Harry Potter: The Bard of Hogwarts

In the valley.

The moment Ino appeared, Hermione dropped her head like a guilty child caught red-handed.

"I didn't mean to! I just touched it—and it fell off!"

She pointed at a towering red windmill perched in the valley below. The massive blades of the mill spun silently, despite the still air.

Hermione had honestly thought the branch looked sturdy. One poke, and snap. She was relieved it had only dislodged the windmill structure and not the other two nearby oaks—each bearing either golden coins or gemstones like oversized Christmas decorations.

Ino, standing beside her, wasn't the least bit surprised by the sudden appearance of the windmill. After all, it was meant to be a gift from last year's Harvest Festival—a gift simply... delayed in delivery.

What did surprise him, though, was that Hermione's little mishap jogged his memory of something he had nearly forgotten:

The very first Harvest Festival gift—three enchanted oak trees. One bore shimmering gems, another hung with blue lanterns, and the last had grown a seemingly ordinary crystal orb...

Grindelwald's request suddenly had a solution.

Still, before acting on that, he turned to Hermione, who was still looking sheepish.

"Don't worry about it," he said, reassuringly. "The windmill was ripe, so to speak. It would've fallen off on its own any day now."

And that was true. It was late August, after all. The next Harvest Festival was just around the corner. Last year's magical gifts had simply... matured. Like fruit. Very weird, magical fruit.

Hermione visibly relaxed. "That's good to hear. I thought I broke something important."

"Hah, not likely," Ino chuckled, waving it off. "You couldn't break anything in this valley, not without permission. Honestly, you couldn't even pick up a pebble unless I allowed it."

He paused, then added, "Actually, you should go check out the windmill. It's pretty interesting."

He glanced at the red windmill. He already knew its purpose inside and out. Though tempted to explore its marvels, there were more pressing matters.

With a flick of thought, a crystal orb—about seven inches in diameter—floated out from a marble house nestled in the valley. It hovered gently, gleaming softly like it held a memory of light.

Elsewhere...

A fine drizzle wove through London, silent and persistent, like time itself spinning a silver thread through the late summer sky.

It was the end of August. A surprise downpour had just swept the city clean, washing away the last heatwaves of summer.

The Leaky Cauldron.

Old Tom stood behind the bar, polishing a glass that had been "nearly clean" for the last thirty years. He stared out at the drizzle with the blank expression of a man deeply unimpressed by rain.

August was never peak season, but this year was downright desolate. The pub was quiet. Even the usually busy Diagon Alley behind it was barren.

Dark clouds pressed low over the rooftops, casting a gloomy pall that tugged at old memories—particularly the unpleasant ones.

Tom Abbott, head of the ancient and noble House of Abbott, was not a man easily spooked. He'd seen things. Knew things. Things the average witch or wizard preferred not to know.

For example—Azkaban had been broken into.

The Dementors were gone. The Death Eaters had escaped. All of them.

And no one was talking about it.

The Ministry—led by that walking disaster, Cornelius Fudge—had swept it under the rug, claiming it was "to prevent panic." Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was just stupid.

Either way, Tom didn't care anymore.

Ironically, the one everyone had feared the most was now the reason people felt safe. And that's why the Ministry only posted two rookie Aurors to guard the place. Token effort.

"Another trade-off…" Tom muttered to himself, shaking his head.

"What trade-off? You're lucky the place hasn't gone bankrupt. Look at this attendance…"

A familiar voice interrupted his brooding. Tom's head snapped up in surprise.

A year and a half might blur most memories—but not this one. That young man—the one who used to lodge upstairs, always telling stories to Hannah—was back.

Tom's eyes widened as the young wizard stepped inside, rain droplets still clinging to his coat.

And then he saw her.

The witch walking in beside him.

The rumors were true.

Tom had heard whispers two weeks ago—impossible tales of someone returning from the dead. He'd laughed them off, of course. London was full of nonsense. But seeing them now, standing in his pub, the world suddenly felt a little less familiar.

Still, as a seasoned publican and head of his House, Tom was a master of keeping a straight face.

His shock vanished behind a wide, practiced grin.

"Bankrupt? Ha! This place is family-owned. No rent. No overhead. It's basically cheating."

He chuckled, then glanced outside. The rain had stopped as quietly as it had begun.

The sky... felt different.

"Still blaming the rent, old man? How about two glasses of fresh-pressed grass juice. Just to make your day worth it," said Ino, strolling up to the bar with a grin.

He gestured for Hermione to join him.

It was a bold move, showing up in public like this. But Ino had made up his mind. Some things were better out in the open. Hiding only made people more curious—and braver.

Hesitation attracts trouble.

Tom, for his part, either sensed the shift or chose not to acknowledge it. He played along, cheerful as ever.

"Grass juice, eh? You've still got the palate of a cow, I see."

Half an hour later...

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley glistened with rain, reflecting the soft glow of gaslamps like scattered starlight.

Hermione held onto Ino's arm, glancing warily around. The storefronts looked deserted, but the silence felt watched.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she whispered, inching closer.

"Unless you're planning to drop out of school and live in a cave forever, yes," Ino replied casually.

Hermione recoiled slightly at the thought. "Drop out? No thanks. I'll just use the sanctuary if things get dangerous."

"Good plan," he nodded. "Won't be long now."

He looked up toward the horizon. The storm clouds had long drifted down the Thames, leaving the sky oddly clear.

He understood her choice.

For any British-born witch or wizard, the seven years at Hogwarts weren't just school—they were a rite of passage. Without them, life felt... unfinished.

As for today's grand entrance, Ino had his reasons. One of them involved Voldemort—and making sure the Dark Lord stayed very nervous.

When you try to kill the snake and miss, it tends to come back angrier.

Two days ago, with Grindelwald's help, Ino had pinpointed the final Horcrux.

Now, he was planning something—something like the last showdown in Hogsmeade.

This time, he wouldn't just end Voldemort. He would do it publicly. He would make a point.

Like Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone—everyone knew he had it, but no one dared to try anything.

It's simple, really.

People only attack the weak.

At school, magic is fairy-tale fun. In the adult world, it's survival of the fittest.

Meanwhile…

Unlike the gloom elsewhere in Diagon Alley, the Daily Prophet headquarters was buzzing like a kicked beehive.

Inside a lavish corner office, several impeccably dressed wizards sat stiffly, listening to the latest report.

"We've just received confirmation. Fudge has officially given the green light. We can run the story."

The announcement stirred the room like a firework. Murmured voices broke out immediately.

"We're really doing this? What's our angle?"

"Neutrality is safest..."

"Neutral? Have you hit your head? Did you forget Dumbledore's still watching?"

"He is, but that other one's alive too…"

As the argument escalated, the man who'd spoken first rapped the table hard.

"No debates. We follow the power. That's always been our angle. Send Rita. She met him during the Triwizard Tournament. She knows how to spin it."

Silence fell over the room once more.

The decision had been made.

The Daily Prophet—like some old, rumbling printing press—was back in motion, gears grinding, headlines looming.

---

The Daily Prophet

The Daily Prophet is the leading wizarding newspaper in Britain. Based in London, it's the go-to source for magical news—when it's not being blatantly biased.

Due to its cozy relationship with the Ministry, it often parrots official narratives rather than pursuing the truth.

Which is a nice way of saying: "Trust, but verify. Preferably with another paper."