On a midsummer night, even the silvery moonlight streaming through the windows into the headmaster’s office carried unexpected warmth within it.

Dumbledore’s blue gaze beneath his half-moon spectacles dropped down from contemplation of the ceiling’s constellations, scrutinizing Bryan intently for several moments. His expression was complex before he finally gave a small, remorseful smile.

“You don’t understand my old friend as well as you might think, Bryan,” Dumbledore said gently.

“Unfortunately, he is not the sort of wizard who accepts threats of any kind. He’s spent his entire life avoiding danger through careful maneuvering rather than confrontation. Moreover, I imagine that after his unfortunate experiences with Tom, after seeing what that brilliant student became, he would be maintaining a particularly vigilant attitude toward exceptionally talented young wizards like yourself.”

Seeing that Bryan’s expression remained unmoved, his purple eyes still thoughtful and strategic behind their calm exterior, Dumbledore continued with an additional cautionary comment, leaning forward slightly over his desk.

“Horace has mastered highly skilled Occlumency techniques over his many years of self-preservation. So Legilimency won’t work on him; he’ll sense the intrusion immediately and his defenses are formidable. From the fact that he could teach a wizard as proficient in potion-making as Severus, producing one of the finest Potions Masters of this generation, you should understand that Veritaserum likely won’t work on him either. He would have built up immunity years ago, or at the very least be prepared enough to counteract its effects.”

Bryan shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that was more thoughtful than dismissive. If Dumbledore insisted on not compromising his old friend’s personal safety and comfort, then certain more forceful methods would naturally be off the table.

However, making contact through some channel was still necessary.

“I once heard the Director of the Goblin Liaison Office under the Beast Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—Dirk Cresswell, mention in passing that he was one of Professor Slughorn’s prized students from his Hogwarts days,”

Bryan said thoughtfully.

“One of those chosen few admitted to the famous ‘Slug Club’ that Slughorn maintained for promising young talents. And Dirk places considerable trust in me. Perhaps I could establish communication with Professor Slughorn through this connection.”

“As long as you don’t intend to use magic to forcibly pry open Horace’s mind, Bryan, I have no objection to you making the attempt. Perhaps you truly can find common ground with him after all.”

Dumbledore smiled as he spoke these words of encouragement, though the expression was tinged with weary skepticism. Clearly, he did not harbor particularly great expectations for this approach.

With a deep sigh, Dumbledore gazed at the yellowish candlelight emanating from the chandelier hanging above them.

“Since Horace is temporarily and perhaps permanently unwilling to provide us with the valuable information, we need regarding Tom’s Horcruxes, the most urgent matter we need to confirm as soon as possible is Gringotts’ underground vaults.”

Dumbledore’s voice grew more focused as he shifted to this alternative approach.

“We need to determine whether Tom has, like that diary we already destroyed, entrusted another Horcrux to one of his Death Eaters now imprisoned in Azkaban’s cells. And whether that Death Eater, before entering prison and being cut off from the outside world, left that object with the goblins for safekeeping in one of those vaults beneath London.”

“I will confirm this as soon as possible,” Bryan said calmly. “When the time comes, I’ll need your Order of the Phoenix to coordinate with me.”

“Oh, that’s certainly no problem,” Dumbledore assured him readily, though his expression shifted to one of keen curiosity mixed with concern. “But—”

The confidence in Bryan’s voice when he made this statement, the way he spoke as though the matter were already half-accomplished rather than presenting an insurmountable obstacle, caused Dumbledore’s eyebrows to rise with genuine surprise.

“You already have a proper plan fully formed, don’t you, Bryan? Can you persuade Barnah to let us inspect those vaults?”

“I won’t make such a direct request of Barnah,” Bryan said, shaking his head definitively. “That would be undermining the very foundation of goblin society, threatening their entire banking system. They would refuse on principle alone, regardless of any other considerations, and such a request might damage relationships we’ll need later.”

Bryan paused, his purple eyes turned distant.

“I have another method. I can’t implement it now, but the opportunity will ripen soon. Very soon, in fact.”

Having dealt deeply with Bryan for so long now, Dumbledore had come to understand Bryan’s operational style and way of thinking somewhat. His blue eyes flickered with thought behind his spectacles, reading between the lines of what wasn’t being said.

“I must remind you of something crucial, Bryan—” Dumbledore’s voice grew grave. “We cannot let Tom perceive that we are searching for his Horcruxes, that we even know what they are or understand his method of achieving immortality.”

This critical point required no extended explanation; Bryan naturally understood the necessity of secrecy and misdirection.

The two powerful wizards left the desk with its scattered papers and quietly ticking silver instruments, crossing the circular office to come stand together before the tall window.

They stood in silence, observing the bright, clean campus grounds spread out below them, lit by the pure silver moonlight that made everything look peaceful and innocent, as though darkness and war were impossibilities in such a beautiful setting.

“Have you encountered any difficulties with the Triwizard Tournament preparations?” Dumbledore asked after a long silence.

“Everything has been arranged properly and thoroughly checked,” Bryan assured him. “There won’t be any problems during the competition itself.”

Bryan’s voice shifted then, taking on a trace of melancholy that made Dumbledore glance at him.

“However, prepare yourself mentally for what comes after—after this competition ends, the war will begin.”

Whoosh!

As if summoned by the mention of darkness and war, a sudden gust of foul wind surged forth from the depths of the Forbidden Forest. The wind rattled the window in its frame and sent papers on Dumbledore’s desk fluttering.

Dumbledore said nothing in response to Bryan’s ominous prediction, merely continued to gaze into the distance with those blue eyes. His long silvery beard whipped wildly in the wind, the moonlight coming through the window bathing his wrinkled face in pale light that only emphasized how tired and weary he appeared.

The same moonlight that illuminated Hogwarts scaled mountains and crossed vast bodies of water, traveling thousands of miles to the east and north. Eventually, it climbed to the highest point of a solitary tower belonging to an ancient castle perched precariously on a standing cliff face drop. The silvery beams quietly slipped through a narrow window opening into a sparse, room that held almost nothing beyond the bare necessities.

The gray-haired old man lying on the hard wooden bed boards, his body already fallen into what should have been deep sleep, seemed to sense something in the quality of light or air. His eyes suddenly opened without the gradual transition of waking, snapping immediately to full alertness.

His eyes, covered with a disturbing layer of white film that gave them a clouded, almost blind appearance, gazed blankly at first at the rippling patterns formed by moonlight pouring across the rock wall opposite his bed.

Slowly, with the careful movements of someone whose joints ached with age and long imprisonment, he rose from his prone position to sit upright on the edge of the bed.

Barefoot, his feet pale as fish-belly in the moonlight, the old man treaded carefully across the cold stone floor that leached warmth from everything it touched. He came to stand at the narrow window, his thin nightshirt was offering no protection against the chill that seemed to seep from the very stones.

Expressionlessly, his face showing no emotion as though he’d forgotten how to feel, he observed the scenery outside that remained monotonous whether viewed in spring, summer, autumn, or winter, the same stark mountains, the same isolation, the same crushing loneliness.

In summer, even this far north, the heavy snow covering the harsh earth was rapidly melting under the sun’s assault. The black, angular, and menacing mountain ranges that remained buried beneath snow and ice for most of the year were finally being exposed like ancient bones emerging from flesh, their true cruel nature revealed.

After staring silently for a long while into that wilderness where nothing human could survive, the old man finally withdrew his clouded gaze from the window. He shifted his line of sight back toward the bed, his attention fixing with sudden intensity upon an exquisitely crafted, classical pocket watch that lay beside his flat pillow.

His pale lips moved slightly, forming words without sound, as the old man walked slowly back across the cold floor. He retrieved the watch from the bedside with hands that trembled slightly, whether from age or emotion it was unclear.

Snapping open the cover with a soft click that seemed loud in the silent room, the old man stared at a photograph carefully preserved behind the glass protecting the watch face.

The magical photograph showed an old man and a young girl together, frozen in a moment of apparent happiness. But his gaze did not linger on the old man’s face in the photo. Rather, his attention focused on the little girl captured in that moment.

Though she was at what should have been an innocent and lively age, carefree and joyful, the smile the little girl displayed in the photograph revealed upon close examination a trace of something else, deliberateness and distance.

As he gazed at the little girl’s face, studying every detail of her face as though memorizing them anew though he must have performed this ritual countless times, the old man’s face filled with wrinkles underwent a subtle change in expression.

Time slipped away silently in the cold, dry wind that never ceased in this place, marking hours without meaning.

The moonlight illuminating the sparse interior of the room gradually retreated as the moon climbed higher into the night sky on its eternal path, and the small room slowly slid back into the abyssal darkness from which the moonlight had temporarily rescued it.

Click—

After the portraits in the photograph were also swallowed completely by encroaching darkness, becoming invisible once more, the old man closed the watch cover with care. His fingers lingered on the smooth metal for a moment before releasing it.

Then, slowly, he climbed back onto the hard bed.

When the last trace of moonlight finally departed from the room, retreating as the moon continued its journey, the old man lay back down on the bed.

As he closed his eyes in preparation for sleep or its semblance. The white film covering his pupils seemed to dissipate somewhat, dispersing like clouds scattered by sudden wind, and at the center of his eye, a thread of silver light flashed.

The next morning arrived with the passage of time, bringing with it the bright promise of a new day that suppressed the tensions building beneath Hogwarts’ peaceful surface.

When Harry, Hermione, and Ron got up early and immediately headed down through the castle and across the grounds toward Hagrid’s hut, they were thoroughly astonished to discover that the entire boundary between the Forbidden Forest and the open grounds had been cordoned off with thick rope.

The rope stretched as far as they could see in either direction.

Hagrid was absent from his small cabin; his door was shut and locked. Even Fang, his enormous boarhound who was usually sleeping contentedly in front of the cabin door or roaming the nearby pumpkin patch, was nowhere to be seen.

“What’s going on here?” Harry asked in bewilderment as the three of them walked around to the back of the hut.

They came to stand at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest, looking with growing confusion at the ropes tied to tree trunks at regular lengths. Each section of rope was marked with painted “No Entry” signs.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione swallowed hard, her throat was suddenly dry despite the morning’s humidity. Her voice was somewhat tight with realization and building uneasiness.

“Professor Watson has sealed off the entire Forbidden Forest—no entry allowed for anyone without authorization. They’re probably preparing for the competition inside, setting up whatever challenges await us. Hagrid’s not home because he’s probably deep in the forest helping out with whatever dangerous creatures or obstacles they’re arranging.”

“But if Professor Watson thinks he can use just this rope to keep people out—” Ron said with a grimace, trying to project confidence he didn’t entirely feel. He reached out boldly to touch the seemingly ordinary rope.

The instant his skin made contact, a piercing, agonized scream tore through the tranquility of the Forbidden Forest. The sound was horrific beyond description like that of Karkaroff’s dying screams while being simultaneously tortured by multiple Death Eaters all wielding the Cruciatus Curse at once.

The three young wizards standing at the forest’s edge simultaneously clapped their hands over their ears in a desperate attempt to block out the excruciating noise. Their expressions were completely unable to conceal their pain and shock at the intensity of the magical alarm.

“What’s happening, Hermione? What is this terrible sound!” Ron staggered back, nearly losing his balance as the noise seemed to penetrate directly into his skull. “It’s horrible! It sounds like Percy trying to sing opera!”

“Oh, I don’t know for certain, but I can guess—” Hermione shrieked, having to raise her voice to be heard over the continuing scream. “Maybe it’s a Caterwauling Charm, a type of defensive magic used for alarm systems! I read about them but I’ve never actually encountered one before!”

Without any further discussion or investigation, the three of them fled in complete panic, running as fast as their legs would carry them away from the boundary and toward the open grounds.

Remarkably, when they passed Hagrid’s hut and moved beyond a certain specific distance from the Forbidden Forest boundary, the terrible sound that had been torturing their ears suddenly vanished completely.

It disappeared as though someone had thrown a switch, replaced once again by the gentle morning wind and the pleasant, soothing sound of waves lapping against the lake shore.

“They didn’t hear it at all!” Harry gasped for breath, his chest heaving from the sprint and the shock.

He suddenly noticed a group of younger students still flying about contentedly on broomsticks on the lawn, laughing and playing and practicing simple maneuvers, completely unaffected by the terrible noise that had just driven the three of them away in pain.

Harry straightened up slowly, looking back toward the forest boundary in amazement and now understanding.

“Quite obviously,” Hermione said, though her face was still chalk-white and her hands trembled slightly where they’d fallen from her ears.

Having been thoroughly rattled by the unexpected intensity of the magical defense, she dry-heaved twice, bending over with her hands on her knees.

“That noise only exists within a certain specific range, a boundary zone around the forest edge. Oh, and it’s probably specifically targeted at people ‘illegally entering the Forbidden Forest’ or touching the boundary markers without authorization. It wouldn’t affect people just flying nearby or walking past at a safe distance.”

The three exchanged glances, their initial shock was fading into something like amusement at their own boldness in testing the defenses. Suddenly they burst into slightly hysterical laughter, the tension was releasing in fits of giggles.

“Oh, I’m really very glad Professor Watson hasn’t used this particular trick normally throughout the school year,” Harry said, shrugging his shoulders as he caught his breath, a grin was spreading across his face despite his still-racing heart. “Otherwise, Hogwarts would lose so much of its fun and mystery. Half the adventures we’ve had would have been impossible.”

“If that were truly the case—” Ron wiped away the cold sweat he’d been frightened into producing, his face was still pale but recovering its color gradually. “Fred and George would probably organize a mass protest and threaten to drop out. They’d never tolerate being cut off from the forest.”

“From the current situation and Hagrid’s absence, he has probably already been forced to sign one of those confidentiality agreements Professor Watson seems so fond of,” Hermione said pondering. “Hoping to get any useful information out of him about what’s waiting for us in there is complete wishful thinking at this point.”

She paused, then added more thoughtfully: “It seems the third task doesn’t test intelligence gathering and advance preparation the way the first two did, but rather tests pure adaptability and quick thinking in the moment. We’ll be going in blind and having to figure things out as we encounter them.”

“That’s hardly good news for me,” Ron said with a bitter expression, his self-deprecating words nonetheless were delivered with enough humor that they added two more cheerful laughs to the bright daylight warming the grounds around them.

Days passed with the rising and setting of the sun, each dawn bringing them closer to the tournament’s task day. The moon waxed and waned through its eternal cycle, marking time’s passage.

The end-of-year examinations for all regular classes proceeded in full swing throughout the castle. Students could be seen hurrying between the library and their common rooms at all hours, arms filled with books and notes, faces tight with concentration and anxiety.

Then, seemingly overnight though surely it must have taken longer, it seemed that in just one-night, enormous spectator stands had mysteriously “grown” on Hogwarts’ grounds like massive wooden and metal flowers.

The construction had been accomplished with such efficiency and magical speed that students who’d gone to bed with the grounds empty woke to find these gigantic structures filling the landscape.

At the Forbidden Forest boundary, four enormous iron poles had been erected—as tall as Quidditch goalposts but considerably thicker and more substantial, their surfaces were inscribed with runes that glowed faintly in certain light. Each pole was topped with a massive screen, blank and dark now but surely to display the competition to the crowds.

Near the four iron poles stood a spacious, enclosed tent reinforced with preservation charms. Inside, goblins from Gringotts had already taken up residence well in advance of the event, beginning the meticulous work of adjusting and calibrating the complex broadcasting equipment.

Their voices could sometimes be heard arguing in rapid Gobbledegook about technical specifications and camera angles.

At dawn’s breaking on the morning of the final task, the very first rays of morning light penetrated through the dormitory windows, rendering the previously darkened room suddenly bright. The golden light fell across beds and faces.

Hermione’s eyes suddenly flew open with startling abruptness, her entire body became alert as though someone had cast Rennervate on her. She bolted upright in bed, her bushy hair went wild around her face, her heart was already racing with anticipation and nervousness.

The Triwizard Tournament’s final task was today.

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