now he had hope. And he had Jeanne. And that meant he wouldn't give up. Never.

Returning to the tower, Harry caught himself on a strange thought. He still didn't want to become a Master, didn't want to participate in the War for the Grail. But... he was no longer so sure that he could stay aside. Dumbledore's words, Jeanne's words, his own feelings — all of this pulled him into the very epicenter of the approaching storm. And perhaps, that was exactly where he belonged. Not as a Master, not as a hero, but as... as who he was. Harry Potter. The boy who survived. And who was ready to fight for those he loved. Even if it meant overcoming his own fear.

Chapter Text

The morning light, filtering through the tall windows of the Great Hall, seemed dim and cold. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat at the table, discussing the latest news. The mood was tense.

Suddenly, an owl flew up to them with a letter. Harry recognized Cedric's handwriting.

Dear Harry,

How are you? I hope everything is fine with you. I’ve been following the news… I know that something strange is happening there. All these attacks, disappearances… Hang in there, okay? And be careful.

Your friend,

Cedric.

The letter was short, but Harry felt a surge of warmth. Cedric remembered him, worried about him. It was… nice. And at the same time… sad. Because Harry knew that ahead lay not just "something strange." Ahead lay war. And he wasn’t sure he could protect everyone he cared about. He absentmindedly stroked the owl, giving it a treat.

On the table, next to Hermione’s plate, lay an open newspaper. The headline screamed about new horrors that had befallen London. Harry glanced at it, and a chill ran down his spine. Ever since these strange, frightening events began, he had lived in constant tension.

"KING ARTHUR HAS RETURNED! The legendary ruler saves London from chaos!"

Below were a series of blurry, unclear photographs. In one, the silhouette of a man in shining armor stood against the backdrop of a burning building. In another, the same silhouette appeared on a rooftop, surrounded by a strange glow resembling the northern lights. In the third, there was a fight with something huge, out of focus, resembling… a yeti?

Harry read the article several times, trying to make sense of what was happening. Incredible. Impossible. King Arthur? In the twentieth century? (Almost the twenty-first.) This was… legend. A fairy tale. Myth.

"…According to our sources, the mysterious knight calling himself Arthur Pendragon appeared in London a few days ago, right in the midst of the crisis. He engaged in battle with the so-called 'Death Eaters'—a group of terrorists reportedly using some kind of 'dark forces.' He also confronted unidentified flying objects attacking the city and even fought a mysterious creature that the press has already dubbed the 'London Yeti.'"

"…Witnesses describe Arthur as a tall, powerful man in ancient armor, wielding a sword rumored to possess magical properties. Some claim they saw the sword emit bright flashes of light that struck down enemies…"

"…Arthur’s appearance has caused an incredible stir in society. Some see him as a savior, others as a madman, and still others as an elaborate hoax. But the fact remains: after his appearance, the situation in London changed. The attacks became less frequent, and people… people found hope…"

"…The British government has refrained from official comments so far. However, according to our sources, confusion reigns in the highest echelons of power. No one knows how to react to the appearance… of the legendary king…"

"…Some witnesses also report having strange dreams. Dreams of battles, majestic castles, knights in shining armor… Psychologists attribute this to mass psychosis triggered by stress and uncertainty, but… who knows?.."

Harry turned away from the newspaper, feeling nausea rise to his throat. He had already seen enough horrors. Dreams, visions… But this… This was something new. Unfathomable. Terrifying. As if reality itself was distorting, turning into a waking nightmare.

He felt his scar throb. Not strongly, but enough to remind him of Voldemort’s presence. To remind him that all this was just the beginning. That greater trials lay ahead.

Harry placed his spoon on the edge of the bowl of oatmeal, which he hadn’t touched. His appetite was gone. He raised his eyes and met the concerned gazes of Ron and Hermione.

"You’re not hungry?" Hermione asked worriedly, noticing that Harry hadn’t touched his breakfast.

Harry remained silent, unable to tear his gaze away from the newspaper article. He felt a dull, creeping fear growing inside him, mixed with… disbelief. Could it really be true?

"Harry?" Ron nudged him lightly on the shoulder. "What’s going on?"

"Arthur," Harry breathed. "King Arthur. He… he’s in London."

Ron stared at him as if he were crazy.

"What?" Ron asked again. "Are you joking?"

"No," Harry shook his head. "Here, look for yourself."

He pushed the newspaper towards Ron. Ron skimmed the headline, then reread the article, his face stretching in disbelief.

"It can’t be," he muttered. "This is… this is…"

"A legend," Hermione finished for him. "I know. But… it seems the legend has come to life."

"But how?" Ron still couldn’t believe his eyes. "This is… impossible!"

"In our world, anything is possible, Ron," Hermione noted, "especially lately."

Harry remained silent, trying to gather his thoughts. He recalled Fudjimaru’s words about the War for the Grail, about the Servants, about the Ruler… Could Arthur be…?

"Do you think…" Harry began, but hesitated.

"That he’s a Servant?" Jeanne finished for him, who until now had silently observed their conversation.

Harry nodded.

"It… it would explain a lot," Hermione said. "His strength, his… suddenness."

"But… what kind of Servant is he?" Ron asked. "And whose?"

Jeanne shrugged.

"I don’t know. But… he’s clearly not on Voldemort’s side. And that… gives hope."

"Hope?" Harry looked at her skeptically. "Are you sure? What if… what if he has his own goals? What if he…"

"Even if he does," Jeanne interrupted him, "he’s fighting the Death Eaters. He’s fighting those creatures attacking London. And… he’s giving people hope. And that… that’s what matters most right now."

"He’s giving hope to Muggles," Ron corrected. "But what about us?"

"What about us?" Jeanne raised an eyebrow. "Aren’t we part of this world? Doesn’t what’s happening concern us too?"

"It concerns us," Harry agreed. "But…"

He fell silent, unsure how to express his doubts. He was afraid of this war. Afraid of the unknown.

At that moment, Neville approached their table.

"Have you heard?" he asked excitedly. "They’re saying on the ‘Prophet’… They say Arthur is summoning knights!"

"Knights?" Ron repeated. "In our time?"

"Yes!" Neville nodded. "They say he’s looking for worthy, strong, brave people… Those ready to fight for Britain."

"And what?" Harry looked at him in confusion. "You think we should…"

"I don’t know," Neville shrugged. "But… it’s Arthur! The legendary king! Maybe… maybe he really can protect us."

A buzz of excitement spread through the hall. Students, teachers, everyone was talking about the incredible news. Arthur’s appearance had become the main topic of conversation. Some spoke of him with admiration, others with distrust, others with fear. But no one was indifferent.

Professor Flitwick, visibly agitated, approached the teachers’ table. He quickly spoke to Dumbledore, gesturing and pointing to his copy of the "Daily Prophet." Dumbledore listened attentively, his face remaining inscrutable. Fudjimaru, sitting next to him, looked thoughtful and… slightly tense. He knows more about Arthur than he’s letting on.

Harry felt everything inside tighten. He understood that what was happening wasn’t just a sensation. It was a sign. A sign that the world had changed. Irreversibly. And that they would all have to make a choice. A choice that would determine not only their own fate but the fate of the entire world.

Suddenly, Harry remembered Dudley. His strange dreams. How he had seen floating islands… Maybe… maybe this time he dreamed something important?

"We need to talk to Dudley," he said, addressing Ron and Hermione.

They exchanged surprised glances.

"Dudley?" Ron asked. "Why?"

"He’s been having dreams," Harry explained. "Strange dreams. Maybe they mean something."

Hermione thought for a moment.

"Perhaps you're right, Harry," she said. "In the current situation, we can’t afford to ignore anything."

They quickly finished their breakfast and headed to the Gryffindor common room. Dudley was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, lost in thought. Seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione, he tensed slightly.

"Dudley, we need to talk to you," Harry said seriously. "About your dreams."

Dudley frowned.

"Again?" he grumbled unhappily. "I told you, they’re just dreams."

"But they might be important," Harry insisted. "You saw floating islands… And now… Arthur…"

Reluctantly, Dudley agreed to recount his dream. He closed his eyes, trying to remember his last dream.

"I… I saw a city," he began slowly. "A huge city, unlike any I know. Tall towers, white walls… And… gardens. Hanging gardens. And… a woman."

"A woman?" Hermione repeated.

"Yes. She was standing on a balcony… or terrace. Looking at the city. She was… beautiful. And… sad. She was wearing… a strange dress. Long, with… patterns. And jewelry. Lots of jewelry. Gold, stones… She seemed like… a queen. Or… a goddess."

Dudley paused, trying to collect his thoughts.

"And then…" he continued, "…then the war began. I saw… a battle. People in strange clothes, with swords, with bows… And… monsters. Horrible monsters. And… fire. Lots of fire. The city was burning. And… the woman… she was crying."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances. Dudley’s description was strange, but… there was something familiar about it. Something connected to what was happening now. To the War for the Grail, the Servants, the destruction…

"Dudley," Harry asked cautiously, "do you remember… anything specific? Any details? Names?"

Dudley shook his head negatively.

"No… Just… a feeling. A sense of… hopelessness. And… loss. Like… something very important was lost. Forever."

"Maybe we should talk to Professor Trelawney?" Hermione suggested. "She’s certainly… eccentric, but maybe she can clarify something?"

Harry and Ron grimaced. The prospect of dealing with Professor Trelawney, with her vague prophecies and dramatic predictions, didn’t excite them. But they saw no other option.

"Alright," Harry sighed. "Let’s try. It can’t get worse."

They found Professor Trelawney in her tower, enveloped in the scent of incense and surrounded by crystal balls. As usual, the professor looked otherworldly; her large eyes behind thick lenses appeared even bigger and crazier.

Upon hearing about Dudley’s dreams, Trelawney became unusually excited. She waved her hands, rolled her eyes, and began muttering something incoherent about "ancient forces," "lost cities," and "impending battles."

"I see…" she intoned, "…I see darkness… And light… A struggle… And… a dragon!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances. Nothing concrete, as usual.

"A dragon?" Ron asked. "What does a dragon have to do with it?"

Trelawney looked at him as if he were simple-minded.

"A dragon is a symbol, young man! A symbol!" She rolled her eyes again. "I see… blood… lots of blood… And… a wheel. A wheel that turns… And… a sword. A sword that…"

She fell silent, breathing heavily, as if she’d just run a marathon.

"A sword that what?" Harry asked impatiently.

But Trelawney, it seemed, no longer heard him. She stared into space with an unfocused gaze, muttering something under her breath.

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said politely, pulling Harry and Ron toward the exit. "We… we understand."

"Understand?" Ron grumbled as they descended the spiral staircase. "I don’t understand anything! A dragon, a wheel, a sword… What does it all mean?"

"I have no idea," Hermione admitted. "But maybe Dumbledore can help us."

They went to Dumbledore’s office again, hoping this time they’d have better luck. Dumbledore listened carefully to their account of Dudley’s dream and their visit to Trelawney. His face remained serious, but a flicker of something like… concern?... flashed in his eyes.

"Dreams…" he said thoughtfully. "Dreams are a complex matter, Harry. They can reflect our fears, our desires… Or they can be… echoes of the past. Or… harbingers of the future."

"Do you think Dudley’s dream…" Harry began.

"I think that in these times, we cannot afford to ignore anything," Dumbledore interrupted him. "Especially anything related to… unusual abilities."

"And what do you think…" Harry started again but hesitated, searching for words, "…about Arthur?"

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose.

"About King Arthur, Harry?" he clarified.

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded. "He… he’s a Servant, right?"

Dumbledore didn’t answer immediately. He looked thoughtfully at Harry, as if weighing every word.

"Perhaps, Harry," he finally said. "Perhaps. But… we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Not everything is as simple as it seems."

"But…" Ron began, but Dumbledore stopped him with a gesture.

"I understand your concern," he said. "And I share it. Arthur’s appearance is… a sign. A sign that great changes are coming. And we need to be prepared for them."

"But what should we do, sir?" Hermione asked.

"Stay vigilant," Dumbledore replied. "Watch for signs. And… don’t lose hope. Even in the darkest times."

He paused, fingering the silver rings on his hand.

"I advise you to be cautious," he finally said. "And… attentive."

Dumbledore’s words sounded enigmatic, but Harry felt something warm stir within him. Hope… Yes, that’s exactly what they needed now. Hope and… faith in themselves. And in their friends.

They left Dumbledore’s office, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Outside, dusk was falling. Ahead lay a long night. And… uncertainty. But now, after speaking with Dumbledore and after Dudley’s strange yet significant dream, Harry felt that they were… closer. Closer to solving the mystery. Closer to understanding what was happening. And closer… to the battle.

Later that day, while descending the stairs, Harry, Ron, and Hermione witnessed a small scene.

"So!" Umbridge screeched. "Do you find it amusing to turn the school corridor into a swamp?!"

Harry stopped and turned around. Umbridge, standing a few steps below, glared at Fred and George. The twins, as always, looked unperturbed. She was clearly on edge but tried to keep herself composed.

"We do, actually," Fred answered innocently.

McGonagall, standing nearby, watched the scene with a barely noticeable smirk.

"Minerva!" Umbridge squealed, turning to McGonagall, but the latter pretended not to notice. "Your students!"

Umbridge stamped her foot like a little child and clenched her fists, but even that failed to draw McGonagall’s attention, who instead addressed the twins:

"Are you sure it’s properly protected from accidental activation?"

"Absolutely, Professor," Fred replied proudly.

"In that case…" McGonagall began, turning to Umbridge, but the latter interrupted her.

"You must punish them!" Umbridge screeched, finally losing her composure.

"Must I?" McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "On the contrary, I think I’ll reward them. Fifty points to Gryffindor for an excellent swamp!"

Umbridge turned crimson. She clearly wanted to say something but couldn’t. It seemed as though she was overwhelmed with frustration and powerlessness.

Fred and George exchanged glances and grinned.

"By the way," Fred announced loudly to the students gathered in the vestibule, "if anyone needs portable swamps, feel free to contact us! Diagon Alley, number ninety-three, 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes'!"

"Special discounts for those who promise to use our products for good," George added, pointedly looking at Umbridge, who still stood silently below.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione chuckled. Even McGonagall smiled. The scene was amusing, but… it only momentarily distracted Harry from his troubling thoughts. He realized that Umbridge was a minor issue, a small nuisance compared to what lay ahead.

Chapter Text

A flash of lightning cut through the darkness of the Room of Requirement, momentarily illuminating the tense faces of Dumbledore's Army students. The thunder rolled through Hogwarts like the roar of an enraged dragon, making even the bravest flinch. Outside the window, a real storm raged.

"It seems the king has decided to honor us with his presence," Fujimaru grimly smirked, turning away from the window. His usually calm eyes now resembled two smoldering coals, reflecting the flashes of lightning. "And judging by everything, he’s not in the mood for diplomatic negotiations."

Harry shivered. Like everyone else, he had seen yesterday's newspapers. Photographs of Arthur Pendragon in shining armor, driving Death Eaters out of London, adorned the front pages of all magical publications. Even Muggle newspapers were filled with headlines about the "mysterious knight" and the "miraculous salvation." The world was abuzz, discussing the incredible event.

"Is… is he really him?" Hermione asked uncertainly, fidgeting with the edge of her cloak. "The legendary King Arthur?"

Fujimaru ran his hand through his hair as if trying to calm not only the storm outside but also the one within himself. He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength.

"Truth or not... in our world, it doesn’t matter," he said quietly. "What matters is what people believe. And right now... right now, many believe in Arthur Pendragon."

"But he’s… good, right?" Ron interjected, clenching his fists. "He drove those scumbags away! He saved London!"

"Ron, in this war, there are no clear-cut 'good' and 'bad,'" Fujimaru replied wearily. "There are... forces. Powerful forces that follow their own rules. And one of these forces is the Holy Grail."

He approached the board, which still bore the careless sketches of summoning circles from the previous lesson.

"Do you remember what I told you about the Servants? About heroes of the past summoned into our world?"

"They’re very strong," Neville responded, furrowing his brow. "And they have... Phantasms."

"Correct," Fujimaru nodded. "A Phantasm is the embodiment of a legend about a Servant, their most powerful weapon. Their... essence."

He fell silent, staring off into space as if seeing something beyond the board. Harry felt a chill run down his spine.

"And Arthur..." Harry began, not knowing why. "His Phantasm..."

"Excalibur," Fujimaru finished for him, his voice sounding dull and distant. "The sword that grants victory. The sword capable of destroying entire armies. The sword..."

He abruptly cut himself off, as if saying too much. Harry noticed how Jeanne, standing by the wall with her arms crossed, tensed up. She looked at Fujimaru with a strange expression—a mix of challenge, pain, and... understanding?

"You... you fought him?" Harry asked quietly.

Fujimaru averted his gaze.

"Yes," he answered shortly. "I fought him. In another time, in another place..." He paused, swallowing. "It... it was a long battle."

Harry saw how Fujimaru's knuckles whitened as he gripped the chalk. He could feel the pain radiating from him, echoes of those distant battles.

"And... did you lose?" Hermione asked, her voice trembling.

Fujimaru slowly shook his head.

"No," he said. "We... won. But the price... the price was high."

Suddenly, he straightened up, as if shaking off the weight of his memories.

"But that doesn’t mean we should give up!" he firmly declared, looking around the room. "It means we need to be ready. For everything."

He clapped his hands, and the room transformed. Instead of desks and boards, obstacle courses, targets, and mannequins appeared.

"Today we won’t be drawing circles," Fujimaru announced. "Today we’ll be learning to survive. Because in this war... in this war, surviving is already a victory."

Half an hour later, Harry, drenched in sweat, tried to maintain his balance on a shaky stack of books that Fujimaru had conjured in the middle of the room.

"Don’t think about the height! Focus on the goal! On what’s in front of you!" Fujimaru shouted from below.

Harry's goal was to reach the Quaffle hanging from the ceiling without falling off the improvised tower. A rather challenging task, especially considering that Fujimaru occasionally "encouraged" him with light pushes simulating Servant attacks.

"You must be like a reed!" Fujimaru continued instructing. "Flexible! Resilient! Don’t let yourself break!"

Harry clenched his teeth. He felt his muscles trembling, his knees buckling treacherously. But he couldn’t fall. Not now. Not when Jeanne was watching him.

He stole a glance at her. She stood aside, observing his training with an inscrutable expression. But in her amber eyes, Harry saw... something. Approval? Support? Or... sympathy? He didn’t have time to sort through his feelings.

Suddenly, the stack of books beneath him wobbled, and Harry, losing his balance, plummeted downward.

But he didn’t hit the ground. Strong arms caught him at the last moment, preventing him from crashing. Harry turned and saw Jeanne.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice low and slightly hoarse.

"Y-yeah..." Harry exhaled, feeling his heart pounding wildly—not just from the fear of falling, but also from Jeanne’s proximity. "Thanks."

She let go of him, and Harry noticed a faint blush appearing on her cheeks.

"It’s nothing," she muttered and turned away, pretending to be completely uninterested in what was happening.

But Harry had already noticed the blush. And that brief moment, that fleeting contact... Harry felt something inside him shift. As if... something had changed.

***

Later, after the training ended and the students, tired but invigorated, dispersed to their common rooms, Harry found himself thinking about Jeanne again. About her strength hidden behind a mask of indifference, her mysteriousness, and that strange, inexplicable attraction he felt toward her. About how she had caught him. He hadn’t even had time to be scared before he found himself in her arms.

Without realizing it, he found himself on the Quidditch stadium stands. Today was supposed to be the final match between Gryffindor and Slytherin for the school cup. And although Harry, as the Seeker, was confident in his abilities, he was still nervous. This match was special—not just because of the rivalry with Slytherin, but also because of... Dudley.

Harry took his seat and waited. He had no doubt the match would be intense. The Slytherins, led by Malfoy, were more determined than ever. They craved revenge for last year’s defeat. And they were ready to do anything to win.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the game. The teams soared into the air, and the stadium erupted with cheers from the fans. The Quaffle, like a fiery comet, darted across the field, switching from one team to another.

"...And here comes Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle!" Lee Jordan's excited voice boomed over the field. "She’s breaking through... But what’s this?! Montague is catching up to her... Oh no! A brutal Bludger strike! Angelina loses control..."

Harry jumped to his feet, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He saw Angelina, one of Gryffindor’s best Chasers, plummeting like a stone. She hadn’t had time to react to the sneaky Bludger attack.

But the next moment, something incredible happened. Out from behind the Slytherins, like a whirlwind, came Dudley! He flew on his broomstick with such speed that Harry barely had time to recognize him.

"Dudley Dursley?!" Lee Jordan shouted, unable to believe his eyes. "He’s... he’s intercepting! Yes! He makes it in time! He catches Angelina just before she hits the ground!"

The stands roared. Harry shouted along with everyone else, unable to contain his excitement. He saw how Dudley, carefully lowering Angelina to the ground, took her place in the team.

Yes, Dudley wasn’t a Seeker. He was a reserve Chaser. But now... now he was Gryffindor’s only hope.

And Dudley didn’t disappoint. He flew on his broom with the skill of a true ace. He dodged Bludgers, bypassed Slytherin Chasers, made precise passes... Harry watched in amazement as his cousin, who until recently struggled to stay on his broom, performed true miracles on the field.

He remembered how Dudley enthusiastically told him about the aerobatic maneuvers he had been practicing all this time. The "loop," the "barrel roll," the "spiral"... Now Harry saw that these weren’t just words. Dudley truly knew how to do all that. And he used his skills to deceive, confuse, and disorient his opponents.

"Dudley Dursley!" Lee Jordan shouted again. "He dodges one, then another, then a third... He’s one-on-one with the Keeper... He shoots! GOOOOAL!"

The stands erupted in applause again. Harry jumped and shouted, hugging everyone around him. He saw Jeanne, standing next to him, clench her fists and smile—a rare but dazzling smile. That smile was meant for Dudley. And Harry didn’t feel jealousy, only pride for his cousin and... gratitude toward Jeanne.

The match continued. The Slytherins, enraged by Dudley’s unexpected success, started playing even rougher. Bludgers flew like crazy, and Malfoy... Malfoy seemed determined to take Dudley out of the game at any cost.

But Dudley held on. He dodged Bludgers, evaded Malfoy’s attacks, kept scoring goals... He looked like... like a hero from some ancient legend. A hero fighting against overwhelming odds and... winning.

Meanwhile, Harry, without taking his eyes off the sky, searched for the Snitch. Golden, tiny, elusive... He knew catching the Snitch would bring Gryffindor victory. But the Snitch was nowhere to be seen.

And then, finally, when both teams were running out of energy, Harry spotted it. The golden ball glinted in the rays of the setting sun, flashing near the edge of the field.

"The Snitch!" Harry shouted, pointing at it.

He lunged toward the Snitch, picking up speed. But Malfoy saw it too. They flew toward each other like two enraged dragons.

They closed in, their brooms creaking... Harry stretched out his hand, feeling the tips of his fingers brush against the cold metal...

The next moment, he felt a sharp push. Malfoy, unable to outpace him, pushed him in the back treacherously.

Harry lost his balance, and the broom slipped out from under him... But he managed to grab the Snitch.

He fell, but in his hand, he clutched the coveted trophy.

"Harry Potter caught the Snitch!" Lee Jordan roared, drowning out the noise of the stands. "Gryffindor wins! Gryffindor is the champion!"

Harry landed on the field, not feeling any pain. He raised his hand, showing everyone the golden Snitch. The stands went wild. His teammates lifted him onto their shoulders and began cheering.

He saw Dudley, radiant with happiness, flying up to him and giving him a tight hug. He saw Jeanne, pushing through the crowd, approaching him and... smiling. This time—at him.

***

In the evening, sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Harry felt completely drained. Physically—from the intense match and the fall from the broom. Emotionally—from the storm of emotions that overwhelmed him throughout the day. He was happy that Gryffindor had won, that Dudley had proven himself a true hero... But at the same time, he felt... unease. Unexplained, vague, but persistent unease.

He thought about Fujimaru’s words, about Arthur, about the impending war... And about Jeanne. About her strength hidden behind a mask of cold indifference, her mysteriousness, and that strange, inexplicable feeling he had for her. About how she smiled at him—so sincerely and warmly.

He turned his gaze to the window. Beyond the glass, twilight had already thickened, but the remnants of the sunset still painted the sky in crimson and gold tones. Beautiful... and unsettling. As if the sky itself was warning of impending changes.

"What are you thinking about, Harry?" Ron’s voice sounded nearby.

Harry flinched and turned around. Ron sat beside him, clutching a mug of cooled pumpkin juice.

"Oh, just... everything," Harry answered vaguely.

"The match?" Ron guessed. "Yeah, Dudley was amazing today! No one expected such agility from him."

"Not just the match," Harry shook his head. "Everything... everything that’s happening."

Ron nodded knowingly.

"Yeah," he sighed. "With this King Arthur... everything feels so... strange."

"Strange is putting it mildly," Hermione murmured, approaching them. She held the latest issue of the *Daily Prophet* in her hands. "It says here that..."

She stopped, not finishing her sentence. Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

"What does it say?" Ron asked impatiently.

Hermione handed them the newspaper. On the front page was a large photograph of Arthur Pendragon standing in front of a ruined building. The caption read: "King Arthur promises to restore order and justice."

"...that he intends to change the world," Hermione concluded. "That he... that he will bring a new era. An era of magic."

Harry felt a chill run through him. He recalled Fujimaru’s words that in this war, there are no "good" and "bad." There are only... forces. And Arthur... Arthur was one of those forces. A powerful, unpredictable force capable of changing everything.

"And what does this mean?" Harry asked quietly. "For us? For the magical world?"

Hermione shrugged.

"No one knows," she replied. "But... I think this is just the beginning."

Silence settled in the common room. Everyone was quiet, processing what they had heard. Each person thought about their own concerns, but their thoughts were similar—worried, uncertain, full of foreboding.

Harry looked at the window again. The crimson hues of the sunset had faded, and the sky had turned dark blue, almost black. The first stars began to appear.

Suddenly, he felt someone’s gaze on him. He turned and saw Jeanne. She stood at the other end of the common room, by the fireplace, looking at him.

Their eyes met. Harry couldn’t understand what her amber eyes expressed—challenge, mockery, warning... or something else? Something he couldn’t decipher.

But this time, unlike before, Jeanne didn’t look away. She continued to stare at him—intently, piercingly, as if trying to say something. Or... ask?

Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He simply... looked at her. And in that gaze was everything—his anxiety, his uncertainty, his hope... and his growing, yet incomprehensible feelings for this mysterious, strong, unpredictable girl.

He didn’t know what awaited them ahead. But he knew one thing—he didn’t want this connection between them to break. He wanted... to be near her. No matter what.

***

The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express wheels lulled them. Harry sat by the window, watching green fields and hills rush past outside, alternating with dense forests and small villages. The school year had come to an end, and despite all the worries and anxieties, Harry felt a sense of relief.

"What are you thinking about?" Hermione’s voice sounded nearby.

Harry turned around. Hermione and Ron sat opposite him, both looking tired but content.

"Oh, just... summing things up, I guess," Harry answered vaguely.

"And what conclusions?" Ron asked with a smile.

Harry shrugged.

"It’s been a strange year," he said. "Eventful."

"Tell me about it!" Ron exclaimed. "Dementor attacks, Fujimaru’s arrival, the War for the Grail, Arthur... Dudley playing Quidditch!"

"And winning," Hermione added. "Unbelievable."

"Yeah..." Harry said thoughtfully. "Dudley has changed."

"As have all of us," Hermione noted.

Harry nodded. He, too, felt that he had changed. He had become... older, perhaps. More responsible. And... braver.

"And also..." Ron began, lowering his voice and giving a meaningful glance to the side. "...Jeanne."

Harry felt himself blush. He tried not to look at Jeanne, who sat at the other end of the compartment, reading a book with a cover unfamiliar to him. But he still felt her presence. It was as if... she radiated a special energy that Harry could feel on his skin.

"What about Jeanne?" Hermione asked, noticing Harry’s reaction and Ron’s slight smile. Unlike Ron, she didn’t lower her voice, as if talking about Jeanne wasn’t anything special.

"Oh, nothing..." Harry mumbled, looking away. "Just... she’s changed too."

"She’s always been... different from everyone else," Hermione said, thoughtfully looking at Jeanne. "Strong. Mysterious. And undoubtedly brave. Ever since the Triwizard Tournament..."

"Yeah," Ron chimed in. "Remember how she shut the Malfoys up at the Quidditch World Cup? With just one look! And how she handled the dragon..."

"And how she wounded Voldemort," Harry quietly added, recalling that terrifying night at the graveyard. "She... she saved us that night."

"And not just that night," Hermione noted. "She’s always... had your back, Harry. Ever since first year, when she pretended not to understand English."

"Yeah," Ron chuckled. "What an acting performance! No one suspected a thing..."

"And then..." Hermione continued, "...how she pulled you out of the water during the second task. And how she supported you... always."

Harry remembered how Jeanne hugged him before the first trial of the Tournament, how she shared her fears with him, how she revealed part of her mission to him... How they prepared together for the second task, spending hours in the library... How she protected him from the merpeople...

"Yeah..." Harry said softly. "She... she’s always been there."

"And, it seems, you’re not indifferent to her," Ron added meaningfully, winking at Harry.

Harry felt his cheeks flush again. He couldn’t deny that... he felt something for Jeanne. Something strong, incomprehensible, but... real.

"Alright, enough about that," Harry said, trying to change the subject. But it was already too late.

Suddenly, Harry felt a light touch on his arm. He turned and saw Jeanne.

"May I?" she asked softly, pointing to the empty seat next to him.

Harry nodded in surprise, feeling his heart beat faster. Jeanne sat beside him, and a faint aroma wafted from her—a mix of smoke, storm, and something else, subtly sweet.

"Were you arguing about something?" she asked, glancing at Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"No, just... reminiscing," Harry replied, trying to sound casual.

"This year," Hermione clarified, smiling at Jeanne.

"Yes, it was... challenging," Jeanne agreed, pensively gazing out the window. "But interesting."

"You played well," she said, turning to Harry. Her amber eyes seemed to peer straight into his soul. "And Dudley too."

"Thank you," Harry replied, smiling shyly. "You were... magnificent. As always."

Jeanne blushed slightly but this time didn’t look away.

"I just... did what I had to," she said softly.

"As always," Harry added, not knowing where this newfound boldness came from.

Jeanne looked at him—intently, piercingly, as if trying to understand something. Or... decide.

"Yes," she finally replied. "As always."

Silence fell again. But this time, it wasn’t tense. It was... special. Warm. Reassuring. And... promising.

Harry didn’t know what awaited them in the future. But he knew he wanted Jeanne to be by his side. He wanted... to get to know her better. To understand her. And, perhaps...

He didn’t have time to finish the thought. The train slowed down, approaching King’s Cross Station. It was time to go home.

***

The train emitted a long whistle and came to a stop at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, grabbing their belongings, moved toward the exit. Jeanne walked slightly behind, her face, as usual, inscrutable, but Harry thought he saw a flicker of anticipation in her eyes.

Stepping onto the platform, Harry looked around. The station buzzed with its usual life: porters hurried back and forth with trolleys loaded with luggage, parents greeted their children, some said goodbye, others rushed to catch their trains... But even amidst the hustle and bustle, Harry noticed unusual details.

Almost every second person held a newspaper with a portrait of Arthur Pendragon on the front page. Some wore pins with images of a sword in a stone or a crown. Snippets of conversation could be heard throughout the crowd: "...they say he’s the real king...", "...magic is returning...", "...the world will change..."

And Harry noticed that new posters had appeared on the station walls. Not the usual advertisements, but something... strange. One depicted a white stag running through the forest, another—a hand pulling a sword from a lake, and a third—a round table with knights. All the posters were done in a unified style, and they exuded something ancient, mysterious... and unsettling.

Suddenly, Harry felt someone squeeze his shoulder. He turned and saw... Sirius.

Sirius Black, his godfather, stood there, smiling broadly. He was dressed in a new, well-tailored suit, his hair neatly trimmed, and his face looked healthy and rested. He no longer resembled the emaciated fugitive from Azkaban. He looked like... an aristocrat.

"Harry!" Sirius exclaimed, hugging him tightly. "How glad I am to see you!"

"Sirius!" Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. "You... you’re here!"

"Where else would I be?" Sirius grinned. "I’m a free man now."

"I know, but..." Harry still couldn’t process it. "This... this is so unexpected!"

"Surprise!" Sirius said, winking at him. "I wanted to meet you properly."

He glanced around, his gaze stopping on Moody, Tonks, and Lupin.

"Ah," he said, slightly frowning. "And you’re here too."

"Someone has to keep an eye on the boy," Moody growled, his magical eye flashing.

"I can watch over him myself," Sirius retorted.

"I don’t doubt it," Moody snorted.

"Let’s not argue," Lupin interjected. "We’re all here for Harry."

"Right," Sirius said, softening. "Harry, meet..."

He gestured to Arthur and Molly Weasley, who stood slightly apart.

"Ron! Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, rushing to her children.

"Hermione, dear! How are you?" She hugged Hermione tightly.

"I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione replied, smiling.

Meanwhile, Mr. Weasley approached Harry and Sirius.

"Harry," he said, shaking his hand. "Glad to see you. Sirius... glad you’re free."

"Thank you, Arthur," Sirius replied. "I’m glad too."

"Hello, Harry," Lupin said, stepping closer. "How are you?"

"Alright," Harry replied. "A little tired, but... overall, everything’s fine."

"We..." Lupin began, but Moody interrupted him.

"We’re here to escort you to the Dursleys," Moody growled. "And have a talk with them."

Harry felt a chill run through him.

"Maybe... maybe we shouldn’t?" Harry asked, glancing at Sirius. He didn’t want to ruin the reunion with his godfather by dealing with the Dursleys.

"We have to, Harry," Sirius interjected. "I want to talk to them too."

"But..."

"No ‘buts’," Sirius said firmly, looking directly at him. "I’m your godfather, and I have the right to know how you’re treated."

From behind the group of greeters emerged Fujimaru and Mash, with little Fou perched on the girl’s shoulder, curiously looking around.

"We were in another carriage," Fujimaru explained, noticing Harry’s questioning look. "We thought we’d give you a chance to say goodbye to your friends."

Harry felt a surge of gratitude toward all these people, even toward Moody.

"Thank you," he said. "I... I appreciate it."

Suddenly, Harry noticed that Jeanne stood aside, observing the scene. He locked eyes with her. Jeanne lightly tilted her head, first toward Sirius, then toward Harry, then back to Sirius. And she gave a barely noticeable smile.

Harry understood. She approved. She was glad that Sirius was there.

"Well then," Moody said, "shall we go? Let’s not keep the Dursleys waiting."

And the whole group—including Harry, Ron, Hermione, Jeanne, Fujimaru, Mash, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and the Weasleys—moved toward the platform exit, heading for the inevitable conversation with the Dursleys.

Leaving the station, the group of wizards headed toward the Dursleys’ car parked nearby. Harry walked beside Sirius, trying not to show his nervousness.

The Dursleys were already waiting by the car. Vernon Dursley, with an air of offended dignity, had his arms crossed over his chest. Petunia Dursley nervously fidgeted with her purse, her gaze darting between Harry and the other wizards. Dudley stood slightly apart, arms crossed—looking calmer than his parents, but still tense.

"Good day, Dursleys," Sirius said, approaching them. His voice sounded polite but firm. "I’m Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather. I assume you’ve heard of me."

Vernon Dursley swallowed, recognition flashing in his eyes, but instead of hostility, there was caution.

"Black?" he asked.

"Exactly," Sirius confirmed, narrowing his eyes slightly. "And I’d like to talk to you... about Harry. And Dudley too."

"Talk?" Petunia Dursley nervously fidgeted with her purse. "About what? The school year is over..."

"About how you treat both your sons," Moody interjected, stepping forward. His magical eye seemed to pierce straight into their souls.

Vernon Dursley involuntarily stepped back.

"We... we treat them... as we should," he mumbled, trying to maintain his dignity.

"As you should?" Moody asked sarcastically. "By locking Harry in a cupboard and underfeeding him?"

"That was a long time ago!" Petunia exclaimed. "We’ve changed!"

"Yes," Sirius interjected. "And I want to make sure that’s really true. That you understand that both Harry and Dudley are wizards. And that you’ll treat them both with respect and care."

"But... magic..." Vernon began but stopped under Sirius’s heavy gaze.

"Magic is part of who they are," Sirius said firmly. "And you need to accept that. You’re their family."

"We... we’re trying," Petunia stammered, her voice trembling. "We sent Dudley to Hogwarts..."

"Because you had no choice," Lupin noted.

Suddenly, Dudley stepped forward.

"Dad, Mum," he said, looking at his parents. His voice sounded calm and confident. "Harry is my friend. And... I’m grateful to him for helping me understand who I am."

Vernon and Petunia looked at their son in surprise.

"Dudley..." Vernon mumbled. "You..."

"I’m a wizard," Dudley replied firmly. "And I’m not going to be ashamed of it. I want you to treat Harry well. He... he’s done a lot for me."

Jeanne, standing slightly apart, silently observed the scene. She didn’t intervene in the conversation, mindful of her role as a "distant relative," but her gaze fixed on the Dursleys spoke louder than words.

"We... we understand, Dudley," Vernon said, looking at his son. "We... we’ll try."

"Good," Sirius said. "I’ll be... keeping an eye on Harry. And Dudley too. And if I find out they’re being mistreated..."

He let the sentence hang meaningfully.

"We understand, Mr. Black," Vernon quickly said.

"I hope so," Sirius said. "And now... Harry, it’s time for you to go home. Your things..."

"I’ll get them," Dudley said, walking to the trunk of the car. "Come on, Harry."

Harry nodded. He was glad this conversation was over.

They said goodbye to Sirius, the other members of the Order, Fujimaru, and Mash.

"See you, Harry," Sirius said, shaking his hand. "I’ll be in touch."

"Goodbye," Harry replied.

He got into the Dursleys’ car, sitting next to Dudley. Vernon started the engine, and the car pulled away.

Harry looked out the window, reflecting on everything that had happened. He was returning home, to the Dursleys... But now everything was different. He had Sirius. He had friends. He had Dudley, who seemed to finally understand him. And... he had Jeanne.

As the car pulled out of the parking lot, Harry turned around. He saw that everyone who had seen them off was still standing there, watching them leave. And among them... he saw Jeanne.

She stood slightly apart from the others, at the very edge of the sidewalk, as if deliberately keeping her distance. But when the Dursleys’ car passed her, Jeanne raised her hand and waved slightly—a barely noticeable movement, but Harry saw it.

Harry smiled and waved back. He noticed Dudley turn around and look at Jeanne too.

"She’s... good," Dudley said, turning to Harry.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Very."

Even Vernon and Petunia, sitting in the front, stole a glance at Jeanne in the rearview mirror. Curiosity? Respect? Or... fear? Harry couldn’t tell.

But he knew one thing—Jeanne had made an impression on them. On everyone.

As the car drove onto the road, Jeanne’s figure, standing against the backdrop of the station, gradually faded into the distance. But Harry knew she would remain with him—in his thoughts, in his heart... And, perhaps, in his future.

Chapter Text

It was approaching midnight. The Prime Minister sat alone in his office at 10 Downing Street. The silence was broken only by the ticking of an antique clock and the muted hum of the city outside the window. But even this hum seemed unusual – it carried echoes of the madness that had gripped the country. The madness named Arthur.

Not "King Arthur." Not "the legendary hero from tales." Just... Arthur. As if he were not a character from dusty books, but... a rock star, a new messiah, a savior.

The Prime Minister wearily rubbed his eyes. He had barely slept for several days, trying to make sense of what was happening, searching for some explanation for the events unfolding around him.

He turned on the TV again – this time without sound. On the screen flashed images he had already seen dozens of times, but which his mind still refused to comprehend.

There – a massive crowd in Trafalgar Square. People of all ages and classes, united by one fervor, one name – Arthur. In their hands – homemade posters, banners, flags. "Arthur – our king!", "Arthur, bring back Britain!", "Arthur, we believe in you!", "Arthur – the hope of the nation!" the signs proclaimed. The faces of the people glowed with hope, faith, and excitement.

He switched channels. A different angle, the same scene. Only more people, more posters, more... fanaticism.

He turned off the TV and went to the window. Outside stretched nighttime London, enveloped in an unusual July fog. But even through this fog, the Prime Minister could see the reflections of the madness that had engulfed the city.

Over there, on the wall of the building across the street – a giant graffiti. A sword piercing a stone, with the inscription: "Arthur – the chosen one." And over there, on top of a bus – a sticker with a lion's head and a crown. Even on trash cans, fences, and asphalt – everywhere there were traces of "Arthurmania."

He heard how people on the streets, in shops, in pubs – everywhere – talked only about Arthur. They discussed his "feats," speculated who he was, made plans for the future...

Even his own children – they too succumbed to this mass hysteria. Just recently they begged him for new phones and gaming consoles, but now... Now they asked him to buy them toy swords and shields so they could play "Arthur's knights."

The Prime Minister sighed. He understood that this... was not just a passing fad. This was not just a trend. It was... something more. Something he couldn't understand or explain.

He pulled out the latest issue of "The Times" from his desk drawer. On the front page – a huge photo of Arthur in a lion mask, standing against a backdrop of a jubilant crowd. Caption: "Arthur: Savior or Tyrant?"

The Prime Minister smirked. Even the solid "Times" couldn't resist the temptation to use this name.

He opened the newspaper and skimmed through the article. Nothing new. The same rumors, the same speculations, the same enthusiastic reviews... And not a single fact.

He tossed the newspaper aside. All of this was... useless. No newspapers, no experts, no analysts could explain what was happening.

Because it was... irrational. Unexplainable. Impossible.

But... it was real. And the Prime Minister had to do something about it.

***

In government circles, the atmosphere could be described in one word – panic. No, not open, not hysterical, but rather... hidden, suppressed, yet no less intense.

Ministers, who until recently were confident in themselves, leisurely, condescendingly looking down on the world from their high posts, now resembled... frightened rabbits cornered.

They gathered for emergency meetings in the Prime Minister's office, in closed bunkers, in secret rooms... Arguing until hoarse, interrupting each other, accusing each other... But no one knew what to do.

Intelligence services – MI-5, MI-6, Scotland Yard – worked in emergency mode, trying to gather any information about Arthur. Who is he? Where did he come from? What does he want? What are his real capabilities?

But all their efforts were in vain. Arthur seemed to have appeared out of nowhere – and just as easily could disappear into thin air. No traces, no leads, no... explanations.

Some said he was a product of secret military experiments, escaped from a laboratory. Others claimed he was an alien, a visitor from another world. Still others believed he was... a demon, a messenger from hell.

There were many theories, but none of them were confirmed.

Within the government itself, a split began to form. Some – the "hawks" – called for tough measures. Arrest Arthur, declare him an outlaw, disperse the rallies... At any cost, stop this madness before it destroyed the country.

Others – the "doves" – on the contrary, proposed reaching out to Arthur. Find common ground with him, negotiate, use his popularity to their advantage...

But both sides understood that the situation was... critical. That the government was losing control. Losing power, influence, authority...

Each new day brought new "feats" from Arthur. One day he would stop a bank robbery, another day he would save children from a burning house, then prevent a terrorist attack... And every time – crowds of ecstatic witnesses, hundreds of photos and videos on social media, enthusiastic reports in the media...

And the government... The government looked pale, helpless, unable to cope with the situation in comparison.

Even the most loyal ministers began to doubt. Whispering in corners, asking uncomfortable questions, seeking... backup plans.

The Prime Minister felt this. He saw how his support was waning, how distrust was growing, how... everything he had built over the years was crumbling.

And he didn't know what to do about it.

***

About what was happening behind the high walls of Buckingham Palace, few knew. But even the Prime Minister, a person admitted to the highest circles, heard fragments of rumors, gossip, speculation... And these rumors were... troubling.

Officially – silence. No statements, no comments, no... reactions. The Queen, as always, maintained her composure, as if nothing extraordinary was happening. As if the appearance of a man calling himself King Arthur, capable of performing incredible feats, was normal.

But... everyone knew that this was just a mask. That behind this mask lay... confusion. Bewilderment. And perhaps, fear.

They said the Queen was in shock. That she didn't know what to do. That she... didn't understand how such a thing was possible in the 21st century, in a civilized world.

They said pressure was being exerted on her. From all sides.

The people – on the streets, in newspapers, online – demanded that the Queen recognize Arthur. That she abdicate in his favor. That she... save the country.

Part of the government – secretly, behind closed doors – also leaned toward this option. They saw in Arthur... strength. Strength capable of restoring order, stopping chaos, returning Britain to its former greatness.

And, of course, Arthur himself... He made no statements, issued no demands... But his very presence was... a challenge. A challenge to the entire system, the entire power structure, the entire... tradition.

They said the Queen spent whole days in her chambers, receiving almost no one. That she summoned her most trusted advisors – the best lawyers specializing in constitutional law, historians who could shed light on the true history of Arthur...

And most importantly – they said she reached out for help to... the magical community. To those who knew about the existence of another world, hidden from the eyes of ordinary people.

The Prime Minister knew this was true. He himself, though a Muggle, knew about the existence of magic. He knew about Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic, about... Voldemort.

And he knew that the Queen... could not ignore this aspect of reality. Especially now, when magic seemed to have broken free, embodied in the figure of Arthur.

They said representatives of the Clock Tower – the most influential organization of British wizards – secretly visited Buckingham Palace. They said they saw Cornelius Fudge himself – the former Minister of Magic, a man with connections in the highest circles.

And, most incredibly – they said the Queen invited... Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts, the greatest wizard of modern times, a man who... knew more than anyone else.

The Prime Minister imagined this meeting – the Queen, Dumbledore, possibly Fudge and a few others, sitting at one table discussing... the fate of the country. The fate of the world.

And he understood that their decision depended on... everything. That right now, behind closed doors, the future of Britain was being decided. A future in which... there might be no place for him or the accustomed order of things.

He heard that Prince Charles – the heir to the throne – was furious. That he demanded decisive action, that he was ready... for anything, just to preserve the monarchy.

But the Queen... The Queen waited, as if hoping for a miracle.

Or, on the contrary, preparing for the inevitable.

***

The Prime Minister wiped his hand across his face, feeling sticky sweat covering his forehead. The whole situation... threw him off balance. It seemed... unreal. As if he had fallen into some bad dream from which he couldn't wake up.

He, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, a man used to keeping everything under control, now felt... helpless. As if he wasn't the captain of a ship, but a splinter in a raging ocean.

But... he wasn't used to giving up. He wasn't used to losing. He was a politician, a fighter, a shark... And he would find a way out. He would handle this situation.

He smirked, remembering how the press referred to Arthur – "savior", "messiah", "king". Nonsense. This Arthur was just a man. A man in a mask who... thought himself to be someone important.

Yes, he was strong. Yes, he was popular. Yes, he... knew how to make an impression.

But the Prime Minister was sure he could handle him. He was a master of words, a master of intrigue, a master... of persuasion. He would talk to this Arthur. He would explain to him how things work. He would show him who's in charge here.

He imagined this meeting. A press conference, debates, whatever... Him, the Prime Minister, and this... Arthur. And he, the Prime Minister, would crush him. Into dust. He would ask him the right questions. He would force him to remove his mask. He would show everyone that this Arthur was nothing more than... an illusion.

He smirked. Yes, he would handle it. He must handle it. For the country. For himself.

He looked again at the papers lying before him. A report on the aftermath of the hurricane in the southwest of the country. A summary of rising crime rates. An analytical note on...

He pushed the papers aside. Right now, this was unimportant. Right now, the main concern was... Arthur.

He needed to prepare. He needed to think through every step, every word... He needed to win.

He stood up from his desk and approached the window. Beyond the glass, the fog thickened, enveloping London in a veil of mystery.

The Prime Minister clenched his fists. He wasn't afraid. He was ready. He... he would save Britain.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The Prime Minister turned around, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He wasn't expecting visitors. Not at this hour. Not in such a situation.

"Come in!" he said, trying to make his voice sound firm and confident. But it came out hoarse instead.

The door slowly opened, and on the threshold... there was no one.

The Prime Minister frowned. What kind of joke was this? He took a step towards the door, intending to call his secretary, when suddenly...

...behind his back, a quiet cough sounded.

The Prime Minister sharply turned around.

In the middle of the office, as if appearing out of thin air, stood a figure. Short, in a blue cloak with a fluffy collar, on his head – a mask in the shape of a lion's head.

Arthur.

The Prime Minister froze, unable to utter a word. He... couldn't believe his eyes. This was... unexpected.

Instinctively, he took a step back, bumping into the desk with his back. His hand automatically reached for the security call button, but...

...he didn't have time to press it.

"I apologize if I scared you," came a voice from under the mask. Calm, soft, but... with hints of steel. "I didn't mean to barge in, but... it's urgent."

The Prime Minister froze, still hesitant to lower his hand. He... didn't understand what was happening.

"Who... who are you?" he whispered, struggling to part his lips.

"You know who I am," Arthur replied. "Or rather, who they say I am. I've come to talk to you."

"I... I wasn't expecting anyone," muttered the Prime Minister, trying to compose himself. "And... I don't think we have anything to discuss. Please... leave my office."

"I understand your confusion," said Arthur. He didn't move from his spot, but his voice sounded... empathetic. "But please, hear me out. We're talking about the future of Britain."

"The future of Britain?" repeated the Prime Minister, with irony and disbelief. "And you... you think you can decide what it will be like?"

"I think I should try," Arthur replied. "Because... as you know, the situation is complicated."

He took a step forward, and the Prime Minister, though unwilling to show his fear, involuntarily retreated another step.

"Don't be afraid," said Arthur, noticing his movement. "I won't harm you. I've come in peace."

He approached the desk and placed his hand on it – the Prime Minister noticed that under the cloak he wore... shining armor. But there was no threat in this gesture, rather... an offer.

"The Queen has made her decision," said Arthur. "She has abdicated. Tomorrow, my coronation will take place."

The Prime Minister felt his breath catch. He... couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"This... this is impossible!" he exclaimed. "This..."

"It's a fact," Arthur calmly countered. "And I understand it's hard for you to accept. But it's... Her Majesty's decision."

He pulled a scroll sealed with the royal seal from under his cloak and placed it on the desk in front of the Prime Minister.

"Here," he said. "Please read it. It's... an official document."

The Prime Minister took the scroll with trembling hands and unfolded it. He scanned the text... and paled.

It was... a decree. A decree from the Queen renouncing the throne. In favor of... Arthur Pendragon.

"But... how?" he whispered. "How... could she decide on such a thing?"

"She understands it's for the best," Arthur replied. "For the country. For the people. She... sees what's happening. And she... wants Britain to be strong."

"But... this is... madness!" exclaimed the Prime Minister, unable to contain his emotions. "You understand what this means."

"I understand it's... unusual," said Arthur. "But I ask you... hear me out. I want... to cooperate with you. I want us to... work together for the good of Britain."

He straightened up, and despite the mask, the Prime Minister felt an emanating force from him. But it wasn't a force that inspired fear, rather... confidence. Confidence in his righteousness, in his mission, in his... destiny.

"And now..." said Arthur. "...we need to talk. About you. About your future. And about... the future of Britain. But not in the context of my confrontation with you. In the context of our... cooperation."

The Prime Minister, still not fully believing what was happening, slowly sank into his chair. He felt... shattered. Stunned. But... at the same time, he understood that... he needed to listen to this man (or not a man?). Too much depended on this conversation.

"I understand it's difficult for you to believe what's happening," said Arthur, seeing the Prime Minister's confusion. "But please, believe at least one thing: I've come not to destroy, but to build. And, believe me, I have enough experience to know how to do it."

He paused, giving the Prime Minister time to process what was said.

"Britain... is going through tough times," he continued. "Terror, crime, instability... People are scared, they've lost faith..."

"And you... you think you can fix everything?" asked the Prime Minister, his voice tinged with skepticism mixed with hope.

"I know I can contribute," Arthur firmly replied. "I've already proven this by stopping the Death Eaters, restoring people's hope... But I understand I can't do it alone."

"But... at what cost?" interrupted the Prime Minister. "You're acting... outside the law."

"These are times when sometimes old conventions must be broken," Arthur calmly countered. "But my goal is not to break the law, but to restore it. A law that serves all residents of Britain, not just the chosen few."

"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" asked the Prime Minister, trying to understand where Arthur was heading.

"Britain needs change," said Arthur. "Deep, systemic change. But these changes must be thoughtful, balanced, gradual. You can't just destroy everything to the ground and then..."

He paused, and the Prime Minister realized this was a reference to a famous revolutionary slogan.

"...try to build something new on the ruins," Arthur finished. "That's a path to chaos."

"And that's why you... decided to become king?" asked the Prime Minister sarcastically, though with less certainty than before.

"I didn't decide to become king," Arthur countered. "I was called upon. And I accepted the challenge. Because I... feel responsible for this land. For its people."

"The Queen... she abdicated herself?" asked the Prime Minister, still not believing what was happening.

"Yes," Arthur nodded. "She's a wise woman. She understands Britain needs... a new leader. A leader capable of not only stopping terror but also... implementing necessary reforms."

"Reforms?" the Prime Minister repeated.

"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "We need to change a lot. The governance system, laws, social institutions... We need to build a new Britain. Strong, just, prosperous."

"And you... you think you can do this... alone?" asked the Prime Minister.

"No," Arthur shook his head. "I understand I need... allies. People who know how this system works. People who share my goals. People I can... trust."

He approached the desk and looked the Prime Minister directly in the eyes.

"That's why I came to you," he said. "I'm offering you... cooperation. I'm offering you... to stay in your position. To become my... advisor. My Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister was silent, stunned by Arthur's proposal. He expected anything – threats, demands, ultimatums... But not this.

"You... you're serious?" he finally asked, not believing his ears. "You want me to... remain Prime Minister? After everything that's happened?"

"Yes," Arthur calmly replied. "I believe you... can be useful."

"But... why?" asked the Prime Minister. "I... I was part of the old system. The very system you want to change."

"You're part of the system," Arthur agreed. "But you're also... a professional. You know how this machine works. You know where the control levers are. And... as far as I can tell, you want good for your country."

The Prime Minister involuntarily swallowed. Arthur... read him like an open book.

"I... I don't understand," he said. "You... you're the king. You can do whatever you want. Why do you need... me?"

"Being king doesn't mean being an all-powerful tyrant," Arthur countered. "Being king means, first and foremost, responsibility. Responsibility for your people, for your country. And I... I don't intend to make decisions alone. I need... advisors. People I can trust."

"And if I... refuse?" asked the Prime Minister, testing Arthur.

"I hope you won't," Arthur replied. "But... it's your right. However, I'd prefer to work with you."

"You talk about reforms," said the Prime Minister, getting to the point. "What specific reforms are we talking about?"

"All of them," Arthur replied. "We need to change... everything. Laws, economy, social sphere... We need to make Britain... stronger."

"But... that's... enormous work!" exclaimed the Prime Minister. "It'll take... years!"

"I know," Arthur nodded. "And I'm prepared for that. But I need... a team. People who will help me... get this behemoth moving."

"And... are you sure you can handle it?" asked the Prime Minister, trying to look Arthur in the eyes hidden behind the mask. "With all this? Resistance will be... colossal. From those who benefit from the current system. From... other forces."

Arthur paused briefly before answering.

"I'm not naive," he said. "I understand it won't be easy. But I... believe in what I'm doing. And I believe I... will succeed."

"But..." the Prime Minister hesitated. "...you're not acting alone. That's... obvious. And... what guarantees that... your allies... aren't pursuing their own goals? Goals that might... conflict with Britain's interests?"

Arthur paused again.

"There are no guarantees," he honestly replied. "But I... I'll do everything in my power to protect my country. From any threats."

The Prime Minister pondered. Arthur's offer was... tempting. And dangerous. He could refuse, resign, stay aside... But...

But the thought of it provoked in him... resistance. He wasn't used to giving up. He wasn't used to retreating. He was... a fighter. And he felt that... he had to accept this challenge.

"Suppose," he slowly said, "I agree. What do you... specifically offer? What will be my role? My powers?"

"You'll remain Prime Minister," Arthur replied. "You'll be... responsible for the current management of the country. For the economy, for the social sphere, for... everything you dealt with before."

"And you?" asked the Prime Minister.

"I'll... guide you," said Arthur. "I'll... determine the strategic course. I'll... make key decisions."

"And... will you consult with me?" the Prime Minister clarified.

"Yes," Arthur nodded. "I'll... consider your opinion. But... the final word will remain with me."

The Prime Minister frowned. This was... not quite what he expected. He hoped for more influence, more freedom of action...

"And what... what about..." he hesitated. "...opposition? What about those who... won't agree with your rule?"

"With them... we'll work," Arthur replied. "We'll... persuade. We'll... negotiate."

"And if... it doesn't work?" asked the Prime Minister.

Arthur paused.

"Then... we'll act differently," he said, and steel rang in his voice.

The Prime Minister swallowed. He understood what this meant.

"I... I need to think," he said.

"You don't have much time," Arthur countered. "The coronation is tomorrow. And... I need to know your decision."

The Prime Minister sighed. He felt... cornered. But... at the same time, he understood that... this might be the only chance. A chance to retain some influence. A chance... to save the country.

"Alright," he said, looking Arthur straight in the eyes. "I... I agree. I'll remain Prime Minister. But... I have conditions."

"What are they?" asked Arthur.

"First," said the Prime Minister, "I must have real power. I don't want to be... a puppet."

"I understand," Arthur nodded.

"Second," continued the Prime Minister, "you must... listen to me. To my opinion, to my advice."

"I already said I would," Arthur replied.

"And third," said the Prime Minister, "you must... protect me. From... any threats."

Arthur slightly smiled – the Prime Minister saw this smile for the first time, hidden behind the mask.

"That... goes without saying," he said.

"Before we proceed," Arthur's voice acquired steely notes, "I have a special task for you. Strictly confidential."

The Prime Minister tensed. He expected something like this, but still...

"What is it?" he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"It's about a threat looming over Britain," said Arthur. "A threat far more serious than the Death Eaters."

The Prime Minister instinctively leaned forward.

"You mean... those behind them?"

Arthur nodded, the lion mask gleaming in the lamplight.

"I know the Death Eaters are just tools in someone's hands," he said. "And I need to find out whose exactly. I need to understand who gives them power, who directs them, who... plays this game."

"And you want me to... help you with this?" the Prime Minister clarified.

"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "You possess unique capabilities. Your network of contacts, your sources of information, your influence... All this could prove invaluable."

"But... I'm not a wizard," reminded the Prime Minister. "I don't have access to the magical world..."

"I don't need access to the magical world," Arthur interrupted. "I need access to your world. The world of politics, finance, intelligence... The world where the real puppet masters hide."

"You want me to... start an investigation?" asked the Prime Minister.

"I want you to open your eyes," said Arthur. "To pay attention to what previously seemed insignificant. To inconsistencies, to oddities, to coincidences..."

"For example?" asked the Prime Minister.

"For example, unexplained financial flows," Arthur replied. "Sudden disappearances of people. The emergence of new companies, funds, organizations... Any anomalies that might indicate... external interference."

"You think... foreign powers are behind this?" asked the Prime Minister.

"I think there's a force that doesn't care about borders," said Arthur. "A force that... feeds on chaos. And that... uses the Death Eaters as pawns in its game."

"And... what should I do?" asked the Prime Minister.

"To begin with – observe," Arthur replied. "Gather information. Analyze. And... report to me. Personally."

"But... how?" asked the Prime Minister. "How will I..."

"I'll give you a way to communicate," Arthur interrupted. "Secure."

He paused, then added:

"And one more thing. I ask you... not to tell anyone about this conversation. Anyone. Not even... Minister Fudge, who, as I know, intends to visit you soon."

The Prime Minister raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Arthur didn't elaborate.

"This... is fundamentally important," he said. "No one should know about our... cooperation."

"I... understand," the Prime Minister slowly said.

"Thank you," said Arthur. "Your help could be decisive."

The Prime Minister sat, overwhelmed, but at the same time... intrigued. He understood he had gotten involved in something very serious, but there was no turning back.

Arthur, seemingly sensing his state, stepped closer.

"I understand it's hard for you to believe what's happening," he said. "Especially when a man in a ridiculous mask stands before you claiming to be King Arthur."

He paused, then added with a slight smile:

"I suppose you need proof?"

The Prime Minister looked at him in surprise.

"Proof?" he repeated. "You... you can prove that you're... who you claim to be?"

Arthur nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Otherwise, our conversation wouldn't make sense."

He snapped his fingers, and in the air before him appeared... a sword.

The Prime Minister gasped.

It was... Excalibur. The sword he had seen in hundreds of illustrations, in dozens of films, in... dreams.

Huge, two-handed, with a golden hilt adorned with sapphires, and a blade glowing with unearthly light. It seemed... weightless in Arthur's hand, but the Prime Minister understood that this was just an illusion. That this sword... was deadly.

"This..." whispered the Prime Minister, unable to tear his gaze away from the sword. "...is impossible."

"It's possible," Arthur countered. "As you can see."

He extended the sword to the Prime Minister, hilt first.

"Take it," he said. "Feel it."

The Prime Minister hesitantly reached out and touched the hilt. He felt... cold. And... power. Power emanating from the sword, permeating his entire body.

He tried to lift the sword, but... couldn't. Excalibur was too... heavy. Too... powerful for him.

"Not working?" Arthur asked, a hint of a smirk in his voice.

The Prime Minister shook his head, releasing the sword.

"This sword..." he said. "...is real."

"As am I," Arthur replied.

He swung the sword, and it easily entered the marble desktop as if it were butter.

"And now..." said Arthur, pulling the sword out of the desk. "...allow me to show you something else."

He snapped his fingers again, and objects appeared in the air before him.

An ancient chalice adorned with precious stones. A golden seal with a dragon engraving. A time-worn tapestry depicting battle scenes...

"This..." the Prime Minister began, recognizing the items. "...this is..."

"Relics of Camelot," Arthur finished for him. "Authentic artifacts from my era."

He picked up the chalice and handed it to the Prime Minister.

"This is the Chalice of Camelot," he said. "From this, the Knights of the Round Table drank."

The Prime Minister cautiously accepted the chalice. It was... heavy. And... warm. As if... alive.

"I... I don't understand," he said. "How... how is all this possible?"

"Magic," Arthur simply replied. "Faith. Destiny. Choose any explanation. Or... don't choose at all."

He paused, then added:

"I know it's hard for you to believe. But... I ask you... to trust me."

The Prime Minister looked at Arthur, at the sword, at the relics... And... believed. He couldn't explain why. But he... knew that this man (or not a man?) was telling the truth.

"Alright," he said finally. "I... I believe you. And... I'll help you."

Arthur nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "This... means a lot."

He paused, then, as if deciding something, added:

"And... perhaps now... you'll want to see who's behind this mask."

The Prime Minister swallowed. He... wanted to. And... was afraid.

Arthur slowly raised his hands and removed the mask, revealing his face.

Chapter Text

"Draco should be proud, he has been given a great honor."

"He's only sixteen, he simply doesn't understand what awaits him! Why, Severus? Why my son? It's too dangerous! It's all revenge for Lucius's mistake, I know it!"

Severus Snape lowered his head and removed the pestle from the cauldron, which he had been stirring for the past five minutes. He still couldn't get Narcissa Malfoy's face, filled with grief, out of his head. Even though he was never a father, he understood her feelings well. And because of that, he increasingly disliked her older sister, albeit secretly but very passionately. Bella didn't seem capable of considering any other point of view, she saw only great honor for Draco in Voldemort's decision - to carry out a secret mission, let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and at the same time serve as a Master to the Servant called by his father - Hans Christian Andersen.

Undoubtedly, the incarnated Servant, the great writer of the past, resembled a good person, and although he could occasionally blurt out something foolish, he could be a good mentor to Draco on those days when he didn't have his father or beloved professor by his side.

Snape looked at the pleasant bluish glow of the boiling potion in the cauldron. A more difficult task for him was to prevent Draco's accidental death in case he somehow angered Jeanne Alter. He couldn't fully comprehend the power of this Servant, as he had never seen her in battle before, and only from the words of other Death Eaters, he concluded - Draco will act wisely if he stays away from her, or... befriend her.

At the mere thought of it, Snape involuntarily raised his eyes to the ceiling and grimaced unpleasantly. He imagined Draco approaching Jeanne and a few days later they found him tied to the central ring on the Quidditch field. If anything, lessons in good manners were not the path in which Draco Malfoy could be called an exemplary student. Draco's foresight in his actions was barely distinguishable, and he couldn't anticipate every move in advance. If he were even slightly more astute, he would choose his friends wisely, without making mistakes. Now this young man doesn't even have normal friends who would come to his aid at any moment. Draco Malfoy's friends are two uncultured fools who can't find their way around Hogwarts anywhere except the Great Hall. All their acceptable grades in any subject are only due to his head of house's favor towards their fathers, who served Voldemort. Without him, these two would only deserve verbal gratitude for the fact of their presence in class.

The potion was almost ready, and Snape took the cauldron off the fire. He levitated the cauldron and carefully poured its contents into a small vial. Now everything is ready and Draco no longer needs to worry. This potion will not teach Draco how to socialize and it won't attract a queue of admirers vying for his friendship. This potion, brewed according to the recipe of one of his new friends, will open his heart.

Looking at the sapphire and opal hues of the potion in the vial, Snape pondered. Such a move on his part could send him and Draco on a joint mission to hell. Well, so be it. If young Malfoy suddenly changes for the better, then let it be. Snape strongly didn't want this young man to waste his whole life being subservient. He shared Narcissa's opinion and remembered her pained face on the day they made an irrevocable vow.

In the dim golden light of the candles, three complex symbols appeared on Snape's arm. Voldemort's command was never something that could be easily avoided or ignored. One who received it is obliged to make every effort to carry out the Dark Lord's will. That's why he is now a Master. But even his Servant opposes the will of the cruel master and does not wish to follow it to the end, taking advantage of his unique position.

Will Tom Riddle himself dare to challenge the Servant, against whom he has no chance of standing in a fair fight? Jeanne Alter has already proven this. It was because of her that the Darkest of wizards roamed, like a madman, offering these cruel bloody sacrifices in the name of increasing his power. Only one chance encounter temporarily halted this feast of death, the end of which was not foreseen. And only for the sake of it to soon blaze again, three times more terrifying than before, thanks to the summoned Servants.

Snape never asked Hans Christian Andersen where all the people he kidnapped disappeared to. He made superhuman efforts of willpower to hold back from saying that Jack the Ripper was not just limited to simple murders and followed the teachings of his historical predecessor, whose actions and disappearance still remained hidden behind a dark curtain of mystery that no one would ever know. The cruelty of this embodiment of the famous urban legend added a special subtlety to the situation, turning all the predecessor's atrocities into child's play compared to what this sweet blonde girl with huge green eyes did, in which Bellatrix saw almost her own daughter.

Footsteps were heard behind the door, but Snape continued to ponder Bella and her emotional attachment to the Servant she summoned. No Death Eater, except for her, held such feelings for their Servants. They all saw them only as tools to achieve their goals, and the Servants did not argue with them. All the speeches of the Servants only supported the Death Eaters in their aspirations, and only a few guessed that behind all these speeches about the duty of the Servants to fulfill the wishes of their masters, there were individuals with their own interests, life experiences, and character. It seemed that Voldemort was not interested in interacting with the Servants as people capable of conveying something to the Death Eaters, teaching them something, and any attempts by the Servants to influence them were not taken seriously. Let Hans Christian Andersen advise Draco on something good at least...

A familiar silhouette appeared behind Snape. Snape did not turn around - he already knew the guest. This guest now often accompanied him and never sought to disturb his peace.

"Now everything will work out," Snape said indifferently.

The shadow of his guest nodded. Thrown on the wall, it allowed Snape to communicate with the guest without looking at him and without unnecessary words. He was sure - if someone suddenly decided to delve into the Abyss of his memory, it would help keep the secret of his communication. But besides that, there was still something, and for a potions master, this circumstance was of paramount importance. He could hardly blame himself for lying, using justifications about the Abyss of Memory. Memories can be changed, erasing faces, words, and replacing real events with fictional ones. At the moment when it seemed that there was nothing that a person could not do, Severus Snape was only concerned about one thing, and it seemed impossible to him.

Trying not to think about it, the potions master turned his thoughts back to his recent conversations with Hogwarts' headmaster. Several months before the holidays, Dumbledore told Harry Potter about the Dark Lord's Horcruxes. Again, Harry guessed something similar only thanks to his friends, and this time the Golden Trio made Jeanne Alter think. She is too clever, no matter how old she is. But even she agreed with the need to follow Dumbledore's plans. And he understood perfectly - the whole upcoming year awaits him with assassination attempts. Poisoning in this case looks like the simplest of the expected troubles. They will try to curse him, try to engineer an accident, all so that at the most crucial moment, young Draco Malfoy dares to say the Dark Lord's favorite curse and forever inscribe his name in the history of the Death Eaters as the person who killed Albus Dumbledore himself. And Snape had to do it for him if Draco suddenly could not or could not overcome him. But the whole plan was discussed with Dumbledore in advance.

Snape saw Dumbledore's face before him, even in the moment of that conversation, maintaining incredible calmness and thoughtfulness. His eyes shone with an inexplicable mysterious light, and the headmaster declared:

"Let it be so."

He presented his deeply worked out and thought-through plan to a small group of trusted individuals, and among all the people in his office at that time, there was no one who possessed such knowledge and experience. None of them could foresee the events that the elderly professor spoke about. But he was the one who was not at all surprised by the recent ascension of King Arthur. His political opponents desperately resisted and even after the queen's abdication, sought loopholes to regain their lost position, but there was nothing they could do. The new king held all the power in his hands, all the threads of influence, and in the end, even made an unprecedented appearance at the Ministry of Magic - an event that the Daily Prophet articles couldn't stop talking about, constantly mentioning the king and his advisor - the great Merlin, who appeared before them in the form of a young man, even without a beard.

But Dumbledore saw further. His plan extended to the following year after his presumed death. He predicted enormous and awful upheavals when the whole world would feel the influence of the Holy Grail War. It was impossible to limit its impact on the surrounding world when the Servant becomes the king of an entire country. It was impossible to avoid disaster if the Grail fell into the wrong hands. You couldn't claim that a hurricane is your assistant when it destroys your fence and carries away your home, breaking it into pieces. This Battle for the Grail had not yet begun, yet it was already dragging the whole rest of the world into it, threatening to become the bloodiest and most terrifying battle that humanity could imagine. No matter what Voldemort wished for, true catharsis was no longer an upcoming event. It was no longer the future, neither distant nor immediate - it had already begun, and soon everyone in this world would see it for themselves.

Snape continued to portray the appearance of a person admiring a potion and judging its quality, although he knew, it was perfect. In reality, he still did not want to look at his guest when he expected some action from him. The guest did not even dare to break the silence, silently observing the actions of the potions master. This guest was one of those burdened with a difficult task - to bring victory in this war, but not to Voldemort. And although this guest's actions could be interpreted in two ways, his deeds differed very little from Snape himself - such a multifaceted and versatile person who by fate's will played a role and was forced to balance on the thinnest line between Dumbledore and Voldemort. His guest knew all this perfectly well and did not utter a word to random people, and what could Snape hide from him? They could only trust each other and go hand in hand along the path ordained for them by Albus Dumbledore until the very end.

Chapter Text

Doctor Romani was peacefully dozing off when Da Vinci, who peeked out from behind his shoulder, directed the camera at herself. Ritsuka wasn't surprised by his friend's nodding off - too much depended on him in Chaldea. The servant, embodying the great artist, remarkably resembled his most famous portrait, charmingly smiling and sparkling with witty jokes, never losing her almost poetic style of speech. Fujimaru sincerely rejoiced at the opportunity to communicate again with his loyal allies and friends who remained in Chaldea to monitor his unexpected adventure. Even the current director, Goredolf Musik, peeked out from behind Da Vinci - a portly man with lush wheat-colored mustaches in an exquisite white suit, he looked baffled as he glanced at Ritsuka and only reluctantly accepted the testimony from his report.

Even Da Vinci, despite her unwavering optimism and enthusiasm combined with a burning desire to prove herself, understood the hopelessness of the situation. At one point, she suggested transporting an object to 1996 called "The One and Only Suitcase" in order to maintain secrecy. It stored Heroic Spirits, from whom Ritsuka could summon a Servant to help at any moment. He was prepared to make any necessary sacrifices just to stop the impending disaster as quickly as possible. However, Da Vinci came up with a counterargument.

"Ritsuka, we can't simply transport the suitcase to the past like that. It's too risky and could have catastrophic consequences for the entire timeline."

"Then what should we do?" Ritsuka looked at her with hope in his eyes.

"We need to look for other ways to solve the problem. We need more information about this Grail and find a weakness in its defenses. Perhaps we can find a way to destroy it. But for that, we need time and the opportunity to conduct additional research."

Ritsuka understood that Da Vinci was right. He was willing to do anything to stop the disaster, but he couldn't risk the lives of others and the stability of the timeline.

He looked at the door of the adjacent room where Mash slept peacefully. Her face from that unfortunate day floated up in his mind once again. Mash had been trapped under a massive stone slab, and all he could see then was her face. He could have taken her hand, but he didn't have enough strength to pull her out, and even if he had - would anyone have had time to help her? Everything around them was engulfed in flames, and the once-blue Chaldea's sphere was now painted in shades of crimson and orange, bringing even more horror and anxiety. These memories and their helplessness at that moment clawed at his heart, when no one could come to their aid and the doors closed treacherously, cutting off their last hope for a safe outcome.

It was uncertain how much time had passed, but Fujimaru woke up in a city that didn't exist, doesn't exist, and will never exist on any world map—another place ravaged by disaster. This time, Mash stood on his side, but he couldn't help but feel his own worthlessness as a mage. Even Olga Marie, capable of unleashing devastating spells like bullets from her fingers, didn't have enough power to fight the local monsters, let alone himself. All he had left was to fight hand-to-hand, but what could an ordinary person do against a monster surpassing their strength? It wasn't even worth mentioning the Servants — any of them could obliterate a person in an instant, without giving them the slightest chance to resist. Mash, an artificial vessel for a heroic spirit, had fulfilled the hopes of her creators. On that day, she received powers from the noble Sir Galahad—an additional Servant of the Holy Grail War, renowned as one of the Knights of the Round Table, whose leader now aimed to govern all of Britain.

Arthur Pendragon. Or Arturia. It doesn't matter. Ritsuka knew well the character of this great king in all of his incarnations. Saber wouldn't proclaim herself to the world willingly. It was in a Servant's nature to act in secrecy from the rest of the world and not publicly declare their names. Knowing the name of a Servant was the prerogative of the one Master who had summoned them, but in public, they were known as Arturia-Saber, Julius Caesar, Siegfried, or any other heroic beings forever enshrined among the Servants. Only the class name could be used to name a Servant publicly without revealing their true identity.

Ritsuka finished the conversation and glanced at his watch. It was half past nine in the morning, and he hadn't slept since the evening. He understood that if he went to bed, sleep wouldn't come. Too many thoughts had settled in his head, too much responsibility had fallen on him. Not for the first time, but this time it felt like the first. Thoughts about when he had seen Harry Potter in his dreams bothered Ritsuka. Someone in light clothing and a mask, an ally of Voldemort, whose expectations he shouldn't disappoint. A Servant with great magical power and ancient artifacts.

For a moment, Fujimaru imagined Gilgamesh in the company of Voldemort. An overly vivid image appeared before his eyes and Ritsuka shuddered. No. Although Gilgamesh was one of those Servants who could have been involved in recent events and despite the personal characteristic given to him by Ritsuka, he didn't seem like someone who would collaborate with Voldemort for so long. Someone had reached Gilgamesh's treasury and stole the catalysts used for summoning. Looking at the news headlines, Ritsuka became more convinced of this every day. He wasn't sure whether Saber had summoned Voldemort or his followers, but he knew for certain that Saber was a key element in this mysterious game of shadow puppeteers controlling this Holy Grail War. Only with Saber as the King of Britain, seizing all power over the country, could one dictate their own rules on the world political stage and play with truly major figures.

Even the experts at Chaldea agreed with this thought. They all awaited unexpected political moves and decisions from Saber with bated breath, although they understood that Saber wouldn't rush. Saber would realize that something was wrong with this Holy Grail War and would seek a way out of the situation. Saber had enough intelligence not to blindly follow all the instructions given by their Master and would start their own game – a subtle and large-scale one, very complex in many details, and therefore hardly accessible to most ordinary people. If it was the divine Arturia from Camelot, let the whole world lament the traitors who put her on the English throne. If it was Arturia Alter... Ritsuka felt his legs weaken at the thought. No. Under no circumstances. He hoped, he sincerely believed, that the Master who summoned Saber hadn't completely lost his mind and had made a mistake by inviting the Saber who still retained at least a tiny bit of humanity in this world ruled by Britain. Feeling his hands grow cold, Ritsuka remembered the terrible words of the knights of Camelot and Arturia herself, who explained her plan to save the people she had chosen.

"I won't apologize and I still believe that my actions are right, and there is not even the slightest mistake in my plan."

The game of the misunderstood genius of divine Arturia was a great success. She never expressed emotions, her face remained unchanged when, at her command, the legendary knights of Camelot destroyed innocent poor people who were left without shelter and means of existence. Those who arrived at the eastern gates of the great city waited for anything, but they were met with an unbiased choice from the cruel king when Arturia selected the most deserving from the crowd. Those whom she didn't choose faced arrows and the icy steel of a knight's sword. Ritsuka survived then only thanks to the noble Sir Bedivere, who came to Arthur's fortress to fulfill what he hadn't completed in his lifetime.

Sir Bedivere handed the legendary Excalibur, which he was unable to throw into the lake as instructed by the dying king, to the divine Arthur. His action had made him unworthy of death. But now he returned the sword to the king and, having fulfilled the mission for which he was resurrected by the great Merlin himself, vanished into the very fabric of the world around him, restoring his peace.

Incomprehensible to a human mind, the divine Arthur's motivations were presented by Ritsuka as such. But even from the perspective of the Servants, her plan seemed amoral and inhumane. King Arthur, assuming the role of the creator of the Universe. King Arthur, the punisher. King Arthur, devoid of memories of her legendary past and having lost the last connection she once had with humans. This was how Ritsuka remembered the divine Arthur and did not wish to experience such a thing again. The hair on his already disheveled head stood on end at the thought of repeating past events, but on a scale fitting the modern world.

If it is indeed her, the world is doomed irrevocably and there is no slightest chance of salvation.

Ritsuka pounded the table with his fist and covered his face with his hands, mourning his situation. He was as helpless as a child, and there were no Servants in the world ready to come to his aid except for his own. He felt like a wild beast trapped by poachers, desperately searching for an escape, but even the best minds of Chaldea could not help him. All they could offer him was waiting. Fujimaru was ready to wait for as long as necessary, but with each second of waiting, precious time necessary for victory was being wasted. Seizing his hair, Ritsuka sank to the floor and pondered. He still had a chance to train the Hogwarts students and make them true Masters. Summon their own Servants, unite their efforts, and win this war - that was their destiny. They did not choose this destiny, and not everyone among them would agree to it, but they could not escape it, because it had chosen them.

But they would not succeed unless someone invested enough mana in their summoning. Looking at the newspaper headlines, Ritsuka's gaze stopped on one of the photographs. A young, beardless face smiled at him from the paper, framed by long gray hair. If anyone were to help them, it would only be him.

Chapter Text

Harry glanced as Dudley measured the ingredients for the potion. He was weighing them on small silver scales, perfectly balanced. It was a skill of an experienced potion maker. Harry watched attentively as the scales oscillated and couldn't look away.

Servants... Mysterious creatures summoned only for the Holy Grail War. Heroes from the past, fictional and real. Great people, forever preserved in human memory. Servants stood above any magic. They surpassed humans in power and were invulnerable to any weapon. They called themselves mere tools in the great struggle for the Grail, devoid of feelings and needs, lacking humanity until the moment of summoning, but even those who acquired bodies don't receive it. It is quite natural that they are on a special level compared to ordinary humans.

Harry quietly set aside the book he was rereading with Dudley for the tenth time. It was the book "The Legend of the Great Grail" that they both studied in search of answers to their burning questions. Harry left the book on the table and turned to Dudley, who was still sitting in the armchair, thoughtful and gazing at the fireplace.

In the silence of the room, the crackling of burning logs in the fireplace could be heard, while the glow of the fire lazily reflected on the walls.

However, his thoughts were not on that at the moment. He pondered the meaning of the Great Grail and what dangers awaited those who decided to participate in the War for the Grail.

"Dudley, aren't you afraid to be involved in the War for the Grail?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows with interest and some concern. "I would never want to take part in it. Are all the heroes we've read about really so spiritual and willing to sacrifice their lives?"

Dudley smiled thoughtfully.

"I don't know, Harry. But people are all different, and we're always in search of something greater, aren't we? Maybe each of us needs to find our own faith and strength to achieve our goals."

Harry sighed, knowing that Dudley's words were true and complex, and he couldn't disagree. Both of them continued to contemplate in silence - Harry about how the Grail was so wise that it chose its own master, and Dudley about how faith could help in this situation. They both understood how difficult the situation was, but something urged them to keep searching for answers.

They both understood that the War for the Grail was inevitable, but even in this moment, they couldn't predict what the Great Grail was striving for and whom it would summon for its battle.

Harry glanced at his cousin, who seemed to be engrossed in something. He was sitting at the table, with his head bent, writing something.

Harry noticed that Dudley stopped writing and now was staring intently at his notebook.

"What are you doing?" - asked Harry.

"Trying to figure out which hero the Great Grail will summon for me", - Dudley replied.

"And how's it going?"

"Nothing", - sighed Dudley. - "I can't decide which one suits me the most. They are all so different."

Hermione, who could hardly answer this question herself, was not with them at the moment.

Despite their previous animosity and complicated relationship, Harry did not want Dudley to get involved in the upcoming war. He understood that Voldemort would definitely use their family connection against him. Harry didn't want innocent people to get hurt and, despite their past troubles, he wished nothing but the best for Dudley. Lost in his thoughts, he spent a few seconds searching for the right words. The answer that came to Harry's mind seemed unexpected, but as complex as it was, it was equally deep. So, without further hesitation, Harry replied:

"Listen," - said Harry. - "There is no right answer to your question. Nobody can say for sure which hero suits you best. But I know one thing: you can be your own hero. You can find the qualities needed for that and create your own story. That will be your Great Grail. You don't have to search for it if you want to fulfill your wish."

"I don't want to search for it for the sake of wishes," - Dudley surprised Harry with his answer. - "I already have everything I could wish for in my life."

Dudley glanced at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who were having dinner in the dining room.

"I'm doing this for them", - mumbled Dudley barely audible.

Harry understood him. They had given him everything, starting from parental love to all the material wealth he enjoyed. Throughout the years of their shared life, Dudley had always been their favorite, and his position hadn't changed at all in the past year when the Dursleys had warmed up to Harry. But now, it was about a real war, and suddenly the previously spoiled Dudley, with his motivation destroyed, spoke like a person whose life had been in completely different circumstances.

All Harry could do was exhale and silently marvel at the changes in his cousin. He was happy for Dudley, and at the same time, a sharp pain scratched his heart. Was there still something more?

If the Chosen Master is unable to infuse enough magical energy into the summoning to call forth a Servant, the Grail itself will provide all the necessary energy for the Summoning. In such cases, the Master only needs to be near the predetermined point where the Servant will be summoned. This point can only be marked with a special Circle. Unfortunately, the outward appearance of the correct Circle and the required formula remain unknown.

It seems that only Fujimaru knows how this Circle should look. And Voldemort and his Death Eaters as well. Fujimaru shared this knowledge with the students of Dumbledore's Army, but Harry personally swore never to use this knowledge and silently boycotted Fujimaru's homework. May he never need this knowledge, may all enemy Servants bypass him. May, may, may!

Saving one means the death of another. Therefore, the prophecy about you can set everyone on an overly selfish path.

These were Mash's words about the prophecy after the events in the Ministry. He couldn't help but notice how Voldemort's behavior and actions indicated his strong mania. Harry felt a strong aversion towards him and actively rejected his path. Mash's funny accent and cute appearance made Harry want to give her chocolate every time she pronounced her name as "Mas Kiryrite". Throughout the year, Harry became so close to Mash and Fujimaru that they sat together in the library and searched for materials for exams together. Although Fujimaru didn't take exams, he gave Harry valuable advice. From these conversations, Harry understood that Ritsuka's magic didn't work the way he thought, and that it could destroy anyone who followed this path. Although Ritsuka Fujimaru didn't consider himself a full-fledged mage and was just a regular hired guy, he did important work in Chaldea, fixing historical anomalies.

Previously, Harry felt a subtle connection with Voldemort, as if their destinies were strangely intertwined. But now, thanks to Ritsuka Fujimaru, he found a common ground with his new comrade. Of course, there was a small age difference between them, but it couldn't affect their communication. But the most important thing, perhaps, was that Fujimaru had already gone through many life trials that Harry was yet to experience.

Belief in oneself and one's chosen path, the protection of the Philosopher's Stone, saving Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley, and the fight with Voldemort at the graveyard - all these moments were incredibly difficult and required a lot of courage and determination. However, compared to Fujimaru's victories, they significantly paled.

Fujimaru was a living example that one can be nobody and still achieve great things if they allow themselves to dream of higher goals and don't give up their aspirations halfway. And who knows, maybe Harry will be able to achieve much more, finding his mission in life? Undoubtedly, Ritsuka Fujimaru will remain an inspiration and wise mentor for him on the path to reaching greater heights.

Harry's heart raced faster as he listened to Ritsuka Fujimaru's stories of his heroic feats. At night, his dreams were filled with images of knights wandering through the deserts around Camelot, cunning villains threatening the world, majestic fortresses, and the fox-like beauty of the mysterious Koyanskaya.

Even though Harry knew that his imagination sometimes painted these places in nonexistent colors, the characters present in Fujimaru's stories were alive and vivid. With each new tale, Harry immersed himself in a world of adventure and resisted the temptation to summon these ancient heroes to himself with the force of his will.

Sometimes he couldn't help but think that he would like to try his hand at such adventures himself, using his own talents. He knew that to do so, he would have to become a Master, and the internal struggle made him think that he himself would never call any Servants to help him.

Nevertheless, Harry continued to imagine and yearn for adventures in his dreams, even though he had to fight against his desires.

If the words about the Servant being able to be summoned by the Holy Grail and choose Harry as the Master come true, it will happen without Harry's involvement, as he ignored this opportunity and did not seek to become a Master. If the Servant is summoned, they will have to first find Harry and make a contract with him. However, an unpleasant thought occurred to Harry: what if the Servant does not wait for his agreement to the contract? Then Harry remembered Fujimaru's lessons and decided with a smile to use command spells for any scenario. But the idea that his orders may not conflict with the will of the Servant troubled him, as the command spells would not be expended in that case. This was a new and unpleasant consideration for Harry, which left him devastated.

There is a secret, well known only to a chosen few - the Holy Grail itself chooses its Master. It pays attention to those who are not defeated by fear in battle, but instead confront their opponents.

Jeanne Alter was insistent in her belief - it is a law, firm and unbreakable. During the summer, she even visited them several times and successfully pretended to be a foreign student, the boys' new acquaintance. In search of better treatment from the Dursleys, she often spoke French, talked a lot about France, and always cleaned up after herself, which brought Aunt Petunia to the brink of frenzy. Harry reluctantly believed Jeanne's words, and the more she repeated them, the stronger the fear consumed him. He was afraid to enter the Holy Grail War as a Master, but over time, doubts came to him more and more frequently. No matter what he said or did, inside him the struggle continued, and at some point, one side of the scale had to outweigh the other.

Not every Servant became one through great deeds and doing good; cruel villains who spilled much blood are also recorded as Servants.

Harry unintentionally recalled his nightmares about Jeanne. Until now, he had not told anyone about her past glory, but of course Hermione, with her vast knowledge, had long figured out what "Alter" meant in her name. After all, who doesn't know who the great Joan of Arc was? Hermione could easily solve this riddle and come to the conclusion that they were standing on the same side as not the great heroine of the past, but a cruel villainess, who in battle more resembled a soulless machine driven by one goal - to remain on the battlefield alone. For a moment, Harry returned to that night when Jeanne fought against Jack the Ripper. Until that day, he couldn't even imagine that someone could move so fast without feeling pain, easily breaking walls and ceilings with their body. Where an ordinary person would have disappeared into the past, Jeanne fought against Jack the Ripper as an implacable and unbeatable opponent, and he was scared of her.

Harry tried his best to remember what Jack the Ripper looked like and how he behaved in his presence, but all he could extract from his memory was a vague, grey image as if he had never crossed paths with the notorious killer. Jeanne, it seemed, did not treat him coldly, which often surprised Harry. Among her friends, she behaved naturally and even joked, occasionally laughing about her life and appearing like an ordinary girl, although somewhat impulsive at times. However, he knew Jeanne's past and was certain that any wrong move would lead to a new terrible tragedy. But deep down, he still believed that the heart of this girl still burned with the fire of the true Joan of Arc - it just needed to be kindled, breathing life into it.

Published by order of the Ministry of Magic

HOW TO PROTECT YOUR HOME AND FAMILY FROM DARK ARTS

The wizarding community is currently threatened by an organization calling themselves "Death Eaters". Observing simple safety measures will help you protect yourself, your home, and your family.

1. Try not to leave the house alone.

2. Be especially cautious during dark hours. If possible, schedule your activities to be completed before nightfall.

3. Thoroughly check the security measures in your home, ensure that all members of your family are familiar with emergency self-defense techniques such as Shield Charms and Disillusionment Charms, and underage family members possess Pairing Transgression skills.

4. Agree on secret signs with friends and relatives to eliminate the possibility of their appearance being used by Death Eaters through Polyjuice Potion (see p. 2).

5. If you suspect that someone in your family, colleagues, friends, or neighbors is behaving unusually, immediately contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. You might have come across a person under the Imperius Curse (see p. 4).

6. If the Dark Mark appears above your residence or any other building, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ENTER and immediately contact the Auror Office.

7. According to unconfirmed information, there is a possibility that Death Eaters are using Inferi (see p. 10). If you encounter an Inferius, IMMEDIATELY report it to the Ministry.

Jeanne Alter was intrigued by such brochures. She studied them intensely, and although she didn't speak about it directly, Harry was completely sure - the fate of Inferi when meeting her would be unpleasant.

In the past few months, Harry had read about a dozen similar brochures. Each of them intrigued Jeanne Alter in her own way. She studied them intensely, and although Jeanne didn't speak about it directly, Harry was sure - the fate of Inferi when meeting her would be unpleasant.

Harry and Jeanne continued to ask the same questions, trying to understand how King Arthur and Voldemort were connected. But all the clues seemed mysterious and unclear to them. The Death Eaters continued to carry out their terrible deeds, and the Ministry alerted wizards to this day by day.

Although Jeanne suspected something, she preferred to remain silent, while Hermione, who was always one step ahead, speculated that unknown Masters had entered the arena and had called upon King Arthur to join their side. These thoughts made Harry worry, and each time his mind became a hot cauldron filled with incomprehensible and mysterious thoughts.

He couldn't understand who could be behind Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and why the Grail had made this war three-sided. All Harry knew at this point was that he was not ready for what he was about to face when he became one of the Masters. And he certainly wouldn't easily digest this situation. But for now, the main thing was not to despair and to continue searching for connections between all these secrets and riddles in order to ultimately find answers to all the questions.

King Arthur Visited the Ministry of Magic

London, 15 July 1996 - Yesterday, an historic visit by King Arthur took place at the Ministry of Magic.

As you know, King Arthur has just been crowned and has already proven himself to be a true hero. He drove Jack the Ripper out of London, battled the London Monster, attacked flying saucers alongside Merlin, and stood against the Death Eaters. His bravery and courage leave no doubt that he is a true king.

However, his ascension to the throne was not entirely transparent. We all witnessed how the previous queen suddenly gave up her ambitions and throne in favor of Arthur. How could this have happened?

The reason is actually quite simple. Arthur has always been loved by his people, and his return was eagerly awaited. His feats became a sensation in England, and people rallied behind the new king. This was the final straw for the old queen. She realized she couldn't rival such popularity and support from the people. That's why she abdicated and retired.

But this doesn't diminish everything she did for England. She was an outstanding leader and a strong ruler, as well as a loving mother and grandmother. Her successors should be proud of her legacy and continue her work.

Turning back to King Arthur, we can proudly say that he is our hero. His accomplishments have exceeded all expectations, and we can only admire his bravery. We hope that he will continue to make our country strong and prosperous.

In conclusion, the entire editorial team would like to wish King Arthur success in his future endeavors and hope that he continues to serve as an example for all of us. Thank you for your attention.

Harry reread the article, and a smile involuntarily formed on his lips. He, Jeanne, Dudley, and everyone who was with him knew that King Arthur had returned from the depths of centuries and become the Servant of the Holy Grail. Someone had to have called him from the depths of centuries. Harry couldn't understand how people could happily smile and wave their hands in greeting to this event, which actually meant the beginning of the end.

Nevertheless, there was not a drop of joy in Harry's heart. He felt that the return of King Arthur was advantageous to unknown forces whose actions would only exacerbate the existing turmoil in the world. Therefore, he was horrified by what awaited him in the future and tried to find answers to all his questions before it was too late.

The Secret of King Arthur

London, July 20, 1996 - Lately, incredible events have been taking place in England, making us wonder that our world is not as simple as it seems at first glance. And one of the main protagonists of these events is King Arthur, who has returned from the depths of the past to protect and save England.

But what do we know about King Arthur? Why does he hide his face behind a mask? What is he really like?

King Arthur is a great historical figure who appeared in our world a few months ago and returned after many centuries to restore peace and order in Britain. He came to protect England from the dangers that threatened it from all sides. He fought against Jack the Ripper, the London Monster, the Death Eaters, and even UFOs. He demonstrated his bravery and courage, and the people of England wholeheartedly supported him.

But why does King Arthur hide his face behind a mask? Many say it is connected to his past. He returned from the depths of the past, and perhaps his face does not match our time. But there are other theories. Some say that the recently returned King Arthur is not genuine and hides his face to protect his loved ones and friends from danger. After all, if his identity were known, his loved ones could become targets for his enemies.

But the most interesting thing is that King Arthur received the British crown from the English Queen herself. She easily relinquished the reins of power in his favor without thinking about her heirs. But the people of England supported King Arthur, and now he rules our country.

Thus, King Arthur is the most mysterious figure in history who has returned to our world to protect and save England. He battles all the dangers that can threaten our country, and the people of England fully support him. But his possible secret identity and hidden face behind the mask leave many questions unanswered.

According to ancient prophecies, the king must return to England for its salvation. Arthur's return is one of the signs of the impending collapse of world history.

Harry did not know the text of the prophecies about King Arthur, but he could not resist thoughts of something very unpleasant approaching. Never before could Voldemort summon the support of great kings of the past, never before could he appeal through centuries to long-gone heroes or villains. Even before reaching the Grail, he had already come close to fulfilling one of his most cherished desires. Whether Arthur is on Voldemort's side or not, the War for the Grail completely eclipses all history before its beginning.

No one - neither Dumbledore nor Ritsuka Fujimaru, or anyone else - could explain to Harry what might happen next. Only Mash noted in her letters how well she now understands the purpose of her arrival from Chaldea.

Dear Harry,

Fujimaru-san is very doubtful whether we can change the fate of the world. We sent Jeanne Alter to the year 1994 to resolve the historical anomaly, but nothing changed. Now, we are here too, and we see: events are unfolding too unpredictably even for the best minds from Chaldea.

Ritsuka is afraid that we won't succeed in our mission. He even thinks that our attempts may only worsen the situation. It is currently impossible to predict how this Holy Grail War will end.

With respect,

Mash Kyrielight

Everything is clear. There is something in this War that no one knows. Only the Holy Grail could say what's wrong with it. But the Holy Grail remains silent and doesn't reveal itself. But if the Holy Grail still isn't trying to interfere in this War on its own terms, then not everything is so bad. Or perhaps the interference has already happened? Harry looked at the sketched Summoning Circle and absentmindedly scratched his head. Will he ever have the chance to calmly draw this Circle and summon his Servant? What if the inability to resolve this historical anomaly is due to his own inaction? Chills ran down Harry's spine at this thought. No, it can't be! It couldn't possibly be related to him. But the deepest depths of his soul revealed the opposite answer.

Harry watched as Dudley measured ingredients for a potion. He weighed them on small silver scales, perfectly balanced. A precision fit for a seasoned brewer. Harry watched attentively as their weighing pans swayed and couldn't look away.

Chapter Text

Aunt Petunia was very curious and couldn't resist asking the question:

"Who are your parents, Jeanette?"

For a moment, Jeanette closed her eyes and the image of a burned-down village appeared before her. The treacherous Burgundians left no stone unturned in Domremy; their rage knew no boundaries. They destroyed everything they could reach and killed anyone who dared to stand in their way. She also remembered the crazy Benoit, who would occasionally go into a frenzy and unleash his fury. His ferocious cry echoed in her memory, as he would occasionally lose control and vent his anger. No one wanted to see him, armed with an axe, outside of his designated cage! But Jeanette was never afraid of him and, despite her young age, could approach him and stop him with a single word, even in those moments. And now he lay there, dead in his iron cage. Jeanette's mind flashed through the famous Magic Tree of Domremy, but there was no one beneath it. Overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and horror, Jeanne took a deep breath.

"Sorry, but I can't remember my parents. My memory of them is heavily disturbed and blurred. All I remember is destruction and losing everyone I loved. It was the most tragic period of my life, and I am still recovering memories from it."

Aunt Petunia felt deep pity for Jeanne and said:

"Poor thing! I understand how difficult it is. You are so young, yet you have already experienced so much suffering. But despite everything, you have remained strong and brave. I am proud of you, Jeanette. But remember, you are not alone now." Her voice trembled, and her face changed, expressing all her emotions. "You have us now, and we will take care of you! We will do everything possible to help you! If you ever want to talk about your parents or recover your memories, know that we are always here and ready to help."

"Thank you so much," Jeanne replied, looking down.

Her memories returned to that very moment of the trial. She remembered with sadness that she had tried but couldn't illuminate the darkness that engulfed her life. Her memories didn't include her mother's face, which she desperately longed to see. All she remembered were negative events, as if Dementors had been lurking in her heart her whole life, diligently stealing every small and insignificant joy, causing her to see only pitch-black darkness in her life. Her memory had long become her personal branch of the Underworld. In her memories, she endured suffering and pain, received blows to the face, suffered from mockery, anger, and resentment from others, and burned in the square under the mocking laughter of a cruel and indifferent crowd. She walked this path of life amidst the darkness and gloom of the most dreadful memories. But little joys gradually penetrated her heart, awakening it and introducing notes of delight, like a song sung by a joyful child. She didn't even notice how this new mission had changed her life. New people and new experiences appeared around her. With each passing day, they convinced Jeanne that the colorful kaleidoscope of life has bright and joyful shades that inevitably accompany any strokes of darkness.

Aunt Petunia immediately noticed that Jeanne could be a beautiful bride for her beloved Dudley. Despite calling herself Mrs. Figg's distant relative, Jeanne's French roots made her an extraordinary candidate to be Dudley's wife. Mrs. Figg, of course, behaved somewhat strangely, and the Dursleys mostly interacted with her because they needed a nanny for their nephew. However, Jeanne's arrival completely turned their lives upside down.

Young Jeanne was simply charming, with beautiful facial features, a slim figure, and a petite build. Her hair had a natural silver tint, and her eyes were the color of amber - a combination that Aunt Petunia hardly saw every day in her life. Every time they met Jeanne, the Dursleys tried to involve her in their perfect family picture, in which they themselves behaved perfectly to create an illusion of a happy life, but sometimes they overplayed their role. At the same time, they showed sincerity, especially on the day Aunt Petunia decided to support Jeanne.

Harry, sometimes sinking into his deep thoughts, wondered what would happen if the Dursleys discovered Jeanne's true nature and past? How would their attitude towards her change if they learned about the millions of lives she had destroyed? These thoughts occupied him more and more, and he often embarked on a very deep voyage through his thoughts, continuously exploring them in hopes of finding answers.

Thus, Jeanne's relationships with the Dursleys became increasingly mysterious and intriguing. Despite the obvious fakeness in some situations, there were moments of sincerity, and each time Harry wondered how many secrets each person was hiding behind their mask and what would happen when those secrets became known to all.

Dudley, on the other hand, had already learned Jeanne's true character back at Hogwarts and had no desire to make her his bride. He imagined his future family as something more stable and down-to-earth, not necessarily with the most prominent beauty as his wife. To be honest, until last year, he couldn't even picture his own future, as his parents made all the decisions regarding his fate. Looking back now, he realized that he had been a fool his whole life, completely disregarding his parents and leading an empty lifestyle. Yes, he had been a troublemaker, and yes, he had made friends who shared his interests, but his life was spiraling downwards until last summer, and now he understood it perfectly. That owl had brought him not just a chance to prove himself, flying out for the first time from his safe nest; that chance was incredibly delicately tucked inside a parchment envelope with a wax seal depicting a crest with a snake, a lion, an eagle, and a badger. And now what? He reviewed his life and began it anew, not thanks to Hogwarts alone, but thanks to the fact that fate had so conveniently hit him over the head and plunged him into a completely unfamiliar and alien environment where no one could make decisions for him, an environment where he had to do the unthinkable - morally change and grow up.

At Hogwarts, Dudley found himself in the shadow of his cousin, who had become a true legend in the wizarding world. Who would have thought that it was thanks to Harry, then still a clueless baby, that the dreaded Lord Voldemort lost his powers! This news took Dudley a long time to digest. But even before he entered the school, he was sure - by getting there so late, he had to stand out in some way. Agatha Sanspark found her calling in these amazing dancing patterns hanging in the air and in transfiguration. Sam Brightwood, on the other hand, discovered his passion for caring for magical creatures and quickly became one of Hagrid's best and favorite students. Even Katie Mellowhate, with whom he crossed paths... When did he even cross paths with her outside of Dumbledore's Army lessons? It seemed like he had only seen her a couple of times because of her strange way of life. But even she decided that her talent was studying defense against the dark arts and started studying counteracting forbidden spells in closed classrooms and offices on her own. He heard rumors that she sometimes invented her own spells! He didn't know if it was true or not, but he definitely saw that each of them had found their place in this amazing world of magic, unique and unusual. And Dudley understood that it was not necessary to be a hero or a legend - it was enough to be oneself and find one's place next to those who accept and understand you. After all, true magic is accessible not only to wizards, but also to those in whom the power of friendship and love lives, and only they can unite everyone at Hogwarts and beyond.

At Hogwarts, Dudley made real friends and was certain that no matter what happened in life, they would always be there, always support and help him. He went through the whole school year with them, studying and practicing together. Now he often corresponded with Agatha and Sam, as well as with several other Muggle-born students who, like Dudley, had only recently acquired magical abilities last summer. He didn't stop talking to his old friends completely, but during their encounters, he tried to reason with them and steer them onto a different path. They reluctantly listened to him, fearing to argue with Dudley due to his size and strength. And throughout all of this, Dudley felt something he couldn't explain, something extraordinary and distant from the familiar. He felt that he had embarked on a completely new path, where he could serve others with a sense of complete satisfaction. Sometimes, he even imagined that he was close to finding his own destiny - the purpose of his own life, which had previously seemed completely unimportant and unknown to him - and fulfilling it. Learning about Voldemort's rebirth and the serious terror he unleashed, Dudley now believed that he had a duty to learn everything necessary to protect himself and his home from the Dark Lord and his followers. He even asked his parents for permission and, under Uncle Vernon's disapproving gaze, drew the sacred Summoning Circle on the garage floor and attempted to summon a Servant. Although no one responded to his summons and the Circle showed no signs of activation, as if it wanted to fulfill the task entrusted to it, Dudley still hoped that one day the time would come and the long-awaited visitor would penetrate the centuries-old barrier separating him from Dudley and appear in the Dursley's garage.

Believe it or not, Britain was now ruled by the returned King Arthur from ancient legends, whose face still remained unseen. Jack the Ripper recently roamed the streets of London again, disposing of his victims without the slightest remorse. And in the shadows, there lurked an inexplicable and mysterious monster over eight feet tall, who even frightened the military and fearlessly went up against tanks. Dudley understood perfectly well - the time had passed when he could afford to remain a powerless immovable stone and wait for things to happen on their own.

Dear Harry,

If it's convenient for you, I will come to your house at number four Tisova Street next Friday at eleven o'clock in the evening to accompany you to the "Burrow," where you have been invited to spend the rest of the school holidays.

If you don't mind, I would also appreciate your help with a certain matter that I plan to take care of on the way to the "Burrow." I will explain the details when we meet.

Kindly send a response with the same owl. Hope to see you on Friday.

Sincerely yours, Albus Dumbledore

On that day, Dudley, along with Harry, was expecting a visit from Professor Dumbledore. They had been preparing for this event since the moment Harry received the coveted letter. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, though not particularly enthusiastic about the news, had tidied up the house the day before the visit: they swept every corner, even removing the tiniest specks of dust, wanting to create a decent impression. When the streetlights went out, Harry woke up from his half-sleep in which he had remained the whole evening. Looking out onto the street through the velvet curtains, he saw Professor Dumbledore's silhouette approaching their house.

Dudley was already waiting for them downstairs, standing in front of the front door. When he saw the professor, his eyes lit up with excitement and he greeted the guest joyfully. But deep down, an unknown anxiety melted in his soul, as if his mind had begun to anticipate an approaching storm. It was clear that this visit meant something more than just a meeting with the headmaster.

"Wow! It's so great to see you today, Professor," exclaimed Dudley happily. "You look amazing!"

Aunt Petunia burst with joy and hugged her son, who had knelt before Dumbledore.

"Lily always said that you are a true genius, Professor. And now I suddenly find out that my Dudley also has the same wonderful abilities! Finally, our family has come to understand that magic is not just the fantasies and inventions of little boys, but something real and amazing!"

Uncle Vernon cautiously watched this scene, looking at Harry with disbelief and embarrassment. He still considered wizards to be questionable types, but even he found it difficult to resist Dudley's suddenly changed status.

"Well, Mr. Dursley, I assure you that your son has turned out to be a very capable and gifted young wizard," replied Dumbledore, smiling through his thick beard. "We are pleased to welcome him into our large and close-knit family."

With these words, Professor Dumbledore caught Harry's gaze and subtly winked. It seemed that he knew how much Harry longed to return to the magical world and reminded the boy that he was not alone.

"Professor... I'm ready," Harry hesitated.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Just one more thing, before we go." He turned back to the Dursleys. "As you undoubtedly know, in a year's time, Harry will come of age..."

"No," Aunt Petunia objected, opening her mouth for the first time since Dumbledore appeared.

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore politely expressed surprise.

"No, he won't. He is a month younger than Dudley, and Dudley won't turn eighteen for another two years.

"Ah, I see," Dumbledore kindly said, "but wizards come of age at seventeen. This applies to Dudley as well.

"Nonsense," muttered Uncle Vernon, but Dumbledore ignored him.

"As you already know, a wizard named Voldemort has returned to our country. The wizarding community is at war, and recently it has affected you as well. Lord Voldemort has tried to kill Harry several times, and now your nephew is in even greater danger than that day fifteen years ago when I left him on your doorstep with a letter explaining the murder of his parents and expressing hope that you would take care of him as your own child. You did not comply with my request. You never treated Harry as your son. From you, he saw nothing but neglect and often cruelty. The only thing that is comforting is that he, at least, has been spared the terrible damage you caused to your own son.

Uncle Vernon grew pale, tension filled the air. He had never heard such words from anyone, but they made him think. Dudley looked at his father intently, waiting for his decision. He wanted to believe that his father would understand, that magic was his true destiny."

Meanwhile, Dumbledore continued:

"The magic I invoked fifteen years ago gives Harry powerful protection as long as he can call your house his home. Although he was deeply unhappy here, although he was not welcomed here, although he was mistreated - at least reluctantly, you sheltered him under your roof. The magic will cease to work once Harry turns seventeen, in other words when he becomes an adult. I only ask one thing of you: allow Harry to return here once more next year. Then the protection will last until his seventeenth birthday."

Mr. Dursley slowly sat on a chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Harry, his expression tense yet decisive. Shocked and uncertain, but with burning eyes, he said:

"Do you think, Dumbledore, that I will accept this magical nonsense and simply allow Dudley to come back to you? All because of this Voldemort?"

Dumbledore reacted to his objection in a firm yet gentle voice:

"Fate's web intertwines around us, Mr. Dursley, and we are all links in that web. And if we reject our roles, we will doom many lives. All it takes for dark forces to triumph is for good people to do nothing."

Aunt Petunia waved her hands in horror.

"But that's our Dudley! How can we...?"

"Allow your son to make the decision for himself," Dumbledore responded gently. "Find out his own opinion."

All eyes immediately turned to Dudley.

"Dudley, you can stay here with your family if you decide so," Dumbledore began. "However, I must remind you of how much you have changed in the past year and how your attitude towards life has changed. Your parents care for you, but sometimes their care can be excessive," he added, addressing the Dursleys. "You may try to protect him from everything, but that will only lead to a day when he himself will set fire to all the straw you've prepared and ruin himself."

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia exchanged worried glances. They sensed a grain of common sense in the words of the elderly wizard, but they hesitated to talk to each other. With great difficulty, Aunt Petunia finally overcame herself.

"My sister, Lily... I envied her so much and I had always wished that at least my son, at least someone among my close relatives, could also be capable of performing miracles. And never, never in my life will I be happier than the moment when Dudley discovered this ability in himself."

Aunt Petunia desperately tried to hold back the tears, but they still started flowing from her eyes. She understood that she was about to be overwhelmed by these emotions, but she couldn't stop herself - she couldn't share her feelings with young Harry.

Finally, looking at her nephew, Aunt Petunia couldn't hold back any longer and went up to him, embracing him tightly. Harry felt so familiar and close in her arms that Aunt Petunia felt her heart breaking into pieces.

She cleared her throat and finally spoke, her voice rough from the overwhelming tears.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I don't know how this could have happened. I... I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to treat you that way."

Harry nodded sympathetically, feeling his aunt's tremble and noticing how she gently ran her hand through his hair. He didn't know what to say and simply stayed in her embrace, feeling the beginning of a calm settling in.

Aunt Petunia forgot about her usual cold behavior and now succumbed to these feelings that she had long ago frozen in her heart. But now, there were so many hopes resting on her young nephew Harry that she started to understand that she could no longer keep it all to herself, and now she had to open up to this boy who had forever changed her life.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't know what I was doing and why. You were... You were the only one... My sister's child, and I have noticed for a long time the wonders that happen to you. I was ashamed that I had such a sister, and my son could never be the same."

Uncle Vernon was visibly perplexed - his day had not gone according to plan. He hated anything that could disrupt his peace, especially if it had to do with Harry. Now he sat on his comfortable sofa, glaring at his son and flaring his nostrils in rage. He was barely holding himself back, although he didn't have much energy left for silence either. Harry and Dudley stood before Uncle Vernon, trying to appear resolute and unwavering, but their eyes betrayed their anxiety and uncertainty about their actions. He looked at both Harry and Dudley, baring his teeth like a bulldog, revealing his gleaming white rows. Uncle Vernon slightly tightened his lips and awkwardly shifted his gaze to his son. His throat constricted with emotional pain. He felt that he needed to do something important, but he didn't know what exactly. It was only then that he understood that he was capable of building worlds. Finally, Uncle Vernon looked at Dudley again, blinking slowly as if trying to decipher the mysterious signs on his son's face. With a groan, he slowly stood up from the sofa, reached out to his son, and spoke:

"Listen, son, I always wished for you to be as successful as me. But I understand that I was wrong. Last year, I saw you working with those strange kids, and I realized that you have changed. I didn't know that you would have to go to that school, but I wanted you to become better. Today, I'll give you a choice. If you want to go with them, then go. If not, then stay. Just let us know so that we don't worry. Understand?"

The senior Dursleys and Dumbledore stood nearby, but cousin Dudley seemed frozen in time. He stared at his father with a focused, thoughtful gaze before finally nodding in agreement.

Harry couldn't help but be surprised. He suddenly realized that he had never seen Dudley in such a state... ever. It was the moment when Harry understood that even his cousin was capable of thinking and living separately from the rest of the Muggle world, to separate his own world and his own views from the opinions of others.

But Dudley seemed apparently focused not only on his thoughts, he was also making a serious decision. Everyone around them held their breath in anticipation.

Harry also tensed up. He knew that this answer could determine their immediate future and remained silent, waiting for Dudley's words. The silence stretched on for several long seconds, during which one could even hear the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Finally, Dudley opened his mouth as if about to say something, but then hesitated, biting his lip. Harry glanced at his cousin's face, trying to discern any hint of what he was about to say.

Finally, Dudley answered:

"I want to go with Harry and Dumbledore."

Harry felt genuine relief. Until last summer, it had always been difficult for him to get along with his cousin, and he didn't expect him to agree to help him solve such an important problem, but everything went smoothly.

"Is your decision final?" his Uncle Vernon asked.

Dudley nodded hesitantly, and to Harry's greatest surprise, found new words immediately.

"Listen, Mom and Dad, I have something to tell you. A year ago, I was shocked by my new abilities, just like you. Who would have thought that I would become a wizard? In this past year, I have learned a lot. A terrible villain has appeared in the wizarding world, terrorizing the people of London for a whole year. He has started a new war, and no one will be safe in their own homes. When Dumbledore's magic, protecting our house, ends, we will all be in danger. I'm sorry that I'm doing this, but it's the best I can do for your protection."

When Dudley packed his things, they gathered again in the living room to say goodbye.

"Well, guys... It's time for us to go," Dumbledore finally said, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. "Until we meet again," he said to the Dursleys, who didn't seem eager to see him again.

Dumbledore put on his hat and swiftly left the room.

"Goodbye," Harry hurriedly said to his relatives and ran after Dumbledore; he was waiting for him, standing next to Dudley with two suitcases, one of which had a cage attached for Buckbeak.

"We don't have time to deal with luggage right now," Dumbledore said and pulled out his magical wand from under his cloak again. "I'll send your things ahead to the Burrow. But I would like you, Harry, to take the Invisibility Cloak with you. Just in case."

Harry struggled to pull the cloak out of the suitcase, trying to hide the horrendous mess from Dumbledore and Dudley's view. He stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into the inner pocket of his jacket, and Dumbledore waved his wand again — the suitcase and the cage with Buckbeak disappeared. Dumbledore waved his wand once more — the front door swung open into the cold misty darkness.

"Now, let's step into the night and embark on the pursuit of the alluring temptress, whose name is Adventure!"

Chapter Text

The evening darkness concealed the sky, and along with it, Harry, Dumbledore, and Dudley ventured into the depths of the unknown. Every step, every breath, filled with uncertainty and danger, thickened the pitch-black darkness that enveloped their path.

Under the bright stars drifting in the sky, they were about to reach their goal. The early hours of dawn entrusted them with a secret endeavor. The picturesque village of Badly Bebberton welcomed them, enticing them into its embrace. The charming village seemed to silently invite its visitors into the elusive reality of enchanting landscapes and hidden secrets.

Only when midnight approached did the professor announce that they were close to their destination. The door lazily swung open, disturbing the silence and calmness, revealing a mature Horace Slughorn, who had long abandoned the walls of Hogwarts. The seductive melody of the wooden door's click made hearts skip a beat with an anticipation of unfathomable danger. Horace artfully staged his own scene of chaos, erasing all traces of the massacre and his own secret intentions just minutes before their visit.

Convincing the old professor proved to be even more challenging than anticipated. He vehemently resisted, pushing aside all persuasion with the sole purpose of preserving the tranquility of his advanced age. However, Harry Potter, renowned worldwide, stood before him like a phenomenon from a previous world, his eyes burning with a shimmering flame of destiny. Slughorn dissolved in front of him, surrendering without a fight to the force that controlled his fate, as he desired to add the surviving boy to his collection of favorites. Only the boy himself didn't need to know about it.

They arrived at The Burrow before dawn. Dudley, who had never been a guest at the Weasleys before, looked around in astonishment and apprehension at their wonderful house, which seemed to be made up of seemingly incompatible parts, as if the house was constantly being built from whatever could easily be found nearby. Near the house, Harry spotted a mysterious structure that reminded him of a high-voltage power line support, a water tower, and an old television tower with a rounded dome on top. Lost in thought, Harry rubbed his forehead and turned around just in time.

"Who's there?" Mrs. Weasley asked anxiously from behind the door.

Harry recognized Mrs. Weasley's voice.

"It's me, Dumbledore brought me," he replied.

The door immediately swung open. Mrs. Weasley, a short, plump woman in an old green robe, stood on the threshold.

"Oh, Harry, dear! Goodness, Albus, you scared me. You said not to expect you before morning!"

"We were lucky," Dumbledore smiled, allowing Harry to enter the house ahead of him. "Snape was not as difficult to persuade as I expected. It's all thanks to Harry. Oh, hello, Nymphadora!"

Harry turned around and saw that Mrs. Weasley wasn't alone in the kitchen, despite the late hour. A young witch with a heart-shaped pale face and mouse-colored hair sat at the table, holding a mug with both hands.

"Hello, Professor," she said. "Hi, Harry."

"Hey, Tonks!"

Harry thought Tonks looked tired, even sickly, and her smile seemed forced. Her whole appearance was not as flashy as usual, without the usual bright pink, chewed bubblegum-like hair.

"I should probably go," she quickly said, getting up and putting on her cloak. "Thanks for the tea and the sympathy, Molly."

"Please, don't worry about me," Dumbledore politely said. "I can't stay anyway. I need to discuss some urgent matters with Rufus Scrimgeour."

"No, no, I really need to go," Tonks said, avoiding eye contact with Dumbledore. "Goodnight everyone..."

Tonks rushed out the door, squeezing past Harry and Dumbledore. A few steps away from the threshold, she turned on her heel and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed that Mrs. Weasley looked upset.

"So, we'll see each other at Hogwarts, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Take care, Molly, your servant."

He bowed to Mrs. Weasley, walked out into the yard, and disappeared in the same spot as Tonks. Mrs. Weasley closed the door, took Harry by the shoulders, drew him closer to the lamp on the table, and looked him over carefully from head to toe.

"You're just like Ron," she sighed. "You both must have been jinxed for growth. Honestly, Ron has grown four inches since I last bought him a school robe. Are you hungry, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry answered, realizing suddenly that he was incredibly hungry.

At these words, Dudley also perked up, but Mrs. Weasley understood the need for a second portion even without his words.

"Sit down, dears. I'll come up with something for you right away."

Harry sat down. Immediately, a fluffy ginger cat with a squashed face jumped onto his lap, curled up, and purred.

"So, Hermione is here too?" Harry asked happily, scratching Crookshanks behind the ear.

"Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday."

Mrs. Weasley knocked sharply on the large cast iron pot with her wand. The pot leaped onto the stove with a loud clang and immediately began to boil and bubble.

"Everyone is still asleep, we weren't expecting you for a while. Well, help yourself," she said.

She touched the pot again with her wand, it rose into the air, flew to Harry and tilted; then it did the same in front of Dudley. Mrs. Weasley barely had time to place a bowl under the stream of thick onion soup, which was steaming.

"Bread?" she asked.

But at that moment they were interrupted: a tall figure descended slowly from above. This tall figure seemed impenetrable. The stranger had a whirlwind of black hair, his face looked like that of a philosopher, and his height, over six feet, was impressively commanding. But the most striking thing about him was his incomprehensible attire - like that of a walking robot from science fiction movies, his leg was clad in a mechanical shell while on his right hand there gleamed a massive, heavy, metal glove from which bright electric discharges ran from his shoulder. Around his neck shone an ornament made of lavishly folded metal plates, unbelievably shimmering under the rays of light. Underneath all these incredible contraptions, Harry saw an old-fashioned blue suit and a white silk glove on the other hand. The stranger's eyes shimmered in all shades of a night luminary, and with these two fires he pierced the souls of the astonished guests.

Looking into them, Harry saw the burning enthusiasm of a young man who had dedicated his life to great goals and devoted his life to electricity. He built huge towers, impressed the audience, and gave everything to his dream. In the face of this man, Harry saw the reflection of a great thinker and inventor who lived in the first half century. A rational and focused face, but now no longer with imposing mustaches, stared intently at Harry.

"Hello..." Harry stammered.

Further words got stuck in Harry's throat, who was stunned by such a meeting gaze. Mrs. Weasley, turning to him in amazement, unexpectedly turned around to see the newcomer. At that moment, Harry noticed that the man had placed his right hand on his chest and neatly placed his left hand behind his back, demonstrating nobility and respect with his whole manner. Then he bowed to them, waist-deep.

"I apologize for interrupting your early breakfast, young guests. I had to make sure that nothing unexpected had happened," he said with dignity and seriousness.

"Nikola, everything is fine. Allow me to introduce you to the young men – Harry Potter and his cousin Dudley Dursley," Mrs. Weasley said to this mysterious stranger, then added with a smile, "Won't you have an early portion of soup?"

"I apologize, Mrs. Weasley. In these difficult times, as a Servant, it is my duty to protect my Master and those close to him."

With these words, he politely bowed to Mrs. Weasley and returned upstairs with noble grace.

"Wow!" exclaimed Harry. "I didn't think anyone from Hogwarts would be able to summon a Servant."

"And what's his name?" Dudley wondered.

"Nicola Tesla, he's Hermione's Servant," Harry answered.

The boys fell silent at these words, and Dudley let out a surprised whistle. He had drawn his Summoning Circle in his father's garage, but no Servants had appeared.

"Maybe it's not the right time yet," he said thoughtfully.

"Not the right time for what?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice carrying a hint of concern.

"Well, we... I mean, I tried to summon a Servant too, but it didn't work," Dudley sadly admitted, pouring the contents of his spoon back into the bowl before scooping up more soup.

"Well, you know..." Mrs. Weasley replied, her voice tinged with thoughtfulness and displeasure.

Could something unpleasant have happened at the Burrow in the past two weeks, and another Servant had caused trouble? Harry couldn't help but feel like a hostage to circumstances, where all the news reached him last. However, he didn't feel any resentment towards his friends for this—after all, an owl carrying a message about Servants could easily be intercepted, and a phone conversation could be overheard—instead, he felt a strong desire to uncover all the secrets as soon as possible. And preferably, for time to fly by like an invisible arrow until morning...

Chapter Text

The morning brought a surprise for Harry - a mysterious and elegant middle-aged man suddenly appeared before him. He was the embodiment of confidence and determination, with dark curls that gave his face an unshakable strength. His eyes burned with a dazzling, almost electric blue sparkle, showing just how gifted and intellectual he was, capable of conquering the world.

Characteristically, this great scientist wore a scientific suit with a high collar and bright blue cuffs, symbolizing his fascination and openness to new technologies. His strong physique and proportional limbs spoke of his power and energy. And in his hands were tools that testified to his genius and continuous creative work.

His appearance and clothing in shades of dark gray and blue simply radiated mystery and elegance. Nikola Tesla seemed to be a truly majestic being. Everything about him reflected his unparalleled intellect and potential, and his gaze, almost prophetic, penetrated through space and time, finding answers where they remained a mystery to ordinary mortals.

"Good morning, Harry Potter," the young genius greeted. "How did you sleep?"

"Good morning," Harry muttered in bewilderment. "I slept well, thank you."

"Then allow me to invite you to breakfast," the great inventor addressed him. "My Master is already waiting for you downstairs. And do not forget about your manners, my friend!"

With these words, Tesla left Harry and walked effortlessly out of the room, disappearing into the corridor among the samples of electrical inventions. In response, Harry could only shrug in confusion.

Later, Harry pondered deeply - how did Hermione end up with Tesla? Hermione got along well with any knowledge and was a talented student, but Harry never noticed her crossing the boundaries of learned lessons and showing herself as a truly creative person. Unlike Katie Bell, she never allowed herself to experiment with spells or even attempt to brew her own potion, an idea that suddenly came to her mind. But Tesla had already created several dozen different electrical inventions even at the Burrow, and to Harry's greatest surprise, they worked.

Thanks to Hermione, he remembered well the lessons from the history of Hogwarts, that electrical devices cannot work in a magical environment, which is why the Hogwarts Express was drawn by a scarlet steam locomotive while Muggles had long mastered electricity and made use of it in achieving their advancements, making the journey to Hogwarts much faster. But Tesla, with his example, showed that even wizards do not know everything about electricity...

"... and I believe their conclusions are too limited, which is why they do not see the grand opportunities that electricity offers," Tesla said convincingly. "Soon, Muggles will create devices smaller than a matchbox that will allow them to listen to radio broadcasts and watch films. The CEO of a huge company will be able to speak a word in Paris, and it will be heard immediately in New York, Brussels, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, and even on other distant planets, far beyond our Earth. And the most amazing thing is that all of this will be achieved without any magic. I predicted this at the end of the last century, and now my words are becoming closer to reality."

At breakfast in The Burrow, lively conversation filled the air. Fleur, who had decided to marry Bill, was staying with the Weasleys and helped Mrs. Weasley around the house like a caring daughter-in-law. The Weasley twins proudly showed Harry their newest acquisition - suits made from the rarest dragon hide. Meanwhile, Ron, unstoppable in his efforts, tried to demonstrate his newly summoned Servant to everyone. Unfortunately, all his attempts were in vain as no one appeared despite Ron's instructions. This brought laughter from his brothers, and George, who took the situation lightly, sympathetically patted Ron on the shoulder before ceremoniously declaring, "The audience is open! Show yourself, Servant!"

Footsteps echoed up the stairs and another red-haired being descended. One could say it was an unknown member of the Weasley family. Upon seeing him for the first time, Harry blinked and thought, "Isn't this just another prank by the twins, a guest with obvious familial resemblance?" But only one glance lingered on this guest and all doubts vanished instantly. Before him stood a person with distinctly hunting eyes that shimmered with thoughtfulness. They were filled with determination and bravery. This person walked with firmness and grace, tall but slightly shorter than Tesla himself, dressed in green attire perfect for walks in the forest. But as soon as he spoke, Harry sensed two things about him at once: undeniable charisma and resemblance to the twins.

"My dear fellow citizens and noble ladies present in this humble estate! Allow me to introduce myself - Robin Hood, valiant hero, guardian of justice, and fighter against injustice. My magnanimity, generosity, and courage, as well as your honorable ancestors and the great resistance to darkness, bind our hearts together. Let the face of villainous injustice tremble when we, united and unwavering in our determination, gather on these lands! Rise, dear friends, and let me join your sunny gang!"

Ron sighed heavily, desperately trying to hide his anxiety, but his own gaze gave him away. He silently raised his hand, and Harry saw a complex symbol woven into his palm.

"I believe you, Ron," Harry gently patted his shoulder.

"And I do too," Dudley tried to cheer him up.

"What should I do now?" Ron worried.

"Under no circumstances should you use the Command spell," Hermione intervened. "Using that spell now could be a shortsighted decision! Talk to the Servant you summoned when you have the opportunity."

"Alright..." Ron lowered his gaze, agreeing with her words.

Harry paused for a moment, then decided to change the subject, hoping to distract Ron from his troubles. He didn't want to discuss complicated matters like wizards using electricity, and the topic of King Arthur came to mind first among those that had enchanted him in recent days.

Tesla instantly responded without a moment's hesitation.

Smoothing his dark hair and raising his eyebrows, he began his story with deep insight:

"King Arthur, my young friend, was a great leader, whose greatness is incomprehensible to us humble mortals. He was flawless in his pursuit of justice and the fight for noble ideals. Like a drop of velvety mist, he penetrated our hearts, becoming a symbol of courage and selflessness.

Harry and Ron listened with open mouths and eyes, absorbed by every word, as if they were being engulfed by the hungry fire of an exciting adventure. Sensing the whirlwind of emotions sweeping over him, Harry continued:

"I have always admired the stories of his kingdom, his sword Excalibur, and the Knights of the Round Table. But, perhaps most importantly, it is his ability to unite people, to embody the idea that even in a world full of divisions and fire, unity and peace can be found, and dreams of justice can become a bright light in the darkness."

Harry paused, feeling his voice hanging in the air like a miracle that brings the story to life. Ron, feeling the same energy, looked at Tesla, his eyes burning, and had something to say:

"King Arthur is not only a symbol of valor and courage, but also a symbol of brotherhood. His knights, fighting side by side, shared their blood and sweat. And I believe that such friends are stronger than all the forces of darkness combined. Sadly, my servant is not like that."

"And what do you think..." Harry began, somewhat lost.

He was trying his best to distract Ron from thoughts of his servant.

"Oh, feel the weight of this one Servant who has seized power in Britain. It is truly worrisome. I can already foresee a war, not because King Arthur took on the task of defending the country, but because of the people for whom he is merely a tool. They clearly have something terrible in mind, consciously provoking the situation. But soon you will all understand."

"And what does that mean? So, Arthur will defend the country from external threats?" Dudley asked skeptically.

Tesla just smiled mysteriously.

"He is a Servant of great power, believe me, young man. And his leadership qualities are mind-blowing, as they say. But every leader has their own trials."

"And what are these trials?" Harry began to ask, but then changed his mind - after all, Tesla said that everything would become clear very soon. And why ask questions if the answer will be known soon?

"Oh well. How will the War for the Holy Grail develop?"

"Oh, my dear friend!" Tesla smiled. "Not all the chess pieces are in position on the board yet, and the war for the Holy Grail has already begun since last autumn. It has claimed the lives of many innocent people, but even more will be sacrificed in the future when the pieces start developing their strategies under the guidance of their Masters."

"And what are the pieces on the board?" Harry asked softly, nervously concerned about Britain's future.

Tesla looked at him vaguely and opened his mouth, preparing to say something, but instead just nodded thoughtfully.

"You know, my young friend, the War for the Grail is something even more terrifying than you can imagine," he said, shedding the most consistent covering of his speech. "The great and mighty Servant has begun to deploy his army, but there's no guarantee that it will be on the side of good. He is a symbol of hope and salvation, but nothing lasts forever, right? And the trial that awaits him will shock all of us."

The war that had begun ruthlessly devastated numerous homes in London, leaving only ashes and destruction. Harry's face paled with fear and powerlessness.

"What should we do?" he whispered, feeling his heart constrict with the horrible, treacherous darkness that was gaining strength in the world.

"We must fight," a fire ignited in Tesla's eyes, as if he himself had become the embodiment of struggle and bravery. "We are the weapon that will be the last hope for our world. But remember, every shot will cost blood and tears. You must be prepared for the heaviest sacrifices."

Harry felt as if the weight of the entire world was pressing down on him. He took a deep breath, gathering all his willpower under Tesla's electric gaze.

"I'm still not ready," he said, devoid of any determination in his voice. "I don't want to let this evil swallow our world. But I'm not ready for you to fight for us until the last drop of blood."

Tesla didn't say a word in response, only giving him an understanding look. Hermione, Dudley, and Ron didn't say a word either, and even George and Fred ignored what was said, which made Harry feel like a complete stranger among his friends for the first time.

All day, Tesla tinkered with his tower in the Burrow's yard, constantly climbing up, tightening something, adjusting, all with the most enthusiastic expression. In the evening, he invited the kids into the dome of this tower, wanting to show them something beautiful. Only Hermione and Tesla dared to go up, while the others decided to watch from a distance. The wizards probably didn't take his inventions seriously, and Dudley was talking to Bill about something.

Tesla waited for the moment when the sun disk disappeared behind the clouds, and at that moment, the tower lit up. Harry shielded his eyes from the blinding brightness and flinched when thousands of lightning bolts flashed and shot in all directions like celestial arrows. Each time the echoes of thunder reached his ears, Harry's heart raced madly. In the downpour accompanied by this celestial spectacle, he saw the Northern Lights for the first time - a magical glow reigning over everything. He saw the mysterious glow around his own body and around all living creatures near him - even around every color and leaf on a tree. Power and grandeur resided in each lightning strike, swaying the slope of this tower in its astonishing dances.

Harry followed the path of each electric discharge that ruthlessly tore through the air for tens of miles, and he trembled with awe. This extraordinary evidence of the cosmic scale captivated his thoughts and gaze. He could never have imagined such power concentrated in the hands of an ordinary mortal. But Tesla was not an ordinary mortal. First and foremost, he was a walking revelation that triumphed over all notions of human capabilities and intellect.

Under the hemisphere dome that served as Hermione's sanctuary, there was a man whose power made even the lightning obey his will. Harry had never before felt such greatness and admiration towards a human being. Knowing that this man was on their side only increased his respect for him. Such was the Servant of Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

The bleak and cold circumstances of the weeks Harry spent at the Burrow mirrored his inner prison. The once lively and joyful garden now appeared lifeless and empty, like an abandoned graveyard of hopes. Playing Quidditch with Hermione and Dudley only served as a reminder of their hopelessness, as they battled against Ron, Ginny, and occasionally Cedric Diggory, dark figures who mercilessly crushed their hopes.

The news that filled the world continued to be a series of tragedies and catastrophes. The fallen wizards emerged from a darkened past like ghosts, making each step Harry took feel filled with death and decay. Dementor attacks became the background music of his existence, shrouding the world in gray clouds of hopelessness and despair.

Dark shadows loomed over Harry James Potter on these somber days, crawling invisibly into his heart and mind. Lupin had shared the news of Karkaroff's death, another loss in the bloody saga of wizards. But even more horrifying were the words about Sirius's brother, etching themselves into Harry's memories, piercing his soul with emptiness and longing. He had never known Regulus, but now, more than ever, he felt the danger looming over his godfather.

The comfort cake offered was just as doomed as the happiness of its recipient. Mrs. Weasley, with a pale face, suggested distracting themselves from suffering and misery by searching for a mournful illusion that lost its reality in the icy swirls of inevitability. Mr. Weasley, cold and ruthless, shattered Harry's remaining fragile hopes by mentioning the closing of Ollivander's shop, an additional reminder of the growing darkness consuming all that is living.

After a gloomy and dark birthday that was permeated by a somber atmosphere, Harry found letters from Hogwarts in his mailbox the next day. But instead of darkness and cold, they brought joy and excitement. It turned out that Harry had become the Quidditch team captain, and although he couldn't fully enjoy this fact, it was still an honor. Hermione, usually always positive and cheerful, added to his joy by informing him that he now had equal rights with the older students. Ron, too, was shocked, seeing a similar badge on his brother Charlie, and he supported Harry.

Mrs. Weasley, though tired, decided to go over the book list and focus on positive things, distancing herself from the gloom of recent news. She immediately planned a future trip to Diagon Alley. Ron, although worried, couldn't resist making a failed joke about Voldemort in the Flourish and Blotts bookstore, and Mrs. Weasley scolded him angrily.

Saturday morning arrived, bringing with it dawn and hope. Mrs. Weasley resolved to refrain from yelling at her children. However, as they went shopping, every step became more exciting, as if frightening shadows surrounded them. Bill, like the king of the celebration, presented Harry with a bag of gold from his own vault, which became a symbol of good luck for him. Fleur, filled with secret strength, quietly teased Ginny, who laughed merrily, feeling the fullness of life. They traveled in a special Ministry car, which briefly created an atmosphere of comfort and safety.

Mr. Weasley warned that Harry would be under guard, adding a sense of protection, like an invisibility cloak shielding him from the dangers of the world. At the same time, he felt uneasy about the upcoming trip to Diagon Alley with security.

They slowly crossed the threshold of the "Leaky Cauldron" following the last rays of dying light. The dusty floor creaked beneath their feet, sounding like a hoarse moan in the silence. Looking around, they found the room empty, only the owner of the lifeless tavern, the wrinkled and toothless Tom, tragically empty, remained on his worn-out chair. Through the smoky haze, his thick fingers peered out from under the dark noodles, framed by baby skin that contorted his face in folds of pain and loss. Hagrid walked past him with a noise and, soaring through the shattered hopes that lingered in the air, firmly announced that something much more important was happening now. Tom only nodded slightly, immersing himself in his quiet role of self-denial.

Harry, Hermione, Dudley, and Ron, enveloped in anxiety and the absurdity of their surroundings, felt awkward and uncomfortable. They walked through the secret passage, opened like an obsession, and found themselves in a cold, lifeless courtyard where the garbage bins, like homeless souls, hopelessly moaned and tried to comfort each other. The bone-chilling wind whispered ominous stories hidden in every crack, making them shudder with a nauseating premonition of the unknown.

Hagrid approached the wall, which concealed all this tangled surrealism within it, and pierced it with strong blows from his umbrella. An uneven brick fell down, leaving an opening resembling the jaws of a starving monster. Before them, a view opened up, so gloomy and clouded that even the bravest heart froze in their chest.

They inconspicuously infiltrated a narrow alley lost in the mundane realm of death. Everywhere hung the posters of the Ministry of Magic, seeming like prophets of terrible times through the mist, on which images of notorious Death Eaters clearly manifested themselves, menacingly grinning in the darkness. The pharmacy window, as if cursed, was covered with the contemptuous smirk of Bellatrix Lestrange, as if she herself watched every step they took.

By the merciless fate, Ollivander's shop was boarded up and abandoned. Throughout the alley, ransacked stalls and crushed tents were scattered, their vibrant colors and acidic smells carried by the wind, like ghosts of past destinies. In the distance, the mournful howling of discarded dolls and shattered hopes could be heard. But they could not stop their path, they moved forward, stepping on the trembling damp ground in anticipation of an unpredictable encounter with darkness.

The darkening twilight enveloped Diagon Alley with its veil of mystery and enigma. Under its fading light, the golden lights of the shop windows turned into indistinguishable spots, as if an effaced watercolor accent on a dark canvas. Barely rustling with darkness, the alley began to captivate all senses, enveloping them with intrigue and magic.

The robes were bought at Madam Malkin's shop. As soon as Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the famous magical tailor's, they immediately noticed a strange boy standing near the mirror. He had a pale, almost transparent blue face and light hair that resembled moonlight. However, their attention was drawn to his magnificent robe, which seemed to emit light from the store's sources.

Draco Malfoy whispered for only them to hear:

- If you're wondering, Mum, what that smell is, it's just a mudblood who just walked in.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at him with disdain, as if they were looking at a terrible insect crawling on the ground.

The loud commotion in the store caught Madam Malkin's attention, and she grumbled indignantly, demanding politeness and decency from the visitors.

"What kind of expressions are there in my store?" exclaimed Madam Malkin, running out from behind the hanger with a tape measure and a magic wand in her hands. "And I ask you not to wave your magic wands here!" she added, looking towards the door, as Harry and Ron had already pulled out their wands and aimed them at Malfoy.

From behind the hanger, Narcissa Malfoy emerged with a slow, dignified stride, like a proud queen.

"Remove it immediately!" she coldly ordered Harry and Ron. "If you attack my son again, I will ensure that this action becomes your last."

"Oh yeah?" said Harry, stepping back and looking straight into her well-groomed, arrogant face, despite its pallor, so similar to her sister's face. Harry was now as tall as her.

"And what will you do - unleash your Death Eater friends on us?"

Madam Malkin gasped and clasped her heart:

"How can you say such things... such risky accusations... Please, put away your wands!" she pleaded.

Narcissa's face remained unchanged. Many thoughts could be read in her eyes. She didn't utter a word, but her stern gaze spoke for itself. What happened after the transformation of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange into Masters and the summoning of Death Eaters by Voldemort's will? What went wrong? Narcissa didn't know the answer, but a sinister feeling grew in her heart, strengthening her resolve at the same time.

- You're hiding something, Narcissa.

Narcissa tensed up and slightly nodded her head, as if ready for a fight. Her hands clenched into fists, and her body leaned forward slightly, as if prepared to jump. He couldn't read her thoughts, but he could sense that something was happening and decided to trust his intuition.

Malfoy stumbled awkwardly, tripping on his long cloak, making himself look pitiful.

"You're just another young man who thinks he can save the world," Narcissa addressed Harry, helping her son to his feet. "But you're mistaken, Potter. The decisions have already been made, and my place is with my family."

But Harry didn't lower his wand.

"Harry, don't!" Hermione pleaded, clinging to his arm. "Snap out of it... you can't... you'll get into trouble..."

Narcissa felt a timid determination awaken inside her. Her face, once filled with doubt, now reflected excitement and hope. A spark ignited deep within her eyes, symbolizing the possibility of changing Draco's fate. Her hands, previously clenched tight with trepidation, now relaxed, as if ready to face a challenge. Narcissa sighed pensively, as if making a decision that would require her deepest emotional investment. Because only the kindest and most caring mother could take that final step she was about to take.

"Draco, my boy," she said, adding a touch of motherly tenderness to her voice, "It's time to choose your friends wisely. Slytherin doesn't always offer the best options."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione listened with interest, not expecting such a turn of events. Narcissa, surprised herself by her own words, spoke clearly and with meaning. Suddenly, she radiated a bright sunny light in the eyes of the golden trio, leaving them speechless.

Harry and Ron didn't bother buying any ingredients at the pharmacy since they were no longer studying potions, but they both bought a large box of owl treats for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. They continued on their way in search of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the shop owned by Fred and George, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every two minutes.

"We don't have much time," Mrs. Weasley said. "We'll just take a quick look and then head back to the car. We must be almost there. House ninety-two... ninety-four..."

"Wow!" exclaimed Ron, coming to a sudden stop.

Amidst the dull storefronts plastered with Ministry posters, Fred and George's shop stood out like a fireworks display. Passersby couldn't help but glance at their window for an extended period, and some even stopped as if enchanted, unable to tear their eyes away. The window display on the left of the entrance dazzled with an incredible variety of items that bounced, spun, lit up, jumped, and squealed. It was almost painful to look at the array of colors. The window on the right was entirely covered by a giant poster, dark purple like the Ministry posters, but with giant bright yellow letters blazing:

"Why is everyone so concerned about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

It's better to worry about He-Who-Can't-Hold-His-Guts-In!

He's cunning, he's quick!

From him, from long ago,

The whole country gets constipated!"

Harry burst out laughing, and he heard a muffled groan beside him. He looked around and saw Mrs. Weasley, speechless, unable to tear her eyes away from the poster. Her lips moved, silently repeating, "He's cunning, he's quick."

"They'll be killed in their own beds!" she whispered.

"They won't be!" reassured Ron, laughing along with Harry. "This is brilliant!"

Inside the shop, magical foam was foaming, colorful confetti was scattering, and tiny lights were flying. Harry and his friends entered a completely different world, where there was no room for familiar worries and fears. Regardless of age, everyone found something magical and wonderful for themselves here.

Fred and George's shop was packed to the brim with all sorts of goods. The shelves were overflowing with the twins' wild and unique creations that couldn't be found anywhere else. Playful magic wands glowed in a luxurious rainbow shimmer, creating a vibrant symphony of colors and smiles.

Harry and his friends couldn't believe their eyes when they saw a massive magical fountain, shooting a fireworks display of rainbow splashes. Every customer could gather magical soap bubbles and create their own enchanted tale, jumping and laughing within the colorful bursts of joy. Somewhere near the ceiling, a tiny figure in the shape of an inflated Ambrosius floated among many other quirky objects, and a huge array of multicolored balloons filled the air.

Harry and his friends walked through the shop as if it were a museum of happiness, where each exhibit genuinely delighted visitors. They tried on extraordinary outfits that changed colors with each movement, creating magical pictures. The kids played with cheerful toys that jumped from hand to hand, bringing out incomparable magical smiles.

The hearts of the heroes froze in sincere bliss, and the sparks in their eyes shone even brighter than the most dazzling lantern. Harry and his friends became part of this bountiful and joyful atmosphere, where neither worries nor problems had a place. They wanted to spend the rest of their lives here, as inside Fred and George's shop were treasures of fun and unbridled happiness.

But time flew like magical sand in an hourglass, and the gracious shop of Fred and George had to let our company pass through its magical doors. They left the shop with hearts full of happiness, joy, and the most positive emotions. They looked back and realized they would never forget this magical place, where every moment was filled with everything they lacked in their ordinary lives, and they promised themselves to come back to the marvelous store of Fred and George someday.

Returning to Diagon Alley from the twins' shop, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dudley were stunned by the sight of a life that, despite the darkness, thrived here even on the darkest days. Except for the closed and looted shops, the crowd of people gathered on this day and hour was astonishing. Harry glanced at the people, so numerous that it seemed impossible to fit so many wizards in Diagon Alley, even on its busiest days. For Harry, who was used to the usual hustle and bustle of the alley before starting his third year at Hogwarts, when he ran there after a visit to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, such a crowded view seemed simply unattainable. He now even felt that the previous busiest days were completely empty and lonely.

However, the chance to experience the vibrancy of Diagon Alley and taste Fortescue's delicacy still remained. After the twins' shop, Florean's café was the only place that continued to welcome visitors. It was incredibly fortunate for them that the famous ice cream vendor still delighted people with his sweet delights. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dudley savored each spoonful of ice cream, with each bite filling their mouths with a unique flavor, while they enjoyed the warm atmosphere created by Florean in his beautiful and cozy café.

Extremely satisfied after indulging in incredible ice cream and filled with warm feelings in their hearts, the trio of friends realized that it was time to leave Diagon Alley behind. They had to make their way through the massive crowd, which was tightly packed, leaving only a narrow passage. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dudley were determined to cross this human ocean.

Stepping out onto the street, they were greeted by a cool spring breeze that enveloped them with freshness and whispered lively gossip of the past winter. The light of the late evening seeped through the shining windows of the buildings, creating playful beams of light on the streets. It was clear that the district was still alive with its active life, filling the air with laughter and voices.

The trio pushed through the bustling crowd, feeling like small boats navigating through the sea of people amidst tumultuous waves. Each step was accompanied by noise and clamor, with the voices of passersby blending into an indistinguishable hum.

But the friends did not despair, for they were together and resigned themselves to the challenge they had to face in order to reach their goal. Sparks of determination flickered in their eyes, reflecting their thirst for adventure and new discoveries.

They clasped hands and began to push through the crowd. Step by step, they fought their way through the aesthetic chaos and invisible barriers, determinedly making their way through the sea of people. But beneath this mass of bodies, twilight, and rustling, there was something greater - the life of Diagon Alley, infused with aspirations, hopes, and unwavering spirit. In every glance, in every whisper, there was a force that filled this dark street with life and energy.

With each step they took, they delved deeper into the crowd, like defiant explorers unafraid of obstacles. Occasionally, one of them, whether it be Harry, Ron, or Hermione, would redirect their gaze to capture one of the small moments in this noisy ocean - a smiling child on their father's shoulders, a lively conversation among a group of teenagers, or a woman with a basket of brightly colored flowers standing out against the gray crowd. All of this added drops of color to their inner landscape, giving them confidence and strength.

This was Diagon Alley, a place where magic and reality merged in a whirlwind, where every brick held its secrets, and every passerby carried their own story. It was a place where mystique lingered in the air, where the impossible became possible, where every step opened up a new facet of destiny. And even in these dark days, Diagon Alley retained its vibrant essence, awakening in people a sense of adventure and risk beyond ordinary reality.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dudley struggled to squeeze through the noisy crowd of onlookers. The human sea swirled and rocked around them like a tumultuous ocean in a storm.

Shoulders and backs of strangers pressed them into the wall of the nearest shop. Someone stepped on Harry's foot, someone pushed him in the side. Hermione nearly lost her shoe when she was tossed into the whirlpool of bodies.

Ron squeezed through behind her, clutching the hem of her cloak. For a moment, the crowd separated them, and Hermione disappeared from view. In a panic, Ron fought his way forward until he once again caught hold of the familiar fabric.

Dudley had it easier - he literally bulldozed through the crowd, encountering little resistance. Harry immediately thought - wizards probably fear such an imposing guy.

Harry walked last, shielding his friends from the pressing wave of curiosity from behind. Someone pulled at his sleeve, almost knocking him over. It was an elderly witch who tightly gripped his shoulder, preventing herself from falling, her sharp nails digging in.

It seemed like this crowd was living its own life, consuming and crushing everyone in its path. They miraculously managed to move forward for a few steps...

Ahead stood a mysterious figure in a long sapphire cloak and a golden lion mask. An aura of mystery and absolute power surrounded the stranger, distorting the contours of their mighty silhouette.

It felt as though this figure radiated the strength of ancient kings, whose gaze made even stones tremble. It was sensed that with each step, with each wave of the hand, this mysterious stranger controlled destiny itself. They were enveloped by an atmosphere of greatness and significance.

Even without seeing their face beneath the mask, the crowd respectfully parted, feeling an instinctive tremor in the presence of this powerful lord. It seemed like one glance from them could penetrate through, read the most hidden thoughts...

"Harry Potter?! It's Harry Potter!" exclaimed someone nearby.

"Harry? The Boy Who Lived? He's here?"

"Harry Potter? Harry's here?" the crowd buzzed like an angry swarm of bees.

The crowd instantly erupted, swaying in a massive wave, pushing the stunned Harry towards the feet of the lion mask.

It seemed like this enormous mass of people came to life, transforming into a mythical creature with a thousand limbs and voices. Harry felt like a helpless speck in the face of its unstoppable force.

He was flung into the center of the circle, right at the feet of the towering figure. Harry barely managed to stay on his feet, miraculously avoiding falling flat before this mighty stranger.

The crowd respectfully cleared a path, allowing Harry to fully experience the power of the aura of mystery and authority emanating from the royal figure... and the horror of his situation.

The mask slowly turned, and the sea of people respectfully parted before the trio.

Harry felt as though time had stopped. He was a tiny moth caught in the web of a menacing predator. What would this powerful unknown force, embodied in the lion mask, do?

His heart pounded loudly, resonating in his temples. Each second stretched infinitely. Harry dared not move, feeling the gaze from the black abysses of the mask - predatory, deadly. Sticky sweat streamed down his back.

Finally, the mask slightly inclined and made a welcoming gesture with its hand - simple, but full of confident power.

Harry let out a relieved breath - today, the noble predator spared his life. He could only be immensely grateful to Fate for this precious moment...

- Ah, young Harry! - boomed a low voice from beneath the lion mask.

A shiver ran down Harry's spine upon hearing that voice. It carried the weight of ancient times and the mysterious wisdom of centuries.

- It is a long-awaited meeting with you. There is an important conversation to be had.

Harry's heart quickened. What does this legendary ruler want to tell him?

The teachings of Fujimaru about not neglecting communication with Servants flashed in his memory.

Harry made up his mind. Whatever secrets the great ancient king held, he would listen. Who knows what this conversation could decide in the future... or even now.

The crowd impatiently murmured, greedily catching every word. Harry felt trapped in the midst of these greedy gazes and whispers. But for some reason, this mysterious sage in the mask now inspired him with hope...

The camera shutters clicked frantically, desperate to capture a precious moment. The bright flashes blinded Harry, reflecting off the golden mask.

- Great honor, Your Majesty, - he muttered, feeling that this enigmatic sage had come to warn him.

- The path of truth is thorny, young wanderer, - the mask boomed mysteriously. - Sometimes, one must take detours to reach a noble goal. Do you understand, chosen one?

Harry felt a tingling of anticipation. These words held profound meaning...

- Yes, sometimes unconventional decisions lead to righteous victory, - he replied, not knowing what he was saying. It was something deep inside him that guided him - these were words of destiny.

Something glimmered beneath the mask in the otherworldly light of unknown worlds.

- I see in your eyes the thirst for truth, young wanderer, - the king continued in a barely audible whisper. - May it guide you through the mists of doubts, like a guiding star.

- But how do I discover this truth? - Harry asked. - Sometimes, everything gets so tangled!

The king fell silent, the mysterious light shining even brighter within the depths of the mask.

- Seek it in the most unexpected places, where the mind fears to tread. Sometimes, madness is wiser than reason. Search where the deceitful spider has spread its webs, whose name cannot be spoken.

The twilight deepened as Harry and King Arthur found themselves in the center of the frozen crowd. Only the trembling flashes of cameras disturbed the silence that enveloped everyone.

The king slowly raised his hand and ran it over his mask - a gesture tired and filled with sorrow.

"There are allies with pure souls," he whispered almost inaudibly. "I seek them, for I sense the storm."

He fell silent. It seemed as though a solitary tear slid beneath the golden mask, the glimmer of streetlights entangled within it.

"My path is shrouded in darkness, fate leads me towards the abyss," Arthur continued, his voice trembling. "But I will fight, my friend, I will fight for the morning light in the hour when night is at its peak."

A chill ran down Harry's spine - what horrors awaited them ahead? He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"I will find faith, Your Majesty. Dawn always comes after darkness."

The king placed his hand on Harry's shoulder - a simple touch, filled with hidden pain, the sensation of which so recklessly and easily transferred to Harry. Harry looked at the king in great astonishment, feeling the warmth of his hand on his shoulder - warmth, full of hidden pain unseen by others.

"May fate bless you, young hero!" the king whispered barely audibly. "Perhaps, farewell..."

Great Arthur slowly stepped back, his cloak billowing, revealing the shining armor beneath it. The crowd respectfully parted, making way for the king.

The king looked at everyone with a majestic gaze from beneath his mask and took the first step. Arthur moved solemnly and gracefully, each movement filled with mournful grace.

The cloak flowed behind him, resembling wings, and an aura of mystery enveloped his figure. The crowd froze in reverential silence.

And now, the silhouette of the king dissolved into the twilight of the alley. Only Harry's heartbeat and the rustling of cameras broke the ensuing silence.

Harry stood still, trying to comprehend what he had heard. The crowd around him murmured, chattered, and flashed with cameras. The cacophony of voices, rustling, and whispers washed over him. Faces and figures blended in a phantasmagorical dance. Someone tapped his shoulder, someone touched his hand. Questions, shouts, laughter merged into an indistinct murmur.

Harry didn't react; the world around him dimmed, only the king's words echoed in his consciousness. What were those ominous hints? What storm loomed?

He flinched, feeling someone's hand, and turned around. Hermione stood by his side, clearly concerned.

"Harry, are you alright? What did the king say to you?"

He slowly shook his head. Nightmares from the past resurfaced, foreshadowing new troubles...

Chapter Text

In Burrow's backyard, Harry patiently explained the basics of broomstick flying to Jeanne.

"Remember, you need to lean forward slightly to gain speed. And carefully pull the handle towards you to ascend," he calmly instructs.

Jeanne furrowed her brows in concentration, gripping the broom with pale fingers. With her platinum hair soaring, she pushed off the ground sharply. The broom jolted and almost threw off its rider.

"Take it easy!" shouted Harry, grabbing Jeanne's elbow and steadying her on the broom. "No need to rush."

Jeanne snorted irritably, shaking off his hand. Flames flickered and crackled around her fist, revealing her impatience.

"Relax," Cedric softly spoke, approaching them. "Imagine you are a bird. Smoothly flap your wings."

Taking a deep breath to calm the fire, Jeanne cautiously pushed off and gracefully guided the broom upwards.

"Excellent, you're doing great!" cheered Harry as he flew beside her.

Jeanne's amber eyes sparkled with a smile. After circling the house and executing a graceful turn, she landed skillfully, hopping off on her feet.

"Well, are you satisfied?" Sirius winked at her, watching the flight.

"Hmm, not bad for a first time," Jeanne replied, turning away, but Harry noticed the satisfied glimmer in her eyes.

While Harry taught Jeanne to fly, Mrs. Weasley bustled in the kitchen, preparing lunch for the whole family and guests. The house-elf Dobby was nearby, promptly handing her the ingredients.

In the living room, Tesla was reading a book about electricity, occasionally glancing out the window at his experimental tower.

Sirius soon joined Lupin, and they began to quietly converse in a corner of the room. Occasionally, a young woman with bright pink hair, Nymphadora Tonks, sent by Dumbledore with important news, joined their conversation.

Hermione sat nearby with a book on transfiguration, engrossed in her reading.

Ginny appeared in the kitchen, dressed in Quidditch robes.

"Mum, I'm going to fly a bit while Harry teaches Jeanne. "she shouted, and rushed out into the yard.

Upstairs, Ron secluded himself in his room. He skeptically looked at his right hand, where the command symbols of his Servant were clearly visible.

"Why hasn't the Servant responded yet?" Ron worriedly thought.

In the yard, Ginny soared upwards on her broom, relishing the flight and the fresh wind.

Mr. Weasley returned home tired after a busy work day. He warmly greeted everyone and, spotting Tonks, perked up, asking her numerous questions about new muggle inventions. Tonks patiently answered, although she struggled to keep up with his thoughts at times.

Excitedly, Arthur turned to Harry and said, "Harry, I recently learned about a wonderful muggle invention - the microwave! Do you think if I place a wand in it, it will make spells cook faster?"

Harry stammered, unsure of how to respond.

"Dad, I don't think that's a good idea," Ginny interjected. "It's better not to experiment with muggle inventions. By the way, how is Knockturn Alley doing? Have you checked that suspicious amulet vendor yet?"

Meanwhile, Fleur Delacour was helping Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for the salad with her magic knife. She hummed something in French under her breath, and her long silvery hair glimmered in the rays of the setting sun streaming through the window.

Upstairs, quick footsteps could be heard as Ron descended, eager to share his concerns with his friends.

During dinner, the conversation turned to Harry's meeting with the mysterious King in Knockturn Alley. Hermione frowned, analyzing the meaning behind his words.

"I can't make sense of what he was saying!" she exclaimed. "What allies is he talking about? What storm?"

Jeanne, who had been silently picking at her plate, suddenly looked up with interest. A spark flickered in her amber eyes.

"What do you think, Jeanne?" Harry asked. "You're familiar with that kind of speech, aren't you?"

"Perhaps," she evasively replied. "But sometimes words have double meanings. I wouldn't rush to conclusions."

Impatiently fidgeting in her chair, Hermione clearly wanted to ask more questions, but Jeanne firmly added, "Sometimes it's better to wait for the puzzle to solve itself. It's too early to speculate now."

Her gaze conveyed understanding. Harry nodded, accepting her response.

"You're right. Everything will become clear in time."

After Jeanne's words, silence fell. Hermione was clearly disappointed by the lack of answers to her questions.

"What do you think, Professor Lupin, Sirius?" she turned to the two men. "You are closest to Dumbledore, after all."

But they only exchanged mysterious glances.

- I'm afraid Albus has not shared his thoughts with us yet, - Lupin said cautiously.

- Yes, he prefers to observe and analyze before drawing conclusions, - Sirius added.

Hermione sighed disappointedly and turned to Tesla.

- What do you think, sir? You are familiar with this vague style of speech too, aren't you?

But the inventor just smiled mysteriously in response, not uttering a word.

- It seems we have no choice but to wait, - Harry summed up. - Sooner or later, everything will become clear.

Tension lingered after the fruitless questioning. But then Fred and George exchanged glances and grinned, just like Robin Hood, and all three of them clearly held back laughter.

- What do you think King Arthur would say if he were in Severus Snape's shoes? - Fred asked.

- Potter, you insolent fool, just like your father! Minus 50 points from Gryffindor! - George imitated his manner.

This caused an explosion of laughter among everyone present. Even Hermione burst into laughter, and Harry and Ron applauded, wiping tears of amusement.

- Well, well! - Dudley said through laughter. - That was clever!

- It's a good thing we don't have to learn from him anymore, - Ron smiled and shook Harry's hand.

- Indeed, - Harry smiled back.

And soon everyone started going to their sleeping places, waiting for the new school year to begin.

On the appointed day, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the others arrived at King's Cross Station in Ministry cars provided for their safety. Experienced Aurors, led by Kingsley Shacklebolt, awaited them on the station square.

Passing through the magical barrier to platform 9 and ¾, the group said goodbye to their escorts and hurried onto the train. Harry led the way with Dudley and Jeanne, searching for an empty compartment. Along the way, they met Neville and Luna, who joined their search.

The platform was bustling with the usual pre-departure chaos. First-year students roamed around with their parents, while older students greeted friends after the holidays. There was an air of anticipation for the new school year.

Harry looked around for familiar faces. He caught sight of Draco Malfoy's blond hair in the distance, but Malfoy quickly disappeared into the crowd upon noticing Harry.

On their way to a carriage, they bumped into Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, engaged in a lively discussion about football. The girls giggled and whispered, looking in Harry's direction.

Finally, they found an empty compartment at the very end of the train. After storing their luggage, Harry sank onto the soft seat with relief. Soon, the train would depart, taking them back to the familiar walls of Hogwarts.

The train began to move, gaining speed. Houses and trees flickered past the window. Harry felt a sense of calmness wash over him—finally, he was going home, to Hogwarts.

In the corridor, first-year students ran past their compartment, peeking inside with curiosity. Laughter and the sounds of exploding stink bombs from the Weasley twins' shop could be heard from neighboring carriages.

Inside the compartment, Harry sat with Dudley, Neville, Jeanne, Luna, and some old and new acquaintances.

By the window, a delicate girl with chestnut hair sat—Katie Mallowhate. She grew up in a family of pure-blood wizards but had long been considered a squib, which caused her pain. Now, given a chance, Katie eagerly studied her textbooks, determined to prove herself and others what she was capable of.

Across from her, a cheerful, stocky boy with unruly dark curls smiled—Sam Brightwood. He grew up in a large family and played football with his brothers from a young age. Sam was the life of the party and always ready to support his friends. Currently, he enthusiastically shared his plans to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Dudley listened with interest, absorbing all the new information about the magical world.

- Do you remember our last match against Slytherin? - Harry asked Dudley. - You scored the winning goal!

- Yes, it was an unforgettable moment! - Dudley smiled in response. - I knew for sure that I could outplay their goalkeeper. I just felt it... it was amazing somehow...

- You have great talent, - Harry praised. - You will be one of the key players on the team this season.

- And I still dream of making it onto the Gryffindor team! - Sam impatiently said. - Even though I'm a beginner in Quidditch, I'm ready to train until I drop!

- I'm sure you will succeed, - Katie encouraged him. - The most important thing is perseverance and patience.

Hills and meadows flashed by outside the window.

Soon, the familiar sound of a bell tinkling came - a trolley with sweets passed through the corridor.

Harry immediately bought some chocolate frogs, pastries, and packets of delicious Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans - and distributed them to everyone in the compartment.

- Help yourselves, friends! Today, it's my treat.

Dudley enthusiastically pounced on the sweets.

Katie timidly took one chocolate frog, thanking Harry. She wasn't used to being treated to things just like that.

Sam also took a pastry, smiling widely.

- Thanks, buddy! You're a true friend.

Neville blushed with embarrassment but also took the offered beans. Jeanne, on the other hand, snorted and pushed the sweets away.

- I don't eat junk like candy, - she declared. - It's a waste of money.

But Harry only smiled in response to her sharpness. He was already used to her character.

Jeanne initially pushed the sweets away, but when the others got distracted by their conversations, she discreetly took one chocolate frog. Taking a bite, she secretly glanced at Harry. He didn't notice.

Jeanne neatly ate the frog, trying to maintain a composed expression. In reality, she really enjoyed the chocolate. But she had no intention of admitting it.

Later, when Harry turned away, Jeanne couldn't resist and took another candy, quickly hiding it in the pocket of her robe.

- Nothing special, I just don't want the sweets to go to waste, - she thought to herself, justifying her actions.

But in reality, Jeanne sincerely enjoyed the candies Harry had given her, even though she didn't plan on showing it.

Harry breathed in the familiar scent of the Hogwarts Express with delight - a mixture of wood, sweets, and magic. They would be home soon.

The tranquility in the compartment was interrupted by the creak of the opening door. Draco Malfoy stood on the threshold, dressed in the black cloak of the Slytherin prefect.

Tense silence filled the air for a moment. All eyes turned to the uninvited guest.

Draco quickly surveyed the occupants with his eyes. His gray eyes lingered on Harry.

"May I join?" he asked quietly.

Harry frowned. He remembered all the clashes with Malfoy in previous years at Hogwarts. But now, there was no trace of the old anger in Draco's eyes—only uncertainty and... pain?

"Of course," Harry nodded, making a decision. "Come in."

The others exchanged tense glances but remained silent.

Draco carefully took a seat, making sure not to touch anyone. The atmosphere in the compartment remained electric.

When the heroes saw Malfoy, they exchanged surprised looks—he should be in the prefects' carriage.

"Did something happen in the prefects' compartment?" Harry asked cautiously.

"No, everything's fine," Draco replied, understanding their surprise. "I just wanted to visit you."

He fell silent awkwardly under their intense gazes.

"Alright, I admit, it was a bad idea," Malfoy finally muttered, getting up. "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

Wait, what? Malfoy apologizing? If Harry wanted to say something right now, his jaw would have dropped in astonishment. He even pinched himself to check, but no—what was happening was indeed real.

"Hold on," Harry stopped him. "You can stay if you want."

Draco sat back down, trying to hide his relief. The tension in the air didn't dissipate.

"And why did you come?" Jean suspiciously asked.

"Just thought... that we could start over," Malfoy answered quietly. "Without any hard feelings."

"And where are your faithful cronies Crabbe and Goyle?" Jean sarcastically asked. "Or Blaise Zabini? Did you really dare to come to us alone?"

Draco's expression darkened.

"I no longer communicate with Crabbe and Goyle", - he replied. - "And Blaise... he doesn't approve of my decision to reconcile with you. But I have made up my own mind."

"And we are supposed to believe that you are sincere?" - Jeanne asked doubtfully.

"I give you my word, I wish no harm", - Draco said seriously. - "I just want to start over. Without prejudice."

He reached out his hand for a handshake. Harry and Jeanne glanced at each other. What to do next?

Harry remembered Narcissa Malfoy's words about Draco needing real friends. Perhaps he really wanted to start again.

"Alright, let's give it a try", - Harry said, shaking Draco's outstretched hand. - "Everyone deserves a chance to prove they've changed."

Draco exhaled and smiled slightly. The others relaxed a little too.

"But we'll be watching you closely", - Jeanne added. - "Just so you know, I won't tolerate betrayal from a friend."

"I understand", - Draco nodded. - "And I'll try to prove my loyalty. At least for my mother's sake. She believes I can start a new life. And I really want to live up to her hopes."

Thus began a new stage in their lives. Fragile and uncertain, but it was a step towards reconciliation.

After an awkward handshake, an equally awkward silence followed. Draco looked confused and sad. It seemed like he was burdened with heavy thoughts.

"Well, I should be going", - he finally said, getting up. - "Thank you for giving me a chance. I won't let you down."

"Take care, Malfoy", - Harry extended his hand for a farewell. - "And know that you now have real friends."

Draco gratefully nodded and headed towards the door. His shoulders were slumped, but determination shone in his eyes. When the compartment door closed behind Draco, Sam remarked thoughtfully:

"You know, I saw him in Knockturn Alley with some guy. They were having a serious conversation."

"Who exactly?" - Harry asked curiously.

"I don't know his name, but he was a short guy with glasses and a vintage blue suit. He had blue hair."

"Seems like that was his Servant", - Neville speculated. - "Interesting, I wonder what they were talking about?"

"It seemed like that guy was trying to convince Malfoy to change something in his life, - Sam recalled. - He said he had a choice and could take a different path. Something like that. In general, it seems like this Servant wants Malfoy to become better."

"Curious", - Jeanne mused. - "Perhaps that also influenced his decision to reconcile."

Suddenly, there was a timid knock on their compartment door. Standing in the doorway was a fragile girl with large violet eyes - it was Mash Kyrielight.

"Excuse me for bothering you," she began, "but it seems that there has been a small incident in the neighboring compartment with the first-year students."

"What happened?" - Harry worried.

"One boy accidentally turned his friend into a hamster," Mash explained with a slight smile. "They are in a panic and asking for help. Could you..."

"Of course, we'll sort it out right away!" Neville jumped up.

When the group entered the neighboring compartment, chaos reigned. The first-year students were in a panic, chasing the escaped hamster.

"Quiet down, calm down!" Mash said friendly. "Let's figure this out."

It turned out that one of the boys, Billy, was trying to cast a spell and accidentally turned his friend, Tommy, into a hamster. He was now running around the floor, evading the hands.

- You need to say the spell Finite Incantatem to undo the charm," explained Neville.

Mash gently caught the hamster and with a smile pronounced the necessary spell. The hamster immediately turned back into a boy.

"Hurray, it worked! Thank you!" shouted the first-year students.

"You don't need to thank us," Mash said embarrassedly. "The main thing is that you don't repeat such mistakes. You need to be more careful with magic."

With the help of Mash and her friends, the unpleasant incident was successfully resolved.

The train slowed down smoothly, and familiar landscapes floated outside the windows - they were approaching Hogwarts.

"Hurry, it's time to get dressed!" reminded Jeanne.

The friends hurriedly put on their cloaks to be ready to disembark.

Finally, the train stopped at the platform in Hogsmeade. Enthusiastic exclamations could be heard outside the window - the first-year students had arrived, seeing the magical castle for the first time.

But for some reason, Harry did not share the general enthusiasm. Some anxiety squeezed his heart. Harry couldn't explain this feeling, but it didn't give him peace.

"Harry, are you ready?" Jeanne called out to him.

"Yes... I'm coming," he replied, trying to calm his anxiety.

Suddenly, Hagrid's loud voice sounded:

"First-years! Follow me, I'll show you the way!"

Harry followed his friends out of the carriage, lost in thought.

So many questions were swirling in his head. Who was hiding behind the golden lion mask? What did his strange hints mean? And what secrets does Malfoy keep?

It seemed that turbulent changes were coming. And Harry had to figure out all this confusion in order to protect his loved ones.

He looked back at the illuminated windows of Hogwarts. Whatever awaited him, he was ready to fight. For friends, for the future.

The adventures were just beginning.

Chapter Text

It was a warm September night. Harry stepped onto the platform in Hogsmeade with his friends. The air was filled with the aromas of autumn - the smell of cut grass, the freshness of pine needles, and the crispness of fallen leaves. Stars twinkled overhead, and in the distance, the lights of Hogwarts could be seen.

Usually, this sight filled Harry with joy, but now his soul was troubled. "This is the last time I'll see all of this so peaceful," he thought. Ron and Hermione chatted happily about something, while Harry walked alongside them in silence, enjoying the calm before the storm.

Soon, the travelers reached the carriages pulled by Thestrals. Harry patted one on the withers and climbed inside with his friends. The carriages set off, and through the window, they could see Hogwarts approaching - huge, cozy, and glowing with thousands of lights. "I love this place," Harry thought. "If only I could spend another year here peacefully."

The carriages stopped at the grand entrance, and Harry and his friends entered the castle. The students had already gathered in the Great Hall - first-year students sat at the tables with timid and amazed expressions, while the older students cheerfully greeted each other after being apart for the summer.

Harry spotted familiar faces - Neville was sitting next to Luna Lovegood, discussing a plant fervently. In the corner, Ginny and her friends giggled about something. And there was Agatha Sunspark - a cheerful girl waving her hand at Harry, while Katie Mallowhate shyly smiled beside her.

Behind the teacher's table sat the strict Snape, the diminutive Flitwick, and other familiar faces. Harry looked at Dumbledore and felt a pang of anxiety - their world, which relied on this wise man, seemed so fragile now...

Harry tried to push away the dark thoughts and focus on the feast. How wonderful it was to be here again, among friends! He savored the delicious food and the joyful atmosphere, trying to remember every moment.

Just as Harry was enjoying pumpkin juice, the doors of the Great Hall creaked open slightly, and Ritsuka Fujimaru entered. He invisibly slipped behind the teacher's table and sat next to Hagrid.

Ritsuka warmly smiled at Harry and nodded slightly. Harry smiled back - his soul became a little calmer. He was glad to have the presence of this mysterious person, who had come to their aid in the most difficult moments.

For a while, Harry simply watched as Ritsuka quietly conversed with Dumbledore. His presence instilled confidence that they were not alone in the upcoming battle. Harry sighed and continued the feast - at least today, they would enjoy peace and friendship within the beloved walls of Hogwarts.

When everyone finished their desserts, Dumbledore stood up and spoke:

"Welcome, old and new students! I am pleased to welcome you to the new school year. First and foremost, I want to remind everyone that the Forbidden Forest on the school grounds is still off-limits for visits."

I also want to introduce you to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher - Professor Snape. Instead, Potions will now be taught by the newly arrived Professor Slughorn. However, we are happy to welcome back Professor Fujimaru, who will be teaching a special elective on magical anomalies.

Dumbledore paused and continued more seriously, "I will not hide the fact that these are anxious times. The threat we all know of is becoming stronger. But as long as we stand united, there is nothing to fear. Remember, you can all rely on the help of the Hogwarts professors. And of course, you can always come to me."

Harry listened with mixed emotions - on one hand, Dumbledore's words instilled hope, but on the other hand, Harry couldn't shake off the worry of the upcoming challenges.

Dumbledore smiled and added, "And now, good night and a good start to your studies!"

After Dumbledore's speech, the students began to rise from their seats and disperse to their common rooms.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, along with the other Gryffindors, headed towards their tower. On the way, they discussed the upcoming school year.

"We should definitely resume Dumbledore's Army meetings," Hermione said. "The Room of Requirement is still at our disposal."

"And I want to try out for the Quidditch team this year," Dudley added eagerly.

"I think you have a good chance," Harry encouraged him. "You trained hard all year."

They entered the Gryffindor common room, where they were greeted with joyful cheers and greetings. Everyone was happy to reunite after the summer holidays.

Harry looked around at the familiar faces and couldn't help but smile. It felt so good to be back here, at home, at Hogwarts! He decided to savor every moment of this last calm year before the storm.

In the morning, Harry and the rest of the Gryffindors descended to the Great Hall for breakfast. Schedules for the new school year were being distributed.

"Alright, Potter, Potter..." Professor McGonagall said, turning to Harry and looking at her notes. "Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration... Everything looks very good. I must say, Potter, I am pleased with your Transfiguration exam grade, very pleased. Why didn't you include Potions in your application? Didn't you dream of becoming an Auror?"

"Yes, professor, but you said that to achieve that, one needs to get an 'outstanding' on the exam."

"That was the case when Professor Snape taught potions. However, Professor Slughorn is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. s students with "Exceeds Expectations." So, would you like to continue with the potions course?"

"Yes," Harry said, "but I haven't bought textbooks, ingredients, and everything else..."

"I'm sure Professor Slughorn can lend you everything you need," Professor McGonagall said. "Excellent, Potter, here's your schedule. By the way, nineteen people have already joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I'll pass you the list later, and you can schedule the tryouts at your convenience."

Several minutes later, Ron received permission to continue with the same subjects as Harry, and both of them left the table.

"Look, we have double potions with the Slytherins today," Ron said, looking at his schedule. "I wonder how Malfoy is doing? Haven't seen him since the feast."

"Yeah, me neither," Harry replied. "I hope he hasn't changed his mind about being friends."

The students entered the potions classroom, talking animatedly.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together at one desk. Hermione immediately took out her quill and parchment, ready to take notes on every word the teacher said.

Luna and Neville settled in nearby. Luna was contemplatively staring at the ceiling, while Neville nervously fiddled with his robe – potions was his weak subject.

Jeanne sat a little further away, with a perfectly straight back and crossed arms. Her neighbor was Agatha Sunspark, who was energetically telling a story, gesturing with her hands.

Draco sat at the adjacent desk, briefly glancing at Harry. Sam Brightwood sat next to him, gripping the edge of the desk tightly with his large hands.

Lastly, Mash Kyrielight entered. She timidly smiled and sat at a desk in the far corner.

Once everyone was settled, Professor Slughorn glided into the classroom.

"Good morning, young potion-masters!" he said cheerfully. "Today, I have prepared an exciting lesson about the properties of the rarest ingredient – phoenix tears!"

He snapped his fingers, and several crystal vials with shimmering liquid appeared on his desk. Hermione leaned forward with interest, studying them.

"And now let's get to work," announced Slughorn. "You will find the potion recipe on page 27 of the textbook. Prepare it within an hour, and I will evaluate the results."

The sound of parchment rustling filled the room as the students flipped through their textbooks in search of the required page. Neville accidentally dropped his book on the floor and bent down to pick it up with a sheepish smile.

Soon, everyone started working. The classroom filled with the sounds of ingredients being chopped, liquids bubbling, various smells, and whispered instructions. Slughorn walked between the desks, looking over their shoulders and giving advice.

When Slughorn gave the assignment, Harry and Ron exchanged awkward glances - they didn't have potions textbooks.

"Professor, Ron and I don't have books," Harry said.

"Oh well, let's see what extra books I have here," mumbled Slughorn, rummaging through the cupboard.

He pulled out two tattered textbooks and handed them to Harry and Ron. Harry opened his and saw a signature on the title page: "Property of the Half-Blood Prince." It was a terribly dirty textbook, filled with annotations. Moreover, numbers, words, and whole sentences were crossed out in the text, with the previous student's own recommendations written over them. Harry stared at the textbook in surprise for a minute, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he caught Ron's disapproving look - his friend didn't want to switch textbooks.

"Page 27, you said? Let's get started," Harry said to Ron.

Harry occasionally glanced at Ron's textbook, but soon discovered that the recipe written in it didn't allow him to achieve the results described in the textbook itself. So he decided to follow the recipe from the Prince's textbook at his own risk. To his surprise, Harry achieved the desired consistency and color of the potion almost immediately. By the end of the lesson, his brew unexpectedly received the highest grade from Slughorn, who had peered into his cauldron.

"The previous owner left many useful tips in this book," Harry thought, admiring the perfect result. But who is this Half-Blood Prince who dared to correct the text in the textbook and leave notes in it?

Surveying the classmates' results, Harry noticed that only his potion had the perfect deep emerald color described in the textbook.

Hermione's liquid was slightly paler, and the rest were far from the desired result. Ron's cauldron contained a suspicious purple liquid, and Malfoy's potion was a murky green.

Sam Brightwood looked mournfully at his concoction, which bubbled and resembled swamp mud. Agatha seemed to be experimenting altogether, judging by the pink glow of her potion.

"Time's up! Hand in the flasks," said Slughorn.

As Slughorn evaluated the results, he praised Harry's potion:

"Great job! You followed the instructions perfectly and achieved a perfect result. As a reward, here's a small vial of Felix Felicis potion. It will bring luck to whoever drinks it!"

Beaming with pride, Harry accepted the small vial of golden liquid from Slughorn. He thanked him and carefully hid it in his bag.

"Thanks to you and your invaluable advice, Prince," Harry thought, stroking the cover of the textbook.

After class, Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed to the Gryffindor common room.

"Unbelievable, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "How did you manage to brew such a perfect potion?"

"It's all thanks to the Prince's textbook," Harry explained. "There are really useful brewing tips in there."

"Hmm, I don't know," Hermione frowned, flipping through the textbook. "These recommendations seem strange. Are you sure we should trust them?"

"Oh, come on, he helped Harry!" Ron interjected. "The main thing is that it works."

"Maybe..." Hermione said thoughtfully. "Just be careful, Harry. And let us know if the textbook suggests anything suspicious."

Harry nodded. Of course, the Prince's advice seemed unusual. But as long as they helped him, was that a bad thing? He decided to observe the textbook before drawing any conclusions.

After brewing potions, the Gryffindors had Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Snape. He decided to start teaching non-verbal spells.

"Today, we'll begin with non-verbal magic," Snape announced. "It's a challenging but necessary topic for any wizard."

He explained that non-verbal spells required strong concentration and mastery of magic without the use of words.

"Potter, show me Expelliarmus without saying the incantation," Snape ordered. "Stand opposite Malfoy."

Harry concentrated with all his might, but Draco's wand merely twitched weakly. Draco even looked at Harry sympathetically. However, when Draco tried to do the same, he couldn't achieve a similar result - Harry's wand didn't budge at all. Now it was Harry's turn to sympathize with Draco. Ron and Hermione also failed to demonstrate the desired result. Only Jeanne Alter managed to produce something similar, but Snape conveniently chose not to notice.

"A pitiful sight," Snape commented. "Clearly, you neglected practicing spells this summer."

At the end of the lesson, he assigned them to write an essay on "Non-Verbal Spells: Basics of Application and Significance."

"This is just unfair!" Ron protested after class. "How are we supposed to be good at something we've just started learning?"

But Harry knew they truly needed more practice. He decided to train properly so that he could perform better in Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.

"Tell everyone," he told Hermione after class. "We'll resume practicing in the Room of Requirement. Let's meet there, as usual, at 8 p.m. after classes."

Hermione only nodded in agreement - they needed practice now more than ever, as no one knew what awaited them ahead.

Chapter Text

The next day, in the Great Hall during breakfast, Harry and Hermione started telling their friends about their plans to revive Dumbledore's Army.

"We've decided to resume our defensive magic training in the Room of Requirement," Hermione said, leaning towards Neville and Luna. "Would you like to join us?"

"Of course!" Neville exclaimed. "That's great, I've missed our sessions so much."

"I'd love to come too," Luna dreamily replied. "Can I bring my good luck charms?"

Next to them, Ginny also became interested in the idea.

"I'll definitely be there! I've missed the training sessions," she said.

Gradually, other former members of the Army joined the initiative as well.

On the appointed Saturday evening, the group gathered at the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Excitedly, they entered the room, taking out their wands and preparing to practice spells once again.

There were Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny. Dudley was also present, holding a broomstick for training, Sam was thoughtfully twirling his magic wand in his hands, shy Katie Bell, and cheerful Agatha Sanspark, who had already adorned the room with glowing figures.

In the corner sat Mash Kyrielight, her hands neatly folded on her lap. Next to her, Jeanne Alter stared attentively into space.

Once everyone was settled in their places, Harry announced:

"Today, we're going to start practicing non-verbal spells. It's difficult, but it might come in handy during a fight. Has anyone already tried casting spells this way?"

After Harry asked the question, he noticed Hermione eagerly raising her hand, ready to answer. Ron rolled his eyes upon seeing her reaction.

"I've tried a couple of times!" Hermione immediately blurted out. "It's very challenging, but I believe we can get the hang of it with practice."

"I haven't tried it at all," Neville confessed, looking embarrassed. "It just seems impossible to me."

"Don't worry, we'll figure it out for sure!" encouraged the cheerful Agatha.

Luna looked thoughtfully at her wand.

"I wonder if non-verbal spells can chase away Nargles? We should try it."

Harry heard Dean whisper quietly to Sam, "We'll definitely succeed, don't doubt it." Sam nodded in response.

"What about you, Jeanne?" Harry asked her. "It seems like you did well in Snape's lesson?"

"Well, I know a thing or two in this area," Jeanne blushed and answered modestly.

"Don't be modest, Jeanne!" Hermione exclaimed. "You were the only one who nailed non-verbal spells in class. Share your experience with us!"

"Alright," Jeanne nodded after a pause, during which Harry even noticed a hint of excitement on her face. "I can show you how I concentrate magic and direct it without uttering a spell."

Jeanne nodded and took a seat across from a mannequin. Her face was focused, eyebrows furrowed, and shoulders squared. She swiftly waved her wand and the mannequin flew back towards the wall as if struck by a powerful blow.

"Wow!" Ron exclaimed, raising his hands in excitement.

Dudley leaned his head to the side, interested, as he examined the mannequin. His fingers tapped impatiently on his wand.

"I want to try too! That's awesome!"

Harry nodded encouragingly and patted Dudley on the shoulder.

"Go ahead, practice. Concentrate and feel the flow of magic."

The students paired up and started rehearsing. Determination and concentration were clearly visible on many faces as they aimed to master this new challenging technique.

Harry looked around at the practicing students. Neville stood with his fingers interlocked and brows furrowed, his wand barely twitching. Next to him, Luna smiled dreamily, gracefully moving her hand through the air.

Ginny clenched her lips and swung her wand sharply, her red hair billowing in a wave. Agatha quickly whispered something, observing the sparks shooting from her wand.

Hermione took a deep breath, her shoulders tensed, and the tip of her wand trembled. Beside her, Ron bit his lip, determination evident in his gaze.

Harry smiled as he looked at everyone. Of course, they would succeed! They had learned so much together. And this training would definitely help them in the future challenges that awaited them.

He waved his wand, focusing on the desired spell.

The exercises in non-verbal magic continued one after another. The Room of Requirement was filled with a concentrated silence, only interrupted by the sounds of impacts against walls and floors when someone managed to move the mannequin with their spell.

Dudley furrowed his brows and bit his lip, his curly bangs falling onto his forehead from the tension. Sam clenched his wand tightly in his fist, his shoulders tense.

Katie briefly covered her eyes before each attempt, her movements cautious and precise. Mash pursed her lips, observing the results of her efforts.

Jeanne stood tall and rigid, her face remained impassive. She elegantly waved her wand, showcasing her refined technique.

Harry felt how gradually he was able to direct magic without words. With each attempt, concentration came easier. He saw that the others were making progress too. Just a little bit longer and they would all succeed!

After a while, Harry decided to check on the others' progress. He approached Ron and Hermione. Ron furrowed his brows in concentration, trying to move the mannequin with a non-verbal spell. Hermione bit her lip, her wand subtly twitching.

"How's it going?" Harry asked softly.

"I think I managed to do something," Hermione whispered. "The mannequin moved slightly. But Ron hasn't had any success yet."

Ron let out a deep sigh in response, his focused gaze never leaving the target.

Harry nodded at them and moved on. He saw how Neville wearily slouched his shoulders, and Luna encouragingly patted him on the back. Ginny energetically stretched her wrist after another attempt. They all looked determined and focused on succeeding.

"Great job, everyone!" Harry told them. "Just a bit more, and it will definitely work!"

Harry continued to walk around the room, observing the practicing students. Agatha waved her wand energetically, her face radiating excitement. Katie looked exhausted but didn't give up, biting her lip and furrowing her brows.

Sam shook his head, pushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead. Dudley gave him a sporty pat on the shoulder, encouraging him. Dean stood a little distance away, staring intently ahead.

Mash carefully repeated her wand movements, her tassels swaying rhythmically. Jeanne continued to demonstrate her refined technique, her face remaining calm and composed.

Harry surveyed the partially destroyed mannequins and the traces of spells on the walls. Yes, without a doubt, everyone was improving with each passing minute! This skill would definitely come in handy for them soon.

After a little while longer, Harry decided it was time for a break.

"Great job, guys! Let's take a little rest," he announced.

There was a collective sigh of relief and everyone lowered their wands, relaxing their tired hands.

"Phew, I'm all soaked!" Ron admitted, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

"And I'm so hungry! Does anyone want a snack?" Agatha asked, taking out some pastries from her bag.

"Oh, gladly!" Dudley exclaimed.

Everyone settled on the soft poufs materializing in the room. Now they could rest for a while and gather their strength before continuing the training.

During the break, a creak suddenly sounded, and a passage appeared in one of the room's walls. Everyone turned their heads in surprise at the sound.

Draco Malfoy emerged from the opening. He stopped in the middle of the room, looking puzzled at the gathered group. They all silently stared back, not understanding how he got there.

Neville nervously clenched his fists. Hermione frowned. Harry and Ron exchanged equally perplexed looks. The only sound breaking the silence was the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.

Malfoy slowly surveyed the presence, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question. Then he silently turned and disappeared into the passage, just as quietly as he had arrived. The wall closed behind him without making a sound.

Everyone exchanged glances. What was that? How did Malfoy find the Room of Requirement? And why did he come here? Harry felt confused but decided that he would talk to Draco about this strange incident later.

As soon as the passage closed behind Malfoy, a buzz of voices filled the room.

"What in the world was that?" Ron exclaimed, eyes wide open.

"How did he find us?" Hermione murmured in astonishment.

"Is this some kind of trick?" Neville questioned warily.

"Weird, he looked perplexed..." Luna mused thoughtfully.

"What did he want here?" Ginny scoffed in disbelief.

Harry frowned, looking at the closed passage. Malfoy's behavior truly seemed very peculiar.

"I will talk to him about it," Harry decided. "I believe there's a mystery behind all this. But for now, let's continue with our training."

He tried to calm his friends and refocus everyone on nonverbal magic. Nevertheless, thoughts kept returning to the mysterious incident.

Although Harry tried to bring everyone back to training, the participants' thoughts kept returning to the mysterious appearance of Malfoy. It was no longer possible to concentrate properly.

"Alright, let's call it a day," Harry announced. "We've accomplished a lot today. Excellent work, everyone!"

"Yeah, I'm completely exhausted!" Ron admitted, stretching.

"Let's go rest, or else curfew will be here soon," Hermione added. "We've been here for a few hours already."

Gathering themselves, the group left the Room of Requirement, discussing their successes in nonverbal magic and the mysterious appearance of Malfoy. Harry walked, pondering the upcoming conversation with Draco. What did he want to show them?

Chapter Text

Harry walked down the corridor, pondering the mysterious appearance of Malfoy at Dumbledore's secret Army training. What did it mean?

"Hey, Harry," Jeanne called out to him. "What are you thinking about?"

Harry reminded her of the situation with Malfoy's visit.

"Hmm, that's strange," Jeanne mused. "Maybe he wanted to get into the Room of Requirement but didn't expect to see us there."

"But why would he need to go there?" Harry wondered.

"I don't know," Jeanne frowned. "Maybe he's on a mission and needed the room? And seeing us, he got flustered and left."

"Hmm, that sounds reasonable," Harry nodded. "Either way, I need to talk to him. Thanks for the ideas, Jeanne! I'll try to find Malfoy."

Harry walked down the corridor, replaying the unexpected visit from Malfoy to the Room of Requirement, the conversation with Jeanne, and the possible reasons behind this incident in his mind.

Suddenly, fast footsteps sounded behind him and someone called out, "Harry, wait!"

He turned around and saw a breathless Mash. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and her cheeks were flushed. There was excitement in her eyes.

"Harry, I have something important to tell you! It's very urgent!" she blurted out, catching her breath after running.

"What happened, Mash?" Harry asked, concerned.

"I was just in the Room of Requirement," Mash began, "and I saw a complete mess there! Someone clearly was searching for something, turning everything upside down."

Harry furrowed his brow. What kind of peculiarities were occurring lately?

Together, they headed towards the Room of Requirement. Ron and Hermione were already there, their faces filled with worry.

"Harry, look at this! Someone was rummaging through our things!" Hermione exclaimed.

Surveying the mess, Harry noticed that some books and parchment were missing. It was unclear what exactly the intruder was looking for.

"It was definitely Malfoy!" Ron stated.

But Harry felt bewildered. Something was off here... He continued to inspect the chaos for a while, trying to understand what had happened. Ron and Hermione also looked bewildered.

"Well, we won't be able to clarify anything right now," Harry finally said. "Let's discuss all of this together later. Right now, I need to take a walk and think."

His friends nodded in agreement. They agreed to gather in the common room in the evening and discuss all the strange events of the past few days.

Harry left the Room of Requirement and walked down the corridor, deeply lost in thought, when suddenly he heard a familiar voice.

"Good day, Harry!"

He turned around and saw Ritsuka Fujimaru smiling at him, walking towards him.

"Hello, Fujimaru-san!" Harry replied.

"Is something wrong? You look worried," Ritsuka asked, tilting his head slightly.

Harry nodded and briefly told him about Draco Malfoy's mysterious visit to Dumbledore's Army practice and the even more mysterious chaos in the Room of Requirement.

"Hmm, very interesting," Ritsuka said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "Unfortunately, I couldn't attend that evening. But Mash told me about this strange incident."

"What do you think it was?" Harry asked. "And who recently broke into the Room of Requirement?"

"It's hard to say for sure," Ritsuka answered. "About the first one - it's possible that Mr. Malfoy had some business in the Room of Requirement. I would advise you to talk to him when you have the chance. But as for the second one, I have no idea, I can't even guess."

"Alright, I will do that," Harry nodded. "Thank you for the advice, Fujimaru-san!"

"You're always welcome!" Ritsuka smiled. "Good luck in unraveling this mystery."

They said goodbye, and Harry continued walking, thinking about the upcoming conversation with Draco.

Draco sat in the far corner of the Slytherin common room, leaning on the table and resting his head in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the stained glass window, which revealed the depths of the Black Lake. It seemed his thoughts were far away.

Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and the other Slytherins were seated in nearby armchairs, enthusiastically discussing the latest news about the Death Eaters. Their voices rang with excitement.

Draco glanced briefly at them and then turned his gaze back to the window. He felt uneasy about their excitement...

"Hey, Malfoy, heard your father had another successful operation," Zabini said, turning to Draco. "Now your family is a real hero to us!"

Draco silently shook his head. What nonsense. His father was in Azkaban after a failure. And he himself did not consider the Death Eaters heroes after what he had witnessed.

"Oh, come on, don't be modest!" Theodore Nott exclaimed. "Now you must follow in your father's footsteps. Show us your Mark!"

Draco instinctively pulled his sleeve down. The thought of showing that mark disgusted him. He didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps and kill on Voldemort's orders.

Draco looked around at the gathered students. He used to take pride in being a part of the elite Slytherin house. But now he saw how far behind his peers lagged in life.

While other houses welcomed many talented first-year students from Muggle families, here there was a stagnant swamp of prejudice. Even the only new student, a boy from a non-pureblood family, was immediately driven away and pushed to the sidelines, having to sit in the common room, flinching at every sound, solely thanks to Snape's protection. It's not like the Head of House was particularly kind or merciful to the newcomer, as he too gave him a hard time, but at least that seemed better than having no protection at all.

Draco thought about the changes in his life - his father's arrest, his mother urging him to find true friends, the cruelty of the Death Eaters that he had witnessed. And he realized that he could no longer be a part of all that.

"It's time to get rid of the old fool Dumbledore! And after him, we'll overthrow the lion-masked king!" came a voice from the corner. "No Gryffindor has any business sitting on the throne!"

"Enough!" Draco couldn't contain himself. "I don't want to hear this! You're a herd of ignorant fools living in the world you've made up!"

Dozens of stunned eyes stared at him.

"Do you still believe that purity of blood is the main value? That Slytherin is the elite and the rest are insignificants? That violence and murder are heroic deeds?" Draco continued angrily. "You are out of touch with reality!"

He looked at the Mark on his hand with hatred:

"I don't want anything to do with this. And I don't want to be one of you!" Draco shouted, breathing heavily with anger.

He fell silent, trying to calm his breath. In the ensuing silence, only his intermittent sobbing and the rustle of whispers behind him could be heard.

"Have you lost your mind, Malfoy?!" Blaise exclaimed. "Your father fought for the honor of pure-bloods! And you're renouncing that?"

"My father is in prison! And I don't want to repeat his fate", Draco retorted.

"Coward! Do you really want to disgrace your family?!" Pansy Parkinson yelled. "The Dark Lord will rescue you from there on the first day!"

"Really? I can see clearly how he rescued my father on the first day! He dragged my father there, and now he's dragging me there too! Are you all so blind?"

Draco glanced at the outraged faces around him. His words didn't reach them. They didn't want to understand anything.

"Do whatever you want. But I will no longer follow this madness", he said tiredly.

Draco clenched his fists, preparing to say something else, but then he saw a tall figure frozen in the doorway. It was Snape.

Draco and Snape silently looked at each other. Snape didn't show any emotions, only a slight surprise flickered in his eyes.

Finally, he spoke in his usual calm tone:

"Mister Malfoy, come with me."

Snape led Draco out of the Slytherin common room and invited him into his office.

"Sit down, Mr. Malfoy", Snape said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk.

Draco sat down, feeling empty after the outburst of emotions.

"What happened in the common room?" Snape asked after a pause. "That was quite... expressive speech."

Draco sighed heavily.

"I just couldn't handle their conversations anymore. I'm disgusted by all this obsession with blood purity and violence. I don't want anything to do with it anymore", he sincerely said.

Snape looked at him thoughtfully.

"I understand. You have been through a lot lately, and your views are changing. But be careful with making abrupt statements."

He placed his hand on Draco's shoulder:

"Know that if you need help, I am here. You are not alone."

Draco felt relieved by his words. It seemed that Snape was truly on his side.

"I appreciate your support, Professor", - Draco said after a pause. "But I'm afraid I need to be alone and think about everything. Too much is happening."

"Of course, as you wish", - Snape nodded.

"You know, I almost made a fatal mistake the other day, - Draco confessed. "Fortunately, everything turned out okay. But it made me seriously reconsider things.

He looked into Snape's eyes:

"I'm not sure if I can fulfill the mission entrusted to me. It's beyond my capabilities. I would prefer to find another way where no one gets hurt."

Snape looked at him attentively in response.

"I understand your doubts. Please, be careful with your words and actions. And remember that you are not alone", he said meaningfully.

Draco nodded gratefully and left, feeling relieved after the honest conversation.

After the conversation with Snape, Draco walked into one of the old castle corridors where few people rarely visited. Leaning against the windowsill, he stared at the starry sky, trying to organize his thoughts.

Suddenly, a quiet voice sounded:

"Hello, Draco."

Draco turned around and saw a young man with blue hair in a neat suit. The man held an open book in his hand.

"You look troubled", the young man said softly. "What is bothering you?"

Draco sighed. He recognized the newcomer as Hans - the Servant summoned by his father.

"Doubts torment me", Draco confessed after a pause. "I would like to go and tell everything to the headmaster... But I'm afraid of the consequences."

"I could tell Dumbledore the whole truth", Draco said, looking out the window. "But I'm afraid they won't understand me. Or believe me. Or consider me a traitor."

"Your worries are understandable", Hans nodded. "But you shouldn't exaggerate the possible risks. You are stronger than you think."

"What if Azkaban awaits me? Or if my father suffers? Or my mother? I can't take such risks!" Draco exclaimed.

"You have a kind heart, Draco. You will choose the right path, I believe in that", Hans reassuringly said. "Don't rush your decision. Listen to yourself, and the answer will come."

Draco thought. Maybe the Servant was right. It was worth considering everything calmly, without panic. A solution would be found.

"Thank you", he thanked Hans thoughtfully, and the latter disappeared with a slight smile into the air.

After Hans disappeared, Draco stood by the window for a long time, looking at the night sky. The Servant's words gave him hope, but doubts still plagued him.

He thought about Snape, who unexpectedly offered him a helping hand. About his parents, awaiting his decision. About classmates who didn't understand him.

Well, he promised himself to think everything through carefully. To make a decision that speaks to his soul. And whichever choice it may be — he will make it, following the call of his heart.

Draco looked at the stars one last time and left the corridor. He felt calmer. Whatever his decision was — now he knew he wasn't alone.

Chapter Text

The Horrors of the New War: Who Will Stop the Terror of the Death Eaters?

As our reporters have learned, last night the gang of Death Eaters launched an attack on the magical village of Crackleton in North Yorkshire.

The perpetrators, hiding their faces behind masks, set fire to several houses and spread panic among the local residents. According to witnesses, the Death Eaters used Unforgivable Curses against anyone who tried to resist them.

Fortunately, thanks to the timely intervention of King Arthur's forces, the Death Eaters were forced to flee, unable to achieve their goals.

"The King saved us! If not for him, these monsters would have killed everyone!" shares survivor Mr. Albert Higgs with the Prophet.

According to the Ministry of Dark Arts Control, this is not the only instance of supporters of You-Know-Who becoming more active. The Death Eaters are becoming increasingly audacious in their attacks.

While King Arthur stands guard to maintain order, ordinary wizards and muggles have protection against this lawlessness. We urge all concerned individuals to unite against the terror of the Death Eaters and their leader, whose name we dare not speak!

At breakfast, there was a tense atmosphere. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were discussing the latest troubling news.

"Stan Shunpike has been arrested for being connected to the Death Eaters... And poor Hannah lost her mom to them," Hermione said quietly.

"I heard her relatives took her home," Dudley joined the conversation. "Will she be homeschooled now?"

Harry nodded grimly. He sympathized with the students who had lost their families and loved ones. He also thought about the fate of the unlucky Stan Shunpike and remembered how, after the Quidditch World Cup, Stan would babble nonsense in front of the Veela, which he would usually laugh about. But now, everything was much more serious. No matter how much of a chatterbox Stan Shunpike was, his words had gotten him sent to Azkaban. It seemed like the darkness was growing with each passing day. Voldemort was summoning mysterious and powerful allies for help. And no one knew how long King Arthur's protection would hold.

Recalling his brief conversation with the king in Diagon Alley, Harry felt a sense of unease. What did King Arthur mean when he warned him that he was being led into a pit? How much longer would this fragile illusion of safety last?

"Let's hope the king's help will allow us to endure," he said quietly. But his heart clenched with bad premonitions. What awaited them ahead?

Laughter from the Slytherins could be heard from the nearby table.

"This imaginary king won't be able to do anything against the Dark Lord!" someone's voice said.

"His views are probably as ancient as the legends about him!"

"I wonder if he'll show us the way to Avalon if we ask? Or does Avalon only exist in his mind?"

Dudley immediately stood up from the table, his face as red as a freshly boiled crab. His hands clenched into huge, powerful fists. He displayed, with his entire being, that he was willing to personally accompany anyone to Avalon who dared to say a word from the Slytherin table. The entire Slytherin table burst into laughter at the sight of the enraged Gryffindor, and only Masha grabbed him by the sleeve with a look that begged him not to start a fight.

Harry turned around. Draco sat silently surrounded by giggling classmates. His face remained inscrutable.

"Don't say that!" Neville objected. "The king protects us from the Death Eaters!"

The Slytherins only sneered in response.

Harry felt annoyed by their remarks. But at least Draco didn't join in the bullying. What was happening in his mind?

Getting up from the table, Harry and Ron headed to the Quidditch field for Gryffindor team tryouts.

They met Hermione at the entrance to the stands.

"Harry, Ron, Jeanne! Good luck at the tryouts today!" Hermione said.

"Thanks! We'll try to make it onto the team!" Ron replied.

"I hope to make a good impression," Jeanne nodded seriously. "We trained a lot this summer at the Burrow."

"You'll definitely do great!" Ron encouraged her.

They climbed up to the stands together. Harry felt a rush of excitement - today, they would give it their all, all together!

On the field, those aspiring to join the team had gathered. Harry saw familiar faces - Ginny, Dean, Jimmy Peakes, and others.

It was a clear autumn day, perfect for Quidditch tryouts. The stands of the stadium were filled with eager spectators – students waiting to see the candidates' performances. The wind rustled the robes and waved the scarves in the colors of the different houses.

Harry nervously surveyed the crowd – as the team captain, he had a responsible decision to make. Ron, standing beside him, shifted impatiently, eager to get on the field.

"Well, let's begin the selections!" Harry announced, waving his hand to signal the first participant...

Ginny was the first to take the trial. She was focused and ready to showcase her best hunting skills. Everyone knew Ginny was an excellent player, but Harry couldn't let friendship cloud his judgement.

Ginny swiftly darted towards the hoops, skillfully avoiding the enchanted training bludgers. Her red hair billowed behind her like a fiery tail. The crowd gasped as she narrowly dodged a bludger collision, but Ginny didn't lose her composure and confidently scored a goal.

"Excellent!" Harry cheered, applauding along with everyone else. Ron and the other team members loudly cheered for Ginny as well. Her flight had made an impression on the audience.

After successful performances from the seekers, it was time for the beaters' trials.

Sam Brightwood was the first to fly out. His face was concentrated, and his shoulders were tense – he was clearly nervous, but determined. Sam skillfully hit the bludger, demonstrating strength and accuracy.

"Well done, Sam!" Agatha Sunspark shouted from the stands. He smiled in response and returned to the ground.

Next came Jeanne. Her back was straight, and her gaze serious. She charged towards the bludger and deflected it with a precise strike. Harry and Ron applauded loudly – it was evident that her summer training had paid off.

Harry and Ron applauded along with everyone else – they had seen Jeanne's dedication during the summer practices. Katie Bell, Demelza Robbins, Dean, and other candidates took their turns.

Lastly, Dudley flew out as a beater. He looked nervous but determined. He carefully polished his Nimbus 2001 broom and held it tightly in his sweaty palms filled with excitement.

Dudley had become very eager about Quidditch and had practiced a lot on his own as well as with Harry and Ron. He had tried himself in different positions – as a seeker, a beater, and during the summer, he played both as a chaser and a keeper.

When the tryouts began, Dudley couldn't decide which position he should try out for.

"Let him fly as a beater first, and then as a hunter," Harry suggested. "Let's see where his skills shine the most."

Finally, it was his turn. Dudley pushed off the ground and soared into the air. His flight was slightly tense due to his nerves. But when the bludger whizzed past, Dudley composed himself and executed a difficult feint, evading the attack, intercepting the bludger, and skillfully hitting it back.

"Come on, Dudley!" Harry shouted from the stands.

Dudley confidently gained height and scored a Quaffle goal, flying through the hoop. The stands erupted in applause. The stands immediately erupted in cheers.

In the end, Dudley shone by scoring a goal like a Chaser, and then demonstrated excellent Seeker skills.

"Well done, Dudley! You're versatile!" Ron praised him after the flight.

After evaluating the Seekers and Chasers, Harry announced, "Now let's move on to selecting the goalkeepers!"

Ron was the first one on the field. He looked determined, although Harry noticed Ron gripping his broom nervously. Ron's flight was a bit tense, but overall he demonstrated good reflexes and managed to block many shots.

Next, Cormac McLaggen flew onto the field. He grinned confidently and winked at the girls in the stands, saying, "Get ready for a show! I'll show you an amazing flight!" He then turned to Jeanne, who had also risen to the stands. "And you, sweetheart, will be cheering in delight."

Jeanne pressed her lips together and stood up abruptly. Her back was as straight as a stick, and her gaze sparkled with indignation.

"Your empty words are worthy of nothing but a condescending silence from me," Jeanne sharply interrupted him. "You only impress with your own vanity."

With these words, Jeanne turned around and proudly walked away, paying no attention to the astonished looks. McLaggen blushed with anger and humiliation. Harry and Ron exchanged glances and barely held back their laughter – this arrogant guy surely doesn't know who he just messed with.

In the air, McLaggen tried to perform tricks and stunts on his broom to grab the public's attention. This often made him lose focus and miss easy shots through the hoops.

When Harry announced that Ron would be the main goalkeeper, McLaggen protested, "What?! Weasley only made it because of his connections! I'm a hundred times better than him!"

"Cormac, you should learn team spirit," Harry said sternly. "It's not about showing off, but about the team's coordinated effort."

McLaggen snorted and walked away, while the rest of the players exchanged glances. Harry was right – arrogance won't lead to victory. In team sports, humility and mutual support are much more important. After discussing, Harry appointed Ron as the main goalkeeper and McLaggen as the backup.

"Well done, Ron! You did it!" Harry congratulated his friend when he announced the results.

After all the trials, Harry announced the names of those who made it into the main team. They included Sam, Katie, Demelza, Ginny, Dean, and all three beaters!

"Harry, did you include five chasers, three beaters, and two goalkeepers in the team? Isn't that too many?" Katie Bell remarked.

"I decided to have substitutes, just in case," explained Harry. "Last year, we had to urgently find replacements due to injuries. Now we'll have a full reserve."

"But training will be harder with such a large squad," objected Katie.

"No worries, we'll manage!" Ginny interjected. "The most important thing is that now we have an excellent team! We will be the best!"

Harry and the rest nodded in agreement. Of course, it wouldn't be easy to train everyone, but they were ready to put in all their efforts because team spirit was the most important thing.

While the trials were going on, an unexpected spectator appeared in one of the stands. It was Draco Malfoy. He quietly sat at the very edge and started observing what was happening.

At first, Malfoy's face remained impassive. But gradually, as he watched the newcomers perform their flights, he became more interested.

When Ginny scored another goal, Draco smirked and even applauded. And after Dudley Malfoy's successful performance, he genuinely smiled, although he hid it behind a mocking snort.

Harry only noticed Malfoy after the end of the qualifying training and raised his eyebrows in surprise. What brought him here? But it seemed that Draco genuinely rejoiced for the newcomers in the Gryffindor team. Why? Unfortunately, Harry couldn't talk to him again as Malfoy disappeared after the training. Harry carefully circled the entire stadium and inspected all the stands several times. After that incident, he felt a buildup of new questions about Draco. What on earth was happening with this arrogant Slytherin?

Snape sat in his office, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. His gaze lingered on an ancient book with a worn-out cover, lying on the table. It seemed that this discovery brought him great pleasure. In the corner, someone's shadow flickered, but the person remained hidden in the darkness.

"Everything is going perfectly," Snape said, looking into the dark corner. "Very soon, our desired outcome will be achieved. Thanks to the information you obtained... from a reliable source."

Snape smirked smugly and stroked the tattered cover. This book, found in a forbidden place, would ensure his triumph. No one would suspect its true origin.

Snape tore his gaze away from the ancient book and looked back into the dark corner of the office.

"I must say, the potion you provided me with... Its effect is simply mesmerizing. I have never encountered such fine work in potion-making."

"You are very kind," a melodic voice with a slight accent came from the shadows, giving him a soft response. "It is gratifying that my modest talents in potion-making have been useful to you."

"Oh yes, thanks to this potion, our success is guaranteed," Snape nodded in satisfaction. "Everything is going according to plan."

Suddenly, Snape felt someone's breath and saw the glint of eyes in the darkness in front of his face. The shadow smirked cunningly at him and disappeared into the darkness.

At the threshold, Snape glanced back at the mysterious figure in the corner and smirked cunningly. Everything was going perfectly... Snape chuckled in satisfaction and left the office. The help of his guest would ensure the success of his plans.

Chapter Text

After dinner, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and several other Gryffindors gathered in the living room by the fireplace.

"Well, it seems like we've got the coolest Quidditch team now!" Ron said, settling into a chair. "Thanks to you, Harry, you picked some great players."

"Yeah, McLaggen clearly went overboard with his showboating," Hermione snorted. "Remember how he was fawning over Jeanne?"

"Yeah, it's still hilarious to think about his face after her response!" Ron laughed.

"Yeah, jokes aside, Jeanne won the Tournament with Harry and Cedric two years ago, so she definitely isn't someone that show-off can handle!" Neville added.

Everyone laughed together. Harry smiled and looked at Jeanne. I wonder what she's thinking right now?

"Alright, enough laughing at that braggart," Jeanne said, although the corners of her lips twitched slightly. "Let's discuss the upcoming practice instead."

"Oh, right!" Ron remembered. "Tomorrow is the first practice with the new team. Do you think we'll gel quickly?"

"Of course, we will! We have a great team!" Agatha exclaimed. "I'll be cheering for you from the stands!"

"Thanks, Agatha! The support of the fans will definitely come in handy," Harry smiled.

After everyone had a good laugh at McLaggen's awkward attempt to impress Jeanne, the conversation smoothly transitioned into discussing the upcoming practice.

Hermione neatly arranged scrolls and an inkwell on the table, intending to finish her Transfiguration essay. Ron lazily flipped through a book on the history of magic, yawning and scratching his head.

Gradually, the group started dispersing to their respective bedrooms. Hermione carefully packed her study materials into her bag and wished everyone a good night as well.

Harry and Jeanne remained by the fireplace in the now empty Gryffindor living room. The dying embers still flickered, occasionally crackling.

Harry stared thoughtfully at the fire, tapping his fingers on the page of the book open on his lap. Jeanne neatly turned the pages of her folio on combat magic.

Finally, Harry tore his gaze away from the fireplace and quietly said, "You know, I've been thinking more and more about what's happening beyond the castle walls..."

He looked at Jeanne, searching for an answer in her eyes. She nodded thoughtfully, setting aside her book.

Jeanne turned to face Harry. The fire cast glimmers in her amber eyes.

"Yes, events are rapidly unfolding outside Hogwarts," she said quietly. "The New Holy Grail War is already in full swing."

Harry frowned, trying to understand the hint.

"What do you mean? What makes this War different?"

Jeanne smirked slightly and shook her head.

"You have no idea how little you know about what's really happening... I learned something this summer."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, furrowing his brow. "What did you find out?"

Jeanne smiled mysteriously and tilted her head slightly.

"I can't reveal all my secrets, Harry. I'll just say that this War will be unlike anything before. Too many forces are involved."

She looked into his eyes intently.

"You'll have to quickly catch up and learn a lot. Otherwise, you're not prepared for what's coming. Even for an experienced Master, it will be difficult to win this War."

Harry frowned and looked away. Jeanne's words sounded mysterious and unsettling. What was she trying to achieve? He looked at her suspiciously.

"Why are you telling me all this? Whose interests do you represent in this War?"

Jeanne only smiled enigmatically in response to his question. She gave him a meaningful look, and Harry felt like he recognized something familiar deep within her gaze.

Harry didn't break his gaze from Jeanne's face, trying to understand the expression in her eyes. She looked directly and honestly, without a trace of insincerity.

He noticed a faint smile briefly flash across the corners of her lips. Jeanne tilted her head slightly, just as she did in his dreams, marching fiercely through battlefields... But now she stood before him as a completely different girl - mysterious and sincere in her concern for him. And there was nothing ominous in this gesture now. Harry stared into her eyes, trying to find an answer.

Harry saw her gaze soften and warm for a moment. It seemed like Jeanne wanted to convey something important without words...

Suddenly, she slowly reached out and neatly adjusted the collar of his shirt. The touch was as light as a feather, but Harry felt the warmth of her fingers.

Then Jeanne nodded slightly, motioning with her eyes behind him, and quietly stood up, never taking her eyes off Harry. Her gaze spoke volumes. Darkness fell outside the window. It was time to rest.

Harry watched her leave, and he felt like he was finally beginning to grasp the hidden meaning behind her silent words. As he watched her go, he also stood up from the cozy couch in the Gryffindor common room. Tomorrow, new challenges awaited them. And for now, the night remained for reflection on spoken and unspoken words.

The next day, Harry walked into the living room and found Ginny reading a book by the window.

"Good morning," he greeted her. "Early bird, as always."

Ginny smiled and set aside her book.

"Hey, Harry! Yeah, I decided to enjoy the morning sun. How did you sleep?"

"Not bad, thanks," he nodded as he approached her. "What are your plans for today?"

"Well, I was thinking of practicing some new Quidditch tricks," Ginny said. "I want to be in top form for the first match!"

"Great idea! I can join you if you don't mind," Harry offered. "Training together is more fun."

Ginny happily nodded in agreement. They arranged to meet on the field after breakfast. Harry thought that joint training would be a great way to spend time alone with Ginny.

"I'm glad you decided to train together," Ginny said with a smile. "Your advice as the team captain will come in handy."

"Well, I'm also looking forward to training with such a talented Chaser," Harry responded.

Ginny blushed slightly at his words.

"Thanks... so, we'll meet on the field after breakfast?" she asked.

"Deal," Harry nodded. "We'll practice a tactic I came up with over the summer. It'll be great!"

They exchanged friendly smiles. Harry realized he definitely enjoyed spending time with Ginny.

On the field, the Gryffindor team appeared in full strength. Harry nervously looked over his numerous team. It was his first time as captain, and he felt a huge responsibility for the upcoming match. Ron was also nervous - he had to prove that he deserved to be in the goalposts. The rest of the players eagerly awaited instructions.

For training purposes, the Gryffindor team split into two groups. On one half of the field stood Ron, Katie, Ginny, Demelza, Richie, and Sam. They represented the main Gryffindor team.

On the other side, Cormac stood in the goal, with Harry, Dean, Jimmy, Dudley, and Jeanne. They played the roles of opponents.

At Harry's whistle, the game began. Katie swiftly ran towards the ball, outpacing her opponents. Once in possession of the ball, she held it close to her chest and raced towards the goal. Her eyes were focused on the target. Cormac stood in the goal, showily snapping his gloves - he clearly wanted to impress the small audience.

The spectators held their breath. Katie sprinted towards the goal, skillfully dodging the defenders. Getting closer, she forcefully launched the ball towards the left hoop. Cormac lunged across, but miscalculated by a fraction of a second. The ball whistled through the hoop! The stands exploded with joyful cries from the few Gryffindor students who had come to watch their team practice.

After Katie scored, Cormac gritted his teeth and angrily punched the goal post.

Harry and Dean exchanged a glance and charged towards the attack, aiming to score a point. They expertly evaded the defenders, passing the ball to each other. Reaching the goal, Dean took a powerful shot at it. Ron swiftly dove to his right and deflected the ball at the very last moment, right on the goal line.

Harry immediately caught the ball and tried to catch Ron off guard, striking from the left flank. But Ron somehow guessed his intention and once again kicked the ball away. His posture radiated confidence and composure.

Jeanne played the role of the beater, trying to intercept all the bludgers to protect her team. One of the balls flew towards Sam at full speed, but Jeanne quickly reacted and forcefully hit it with her bat. The bludger veered off to the side, missing Sam by just a few inches.

However, a minute later, another bludger attacked from an unexpected direction. Jeanne sprinted across, but this time she didn't make it in time - the ball zoomed dangerously close to Dean's head. For a moment, disappointment flashed in Jeanne's eyes at her mistake.

But she immediately composed herself and continued the game with renewed energy, preparing to defend her teammates from the next attack. Her movements were coordinated and precise, but she clearly held back, not wanting to harm the players with her strength.

With confidence in his voice, Harry gave optimal passing routes, game strategies, and field positioning. He instructed Demelza on how to better control the ball for a precise and dangerous shot against the opponents. He also directed Dean, Jimmy, and Dudley to create blocks and obstacles for the opponents, hindering their attack.

Another attempt to score behind Ron's back ended in failure - Ron intercepted the Quaffle from the opponents and, together with Katie, they quickly passed it between themselves to prevent the opponents from gaining possession until another chaser arrived. When Sam joined them, Ron returned to his position. Katie and Sam were extremely focused on their actions, rapidly passing the Quaffle to each other mid-flight, but they faced strong defense from the opponents.

Dean almost intercepted the ball flying between them. But as soon as Sam and Katie changed their tactics, Dudley almost snatched the ball from Sam. A giant charging at Sam almost caught him off guard, almost making him drop the Quaffle. Barely regaining his balance, Sam and Katie realized they were in a difficult position, and the team needed to do something to penetrate the defense. Dean, closely watching the game, noticed that they had a chance to play against Sam and Katie. Understanding that a secret play could be the solution, he signaled to Jeanne.

She nodded in agreement. Dean flew closely behind Jeanne, and at the moment of her next throw, he grabbed onto both ends of her broomstick. Rising above the saddle, she forcefully pushed off with her feet and detached herself from the broom using her entire body. Soaring in the air for a few meters, she deftly caught the ball mid-flight. Her agility and quick reaction made her an excellent choice for jumping and intercepting the ball. Dean continued to follow just below Jeanne, and after descending a dozen meters, he caught her on his broom's saddle. Now all they had to do was throw the Quaffle into the opponents' goal.

This action came as a complete surprise to their opponents. The collaboration between Dean and Jeanette demonstrated an incredible level of trust between them, strong teamwork, and a willingness to take risks for the sake of victory. Their seamless work allowed their team to gain an advantage in this match.

All the Gryffindor players, including Harry, watched this situation with a mix of admiration, excitement, fear, and respect. Later, Harry would scold both of them for taking an unnecessary risk, but at the same time, he would acknowledge their excellent work. But that would be later, for now, the two brave daredevils deserved praise. Something stirred deep in his soul as he saw this seemingly fragile girl fall down with the Quaffle in her hands. And why did he agree to take her as a Chaser? Why not as a Seeker? Why did he even think of including her in the team? What if next time Dean doesn't catch her in time? What if even for a Servant, a fall from such a height could be deadly? As the captain of his team, Harry realized that unexpected collaborations and creative solutions, even in practice matches, could be decisive factors for winning a real game.

In the middle of the game, the main Gryffindor team found themselves in a difficult position when the score was tied and the opponents were attacking persistently. At this moment, Demelza sent the Quaffle towards the opponents' goal with a strong hit. However, her shot was slightly off target.

Suddenly, Ginny, displaying incredible agility and speed, covered a vast distance in an instant on her broomstick. She instantly realized that the Quaffle was dangerously close to their goalposts and made the leap to catch it near the edge of the goal area. Thanks to her skill, she prevented a potential goal against her team.

Her teammates attempted to break through the opponents' defense and headed straight for the goal. However, Harry, Dudley, and Jimmy quickly formed a collective shield, with Dudley as the lead Beater. They were ready to protect their goal at any cost.

Dudley positioned himself on the field near the goalkeeper, always ready to charge forward and distract the opposing team. With his good broomstick, he could move swiftly across the field, dodge opponents, and block their shots. His strength allowed him to aggressively attack and push opponents out of his way.

Jimmy, on the other end of the field, maneuvered quickly to block and intercept shots, thus preventing goals. He also didn't stay in one place, maintaining his position, and readily rushing to aid his teammates at any distance to stop the opponent's attack. Thanks to his defensive skills, many goals were prevented, and the team maintained their position.

Ginny played as a Seeker and, as always, demonstrated excellent flight technique and ball control. She skillfully intercepted the ball, bypassed defenders, and passed the ball accurately at the right angle to Katie and Sam.

After gaining possession of the ball, Ginny dashed towards Cormac's goal. Two defenders rushed towards her, but she cleverly lured them aside and then sharply shifted and made a powerful shot from a tight angle. Cormac didn't have time to react, and the ball flew straight into the hoop.

Ginny smiled happily, catching Harry's approving gaze. Her game was aggressive and decisive, and with every intercepted ball and scored goal, Ginny solidified her position as a strong player. Her outstanding performance only improved throughout the training session, and in the end, it helped the team snatch and maintain the advantage on the field.

In the end, Ron's team emerged victorious. The players were pleased with the game's outcome and shook each other's hands with joy, understanding that not only victory mattered, but also the fact that they had done a lot for their team and surpassed themselves in this training session.

Shaking each other's hands, Harry and Ginny stood side by side, their gazes meeting, and for a moment they seemed to communicate silently. Joy of victory and deep understanding of each other reflected in their eyes.

Jeannette, who was watching Harry and Ginny from the sidelines, noticed a subtle moment between them. She saw how they looked at each other with such understanding. Her usual self-satisfied grin became sinister at that moment.

Looking at Harry and Ginny once more, who continued to communicate without words, Jeannette simply smiled and, along with the other team members, left the stadium without showing any sign.

Chapter Text

"Alter-Servants."

With these two words, Ritsuka Fujimaru began his new lesson in the Save-Room. For Harry, this was his first lesson during the sixth course, taught by Ritsuka. Harry's heart, sensitive to restless tension, burned with mixed feelings of anticipation and anxiety, as he anticipated that Fujimaru could leave him completely defenseless in his thoughts. With deep conviction, cutting through the doubts that covered his being, Harry understood that not having a summoned Servant in the upcoming complex matter meant losing an undeniable advantage.

"Usually, with rare exceptions, Alter-Servants represent the other side of a regular Servant's personality. But for Servants who are recognized as holy figures after death, no alternative version can appear. The same goes for Servants who have achieved a balance between good and evil, for whom alternative means nothing, as they say themselves."

"Is it possible to summon both the original Servant and their Alter version at the same time?" Neville asked.

"It can be, and it can't be. Alter-Servants often consider themselves as the original Servants. Each pair has one soul."

"But, sir... if we look at how the genuinely noble original personality immediately appears with the Alter-Servant, how can we understand this?" Hermione asked.

For a moment, Ritsuka glanced at Jeanne. She diligently pretended as if she had nothing to do with it and tried not to stand out. Only a few people in this room know who she really is. Only Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ritsuka, Mash, and Dudley understand that she is the true Alter-Servant - the alternative Jeanne d'Arc. Ritsuka had no intention of revealing her secret, so he carefully concealed his emotions and lowered his gaze for a moment.

"Sometimes, Alter-Servants create the Grail. There can be many reasons for this, including the request of their new owner or the will of the Grail itself. It wouldn't hurt for you to know about the existence of a phenomenon called the Dark Grail. Distorted by someone's evil will, it also seeks to distort the Servants who come into contact with it."

"The Dark Grail?" everyone gasped.

Confusion mixed with fear and horror was written on the faces of the students.

"Once, during the next Holy Grail War in the city of Fuyuki, which does not exist and will never exist, an alternative Servant was created. Her name was Artoria Pendragon Alter, class Saber. Ironically, that was my first mission as a Master."

In Ritsuka's mind, a forgotten dungeon appeared, dormant in darkness, like a hidden treasure trove in an ancient tomb. There, it seemed, Artoria Alter stood frozen, majestic and irresistible, with armor framing crimson cracks that flared and faded like fiery gaps in the black primordial darkness. Carefully, as if facing an enraged beast, Ritsuka again felt her amber gaze, so cold-blooded and menacing, penetrate his very being, awakening a primal fear akin to a trembling bison trying to escape from a primitive tribe armed with multiple torches.

"But you defeated Artoria Alter, didn't you?" Hermione asked.

Fragments of fate shattered reality, confidence dissolved in Ritsuka's palms, as it burned his skin - the same hand that vigorously resisted Artoria Alter, fighting alongside him under Sir Galahad's shield. Fragility merged with power as his eyes stared at this spectacle - that fragile girl with sakura-colored eyes, standing like a formidable fortress against the onslaught of Artoria Alter. A premonition of death trembled in his mind, for in a moment, the Heavenly Phantasm raging from Artoria Alter's dungeon would reduce him to ashes. However, regardless of everything, determination ignited within him. With a swift leap, Fujimaru crossed the Infernal Plains rushing through the cave, while the darkness of death melted behind him. That is what he did for her, he plunged into the abyss of hell, to save Mash, hoping that his madness would give her the power to summon a powerful phantasm and create an impregnable fortress that would separate them from the furious Artoria Alter.

"We defeated her. But to my great sorrow, this mission turned out to be the last in the fate of my superior, Olga-Maria Animusphere. I must admit, she was not killed by Saber Alter, but by a Servant she trusted too much - Professor Lev Lionell."

Everyone gasped in shock.

"A Servant killed their own Master?" they exclaimed.

"She didn't know he was a Servant and always saw him as an ordinary wizard working in Chaldea," he said, his expression suddenly changing. "But can you recognize a true Servant among those around you?"

The students exchanged confused glances. They understood that Olga-Maria had more experience working with Servants, but even she couldn't avoid making a mistake. Harry didn't need to look around - he knew who the genuine Servants were among the present students. Jeanne and Hermione remained unfazed, but Ron and Mash looked around with puzzlement.

"Well then," Fujimaru said with a hint of condescension. "Distinguishing a true Servant from an ordinary mortal can even challenge experienced wizards unless the Servant reveals their abilities themselves. Now, all those who have attempted to summon their Servants during the summer, please raise your hands."

Harry didn't look around. He didn't want to know how many people in Dumbledore's Army had performed Summons during the summer. It was clear to him that he was in the minority.

"Harry..." Ritsuka addressed him.

"Not only Harry!" Neville interrupted. "But also Jeanne and Mash..."

"Thank you, Neville," Fujimaru calmly replied. "I have no questions for them."

"Sir..." Harry hesitated, addressing Ritsuka. "I don't want to summon great heroes from the past to fight and die for me. It feels... low and cowardly, in my opinion."

Fujimaru approached Harry and looked directly into his eyes with understanding. But Harry sadly lowered his head.

"You are a good person, Harry, and your nobility knows no bounds. But without a Servant..."

"...I simply won't be able to, that's a fact," Harry replied in despair. "But how can I presume to command someone whose boots I'm not even worthy of cleaning? And how... how can I dare to call them by that word - 'Servant'?"

Ritsuka kindly smiled at him and patted Harry on the shoulder.

"A Servant also has a head on their shoulders and a magnificent heart beating in their chest. Just trust the Servant."

Harry didn't lift his gaze. He feared judgmental glances from the other students in Dumbledore's Army. In an instant, Jeanne lightly touched his back and gestured for him to look around. No one was condemning him. Some even looked at him with admiration and inspiration.

"Sir," Ron addressed Ritsuka. "I'm having issues with my Servant."

"What kind?" Fujimaru asked.

"He doesn't listen and refuses to obey my commands in any way."

"Have you tried discussing your Servant's behavior with them? Or threatening to use a command spell?"

Ron shook his head in puzzlement.

"Understood. But don't use command spells thoughtlessly. No matter what behavior your Servant exhibits... Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Sir, have you heard anything about Servants that can ignore command spells?" Hermione asked. "I read..."

"Yes, such Servants exist," Fujimaru nodded confidently. "Sometimes this unique immunity can be helpful, and other times it can cause harm."

Fujimaru looked satisfied as he surveyed the students.

"So... we all have to endure difficult times ahead. The Holy Grail War is not a leisurely stroll, as sacrifices always accompany it. Don't indulge in illusions and remember that the Dark Lord will show you no mercy, just as his Servants are not obliged to show you any. Always be vigilant and keep your Servant by your side. And yet... if an enemy Servant wants to collaborate with you - agree."

Before Fujimaru could finish, the door to the Room of Requirement opened. Draco Malfoy appeared in the gaping doorway, his figure drawing attention like a magnet. Walking to the center of the room, he glanced at everyone present, his gaze filled with an indescribable sadness and uncertainty.

With a gloomy look and heavy breath, Malfoy stood in the room, enveloped in a mystical atmosphere. The corners of his lips trembled, and his gaze pierced the soul, permeating every dust particle in the air. Despair permeated each wrinkle of his face, as within him raged a deadly internal battle, where he fought against his demons of doubt and suffered one crushing defeat after another.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Malfoy?" Fujimaru inquired with a friendly curiosity on his face. He immediately silenced any exclamations from the students behind him with a gesture. But even without his help, silence hung in the air as if nature itself hesitated to breathe under the pressure of the internal struggle that had engulfed Malfoy.

"I..." Malfoy began.

Malfoy parted his lips to speak, but then suddenly stopped, as if sensing an irresistible fate descending upon him with its iron claws. The battle within him was evident on his pale face, as he desperately fought and helplessly suffered from each devastating blow. And finally, a glimmer of hope appeared in his eyes.

"Professor Fujimaru," his voice filled with pleading and despair. "I need your help."

"I'm all ears," Ritsuka kindly replied.

Malfoy looked up and noticed the inscription on the board.

"Death Eaters also undergo such a course," he said somberly. "They have long realized that our 'wonderful new king' is a Servant!"

His words reverberated in the air with the force of a hurricane, like thunderclaps making every atom tremble, piercing ears and troubling hearts. He floundered like a sea fish thrown into the enchanting cradle of the tide. Draco's face twisted, like cave seaweeds of doubt wrapping around his mind. And in the silence, still trembling from the volleys of his own thoughts, he whispered the words of the air, delivered in the solemn mourning chamber of human existence.

"And I, too, am among them as punishment for my father."

Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. Ritsuka calmly looked at Draco and walked towards him without haste.

"What does he want from you?"

Draco looked up for just a second and then replied,

"You won't forgive me for this."

"Who knows..." Ritsuka murmured thoughtfully.

"You see..." Harry interjected. "When you confess honestly, it's always easier to understand everything."

"Especially if you haven't achieved your intended goal yet," Jeanne supported him.

Draco's shoulders stopped trembling. He looked away.

"I have to bring the Death Eaters to Hogwarts and kill Professor Dumbledore."

Chapter Text

In a dark and magical room, filled with the scent of leaves and books, Dumbledore sat behind his massive desk, deeply immersed in thoughts about the difficult events that had engulfed Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy stood at a distance, hesitating to take a seat opposite the great wizard. In this moment of decisiveness, the awaiting members of Dumbledore's Army stood behind him, filled with anticipation, while Professor McGonagall and Fujimaru stood on either side of the table, their gazes full of expectation. Dumbledore's gaze was calm, his thoughts deeply immersed in the mysteries of human relationships.

"So," Malfoy sighed, his voice filled with nervousness, "what are you going to do with me?"

Dumbledore looked up, a twisted smile on his face.

"Do with you?" he replied calmly. "Predictable behavior from Tom Riddle, a scenario I have long anticipated."

The wise wizard stood up from his chair and walked towards the window, which offered a charming view of the Hogwarts courtyard. Malfoy, feeling an incredible sense of uncertainty, felt a weight lifted from his soul as he took the seat offered by Dumbledore. Looking at him, the headmaster continued:

"When we speak the truth and show honesty, it becomes difficult to condemn people. In reality, we must find space for praise. But, you have posed a difficult riddle to me."

Fujimaru listened intently, focusing on every word that revealed meaning. He wanted to know what Dumbledore would do next.

"And what will be your decision, Headmaster?" McGonagall asked anxiously.

"You know, professor," Dumbledore replied, as if intending to dissolve into the air, "I believe in second chances. I believe that every person is capable of change. Including young Malfoy. The path he has chosen now is a first step in the right direction. I just want him to prove to me that my faith in him is not in vain."

Malfoy glanced around uncertainly, shifting his gaze from one familiar face to another.

"Thank you, professor," he whispered in a resigned voice.

The headmaster returned to his place behind the desk.

"My role is to help those who aspire to become better, regardless of where they come from. Let young Mr. Malfoy use this chance and prove that he can become not only a follower of dark forces, but also a noble and worthy person."

Malfoy sat with a perplexed expression on his face, eagerly absorbing every word that Dumbledore uttered.

"Therefore, Draco, you will continue to train with the representatives of this wonderful student club, under professional supervision. Show me that you are worthy of trust."

The young man nodded, his somber gaze meeting those of his peers who were waiting for his decision.

"Do you feel how the winds of change are bringing something that we have all been subconsciously waiting for a long time?" Dumbledore unexpectedly asked and everyone around immediately became alert. "There is more to come, soon you will see it for yourselves."

When the students left the headmaster's office, Dumbledore remained alone with Fujimaru.

"So, what do you plan to do, Director?" Ritsuka asked puzzled. "The safety of your life and the whole school is at stake..."