Harry Potter: The Bard of Hogwarts

Unlike Austria's temperate broadleaf climate, the Scottish Highlands are rooted firmly in a temperate oceanic climate.

By late August, the average temperature in the Highlands hovers above 15°C—more than warm enough for most folk, yet the chill in the air had little to do with weather.

Inside the Transfiguration Office at Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall sat silently at her desk, staring into space.

She had signed off on the acceptance letters for the incoming first-years ages ago. Yet, the letters for upper-year students remained... untouched.

An unthinkable situation, really. For Hogwarts to run like the well-oiled, enchanted machine it was, Minerva McGonagall's diligence was vital. She was the spine, the gears, and the sorting hat (in spirit, if not literally). And if she started slacking, the entire castle might just fall into disarray—or worse, develop a personality disorder.

A long sigh escaped her lips.

She slowly opened a leather-bound register—the one she'd been avoiding all morning. The sixth-year student list.

Not because of any great administrative burden, but because two names on that list turned her heart heavy: Hermione Granger, whose name was dimmed and faded... and Ino Swinburne, marked missing without a trace.

They weren't just bright students. They were her favorites—shining beacons in the Transfiguration Club, bridging past brilliance and future promise.

Once, their small group was lively and full of potential. Now, with Cedric's graduation, and Hermione and Ino missing, only one remained from that special class: Cho Chang, a seventh-year and the last ember of what once burned bright.

McGonagall glanced out the window.

It was late August, and the Forbidden Forest was already shedding its leaves—too early, really. The wind carried a whisper of melancholy, and trees bowed to the coming fall like tired dancers exiting the stage.

She adjusted her glasses and looked back down at the page.

Then—slam! Her hand struck the table with a force that echoed through the stone office.

"Albus Dumbledore!"

The entry in the register had infuriated her.

Yes, he was eccentric. Yes, he was whimsical. And yes, she'd tolerated enough of his nonsense to write a book titled How Not to Be a Headmaster. But this—this crossed the line.

Bringing back a dead student's name in full color as some kind of jest?

Unforgivable.

She stood, her entire frame radiating indignation, and snatched the register from her desk.

It was time to have a very loud word with the so-called "Greatest Wizard of the Century."

Far from the blustery towers of Hogwarts, Ino was already well on his way to find the "One-Eyed Seer."

From the ancient texts he'd studied, the ruined tower of Nurmengard was about twenty kilometers from the sleepy village of Alpbach.

Technically, that was a fair walk. Realistically, it took him less than two minutes.

You'd think he'd be excited by this feat of wizardry. He wasn't.

Because at the moment, Ino was deeply, profoundly, soulfully distracted.

In the open woods, a soft, wistful folk melody drifted through the trees:

"...the iris sings its secrets,

and the kiwi scents the air,

green light shines from stumps laid bare,

as grass-servants and flower-maids gather there…"

Carried by the wind, the song wandered across the forest and beyond, until it reached a crumbling stone tower, long abandoned.

There, inside a narrow window, a frail old man stirred.

He wore humble robes, looked thin as windblown parchment, and yet—when he opened his eyes, they shimmered with a weary clarity that transformed his presence entirely.

No longer a forgotten relic of dark history.

Now, he resembled a sage. A scholar.

A watchful soul cloaked in mystery.

Atop the tower, Grindelwald stood by the narrow window, peering out through a jagged opening no wider than a foot.

Through it, he spotted something peculiar: a young man in plain clothes, carrying a harp, walking slowly yet somehow covering great distances with every step.

It wasn't teleportation.

It was stranger than that.

Each stride, though measured and casual, spanned entire fields—like stepping through time or gliding across dimensions. Snow-capped mountains, endless meadows, even oceans seemed like mere puddles before his feet.

It wasn't literal, of course. The boy wasn't bending the laws of physics. He was walking, maybe covering a few dozen meters with each step. But the feeling—ah, that was real.

Something ancient stirred.

Grindelwald stood there, listening to the melody, waiting.

No one had visited Nurmengard in over fifty years.

The old wizards stayed away out of respect.

The young ones stayed away out of fear.

They believed this was the prison of the most dangerous dark wizard in history.

Today, however... the tower would receive a guest.

Or so it seemed—until the boy vanished just before emerging from the trees.

Grindelwald's eyes narrowed. For the first time in decades, he was confused.

Ino, too, was surprised.

After saying farewell to Hermione, he had set off on his journey. The forest had welcomed him with a kind of mournful peace.

Early autumn had brushed every tree with change. The heat of summer had softened into a gentle warmth. Leaves shifted from green to yellow, orange, and crimson—like a clumsy artist had spilled their palette over the woods.

He was reminded of the first time he'd stepped into an elven forest.

Of old friends, of faraway lands.

The stories of hobbits had ended.

The songs of kings had faded.

Everyone was gone—dead, retired, or resting in old age.

Only he remained the same: a youthful figure wandering through time.

He slowed his pace.

From his pack, he retrieved the harp his teacher Hans had given him—wingshaped, beautiful, old.

Until now, he had treated it like a tool.

But today?

Today, it was just an instrument.

As the first note rang out, the entire forest seemed to pause.

Something shifted.

Unseen ripples moved through air and soil. Trees leaned closer. Even the birds held their breath.

Ino didn't notice.

He walked and played as he had long ago in the ancient woods of other worlds.

His fingers danced across the strings—nimble, elegant, light as a deer, soft as a butterfly.

Each note shimmered with emotion. The music breathed.

He thought of the Shire—its lazy mornings and humble cheer.

And the music softened.

Notes fell like dew on grass, swayed like golden wheat in autumn.

But then it surged.

Bold, bright tones followed—powerful, thunderous. A song of war and valor. Of the Battle of the Five Armies. Of riders charging from Rohan's hills.

The story unfolded with every chord—turning pages of memory and legend.

And finally... the music returned to peace. To home.

To the Shire.

Then it happened.

A familiar, forgotten sensation gripped him—a deep, aching thrum in his chest.

A heartbeat of wonder.

The same one he felt on his tenth birthday, when he first stepped into a world of magic.

That shouldn't have been possible. After Hans had torn the final page of that ancient book, Ino had thought he could no longer enter fantasy worlds—only the stabilized ones, like Arad or Middle-Earth.

But this—this was something new.

Without hesitation, he turned and returned to the Valley of Sanctuary.

There he stood, silent and awestruck.

It was still the same valley: the herb garden untouched, the marble house standing firm, the old oak trees unmoved.

And yet, something fundamental had changed.

Above him, the once-frozen rainbow river now flowed.

It shimmered across the sky like a living painting, twisting and winding.

And the tulip that had once borne the Ring of Fire?

It bloomed again—radiant, blazing, alive.