A/N: I love slow-building plots with multiple threads that all connect to one main storyline. If it feels scattered at first, hang in there—everything ties together as the story unfolds.

Enjoy!

Chapter 15: Friends and Secrets Revealed

The rain fell in relentless torrents, drenching the dark stone walls of Nurmengard, a place once feared across the wizarding world. Lightning cracked through the moody sky, briefly illuminating the fortress that had once been Gellert Grindelwald's stronghold—a place of unspeakable cruelty and ambition. Now it was a prison, twisted into a final cage for the dark lord who had brought death and destruction to millions.

The fortress was modified to hold a single man—a mass murderer, a seducer of minds, a dark wizard who had come perilously close to reshaping the world in his image. No one could break its magic or pass through its gates, save for one: Albus Dumbledore, the man who had brought him down.

Inside, the air was thick with the echoes of a past filled with suffering, the stones still whispering the horrors committed within. The castle now held only silence, a stillness that belied the power it contained. This was the final resting place of a monster, a prison designed to be as impenetrable and unbreakable as the dark wizard it held.

Gellert Grindelwald, the man who had seduced even the brightest minds, was now nothing more than a prisoner in the heart of his own creation.

The silence and darkness was broken at the top of the tower by the appearance of Dumbledore, who flashed into the cell with a burst of bright, warm, golden-red flames.

"Albus Dumbledore," a voice whispered from a dark corner of the cell.

The voice was cracked and hoarse from disuse, but it was still strong and deep, holding familiar notes that sent a chill down Dumbledore's spine.

Dumbledore shivered involuntarily at the sound, the voice igniting memories from his youth—memories of ambition, betrayal, and horrors that had scarred him. The voice of a once beloved friend turned foe.

"Yes, I came to ask you some questions," Dumbledore said, his voice softer than he had meant it to be, the timidity betraying the confidence he wished to project.

"My warnings... they are coming to pass," Grindelwald said, his tone flat, delivering it as a statement of fact rather than an inquiry.

He stepped forward into the faint light spilling from the high, narrow window. Grindelwald looked old, worn beyond his years. His once strong figure had withered into a gaunt frame, his cheeks hollow and skin drawn tightly over sharp bones. He appeared fragile, a shadow of his former self, but his eyes—his eyes burned with a familiar intensity, as sharp and calculating as ever.

Dumbledore felt a pang of unease as those eyes locked onto him, the weight of their shared history pressing down on him.

"No, Gellert, no," Dumbledore replied, shaking his head slowly. "Your warnings and predictions have not come to pass. Not exactly..."

Dumbledore hesitated, as if wondering if he had made a mistake in coming to this dark prison. The silence stretched on, but neither figure moved as Dumbledore considered what to say.

"There have been some things happening lately, and it's... concerning. It rings too similar to your warnings in some subtle ways, and I need to know what you think."

Grindelwald's eyes glittered in the darkness, watching Dumbledore carefully, and he signaled for Dumbledore to continue.

"It started with the creatures disappearing," Dumbledore began, his voice low and troubled. "Magical creatures began vanishing without a trace—slowly at first, just the occasional disappearance, something easily overlooked. Then, as time passed, it became a trickle. Now, there are hardly any magical creatures left in the world, at least as far as we can tell. The house elves and goblins seem to have mostly resisted whatever this phenomenon is, but they're the exceptions. We've assigned numerous wizards to track the disappearances, but... to no avail."

Dumbledore paused, his gaze shifting momentarily as if recalling the frustration of these fruitless efforts. The rain outside Nurmengard's walls seemed to intensify, tapping a frantic rhythm against the cold stones.

"Then there was Harry Potter," he continued. "He was kidnapped—taken right under our noses. I had no choice but to use Legilimency, though I detest invading someone's mind like that. But from his memories, I learned a great deal. He was held in what appeared to be a Muggle apartment, taught philosophy, mathematics, science—Muggle subjects. And yet, his captor was clearly magical, with an agenda to kidnap the boy who lived, to trick me into not seeing it... there are only a handful of people in the world capable of pulling off something like that, and perhaps two or three who would have the motivation."

Dumbledore's voice grew heavier with each revelation, the burden of his thoughts palpable. Grindelwald watched him closely, his sharp eyes glinting with interest but betraying no emotion.

"There are other strange occurrences as well," Dumbledore went on. "Someone tampered with the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts. There have been strange sightings reported by witches and wizards all over the world—things no one can explain. A major break-in at Gringotts, with the Potter vault emptied. And there's been an undeniable rise in violence and crime. None of these things alone would have caught my attention, but together, there are whispers, subtle hints that remind me of your warnings."

Grindelwald's expression darkened slightly, but he remained silent, letting Dumbledore continue.

"The breaking point, however, was the Flamels," Dumbledore said, his voice quieter now, laced with a sadness that hadn't been there before. "You know how much I care for them, how close we've been over the years. They've always been so private, so removed from direct involvement in anything. And yet... they became embroiled in one of these incidents. A crime against a pureblood family, the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley was killed in an explosion. Nicolas involved himself directly, not just in the repairs but in the investigation itself. When I challenged him on it, he became defensive, something I've rarely seen from him."

Dumbledore looked up, meeting Grindelwald's eyes. "Gellert, you know how unusual this is. The Flamels don't act like this, not so quickly, not so openly. They've changed. And it's happened so suddenly."

The silence that followed was thick with tension, the weight of Dumbledore's revelations pressing down on the two men like a storm ready to break. Grindelwald leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought, but he still said nothing, letting the gravity of the situation linger in the cold air between them.

Grindelwald spoke suddenly, his words clear and deep, "It's happening, Albus. Just as I predicted..."

He paused, his eyes piercing into Dumbledore's. "This is what broke us and the cycle continues. You ignored my warnings, ignored my solution."

Dumbledore's blue eyes widened, blazing with anger. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to speak to me of this!" Dumbledore's words were sharp andfull of rage, his electric blue eyes flashing with warning.

Grindelwald continued, undeterred, "Albus, think. Think about what I once said. They stripped us of power, they stole our magic, they gave us wands, and they weakened our cores, but they can't stop the tide. They can't stop our inheritance, our RIGHTS forever. My solution was realistic, effective, and unstoppable. If you had joined me..."

"NO! Gellert, NO! ENOUGH!" Dumbledore's voice was harsh and fierce. His beard and cloak swirled around him in an unseen wind. His power radiated outwards, almost suffocating, filling the room with invisible pressure.

Fawkes leapt into the air, screeching, his fiery form circling above Dumbledore as if in alarm.

"Gellert, enough. Do not tempt me," Dumbledore's voice was low, trembling with barely contained emotion. "And do not speak of this evil. Enslaving the Muggles and conquering the magical world would never have worked, and it wouldn't have been worth the cost. Even if it could have worked."

Grindelwald shrunk back slightly from the sheer power radiating off Dumbledore, his aura of magic nearly tangible in the small, dark cell. But Grindelwald's eyes remained sharp, undeterred.

"You know, don't you, Albus? You know who did this to us. But you won't say it—because you love them. You won't admit who put all of their magical brothers and sisters in chains, all to prevent another apocalypse. Your precious Flamels did it, didn't they, Albus..."

Gellert whispered the final words as Dumbledore's eyes widened even further, his hands trembling. Dumbledore now held his wand in his hand, shaking as it was pointed at his old friend—his dear friend who had caused him immeasurable pain.

"Release me, Albus," Grindelwald murmured, his tone almost coaxing. "Let me help you..."

Dumbledore's shoulders sagged, his magic receding as the raw fury ebbed from him, replaced by a deep, haunting sorrow.

"I can't, Gellert," Dumbledore whispered, his voice laced with heartbreak. "I cannot. You will stay here, where the world will be safe from your darkness."

Gellert's eyes blazed, but he nodded slowly. "You mean, you will be safe from me. Safe from the truth, safe from your own loyalties."

Dumbledore gazed at him, sadness etched into his every feature. He gave one last, sorrowful glance at Grindelwald before turning to leave. "Goodbye, Gellert," he said quietly.

With a flash of golden-red flames, Dumbledore and Fawkes vanished from the cell.

Grindelwald watched as they disappeared, then slowly rose and made his way to the window in his cell. It was open, as it always was. Leaving through it was impossible due to the tremendously powerful wards, but the fresh air was nice, and he took a deep breath of the cold night air as he lifted his hand, revealing a thin silver thread held delicately between his fingers.

A wide grin stretched across Grindelwald's face.

He was going to get out of here after all.

Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and as Harry made his way there, he wasn't entirely sure what to expect. The giant groundskeeper was a bit of a mystery. He didn't seem very bright but he had mentioned Harry's parents, and that had been enough for Harry to pay him a visit. Maybe Hagrid could offer some answers, some connection to the parents he never knew.

As Harry approached, he noticed a crossbow and a pair of oversized galoshes resting outside the front door. It added to the quaint, somewhat rugged atmosphere surrounding Hagrid's home. When he knocked, there was a sudden frantic scrabbling from inside, followed by several booming barks. Then Hagrid's voice echoed through the door.

"Back, Fang — back!"

The door creaked open slightly, revealing Hagrid's massive, bearded face peeking through the crack. His eyes lit up when he saw Harry. "Hang on," Hagrid said, wrestling with something behind the door. "Back, Fang!"

As the door opened fully, Hagrid struggled to hold onto the collar of an enormous black boarhound, who seemed eager to greet Harry. Once inside, Harry found himself in a single cozy room filled with the smell of faintly burning smoke. Hams and pheasants hung from the ceiling, and a copper kettle bubbled merrily over an open fire. A large, patchwork quilt covered a bed in the corner.

"Make yerself at home," Hagrid said, finally letting go of Fang, who wasted no time bounding over to Harry and licking his face enthusiastically. Despite Fang's intimidating size, it was clear he was just as friendly as his owner.

"My name's Harry," Harry said, a bit formally, as Hagrid busied himself pouring boiling water into a large teapot and arranging some rather dangerous-looking rock cakes onto a plate.

"Think I didn't know that?" Hagrid grinned widely, showing off his teeth. "Yer Harry, son of Lily and James!" He gave Harry a quick glance, his eyes flickering briefly to the scar on his forehead, before turning back to the teapot.

Hagrid placed the steaming teapot and plate of rock cakes in front of Harry. Harry tried not to grimace as he bit into one, nearly breaking a tooth on the hard lump of raisins and dough, but he smiled politely and nodded, encouraging Hagrid to continue speaking.

Fang plopped down beside Harry, resting his enormous head on Harry's knee and drooling all over his robes. Harry absentmindedly patted Fang's head as Hagrid's voice filled the room, sharing stories of his parents.

"Yer mum, Lily… well, she was a queen, she was! Kind ter everyone, didn't matter who yeh were," Hagrid said, his deep, rumbling voice softening with affection. "Wicked smart too. One o' the cleverest witches I ever knew. And pretty? Oh, Harry, she was a sight! Many a boy got heartache when she chose James, that's fer sure!"

Harry felt a pang in his chest at the thought of his mother. The way Hagrid spoke about her, as if she had lit up every room she walked into, made Harry feel an ache for the life he could have had.

"And yer dad, James," Hagrid continued, his eyes twinkling as he recalled memories. "Now, I'll be honest with yeh, he was a bit o' a spoiled heir in his first years at Hogwarts, struttin' about like he owned the place." Hagrid chuckled deeply, then added more softly, "But he did the right thing in the end, yer dad. Shaped up ter be one o' the finest people I ever knew. Loyal, brave, stood by his friends. When it mattered most, he stood tall and protected, Harry."

Harry listened, hanging onto Hagrid's every word. He hadn't realized tears had welled up in his eyes, or that his fists had clenched at his sides. The weight of those words—his parents had been so wonderful, so full of life and love. It was hard to reconcile those warm memories with the gaping absence they left in his life.

He imagined how different everything would have been if they had lived; if they had raised him. Harry's mind wandered to a world where he grew up with his mother's kindness and his father's bravery, a world where he was held in their arms, safe and loved.

Hagrid, oblivious to Harry's emotions, continued to talk about their time at Hogwarts, how James and Lily had fought side by side against "You-Know-Who", and how they had been so full of hope, even during the darkest times. But Harry was lost in his thoughts, the warmth of his imagined memories pulling at his heart.

When it was time to leave, Harry stood, his pockets weighed down by the rock cakes he had been too polite to refuse. He thanked Hagrid, feeling a surprising sense of friendship toward the giant despite his earlier uncertainties. There was something solid, something real about Hagrid that Harry found comforting.

As Harry made his way back to the castle for dinner, the sky above turned a soft shade of purple with the fading light. Harry's mind remained fixed on his parents. He returned to the imagined fantasy he had always clung to—their arms around him, the sound of their laughter, the warmth of their embrace. It was bittersweet, this vision he had constructed in his mind. But for a brief moment, it felt real—so real he could almost touch it.

Harry had a hard time sleeping that night. He tossed and turned for hours, frustration building with each passing minute. No matter how he shifted, the thoughts in his mind refused to settle, gnawing at him like a dark, persistent itch he couldn't scratch.

For some reason, his thoughts kept drifting back to his old friends—Billy, Tommy, Eric, and Ivy. His heart ached as their faces flashed in his mind, vivid memories he had tried to bury but which now surfaced with painful clarity. He could still feel Ivy's lifeless form as he had held her on the grass, the weight of his helplessness pressing down on him. His body had trembled with grief, rage, and then a shocked numbness. He had sat there for hours, staring off into the distance, trying desperately to hold on to his sanity.

The loss of his muggle friends was a wound that had never fully healed, a scar that still throbbed in the quiet moments when he was left alone with his thoughts.

He had no answers; no clue as to who had killed them, or why. That night, it felt like those questions burned hotter than ever. Harry had listened intently to the conversations around his house, trying to pick up any hints of rogue dark wizards who might have committed the crime, but there was nothing. No whispers of groups going around killing for fun. The Death Eaters were supposed to be gone, vanquished along with Voldemort. So who had done it? And why had they targeted his friends?

Someone had killed them to get to him—that was the conclusion Harry kept coming back to. But the question of who to tell loomed over him. He had thought about going to Dumbledore, but there was something holding him back. He had already told the headmaster about a lot of strange things, and he wasn't ready to trust him with this. Not yet. He needed to see how Dumbledore handled the first set of worries before he handed over more.

As for the Flamels... Harry shivered despite the warmth of his Slytherin bed. He hadn't forgotten the conversation he'd overheard, the one where Nicolas had suggested he had killed someone. Harry was beginning to trust them again, but the doubt still lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow he couldn't shake.

Sweating and restless, Harry huffed in frustration and kicked off his warm, silky blanket. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet brushing against the cool stone floor of the dungeon. Silently, he threw on his robes and shoes, his mind already made up. If he couldn't sleep, he may as well put his time to use.

Crossing the room, Harry made his way to the small desk where Leafy's enchanted home sat. The Bowtruckle's little house was perfectly crafted, thanks to Nicolas Flamel's overly detailed enchantments, and Harry tapped on it gently. "Leafy?" he whispered.

After a few moments, the little creature's green head peeked out from the entrance, blinking sleepily. Leafy climbed out, scurrying up onto Harry's hand before slipping into his robe pocket, his twig-like fingers grasping the edge as he peeked out curiously. Harry smiled down at his companion. At least he wasn't entirely alone on this adventure.

He moved quietly, slipping out of the Slytherin common room and into the shadowed halls of the castle. The darkness felt thick, almost oppressive, but Harry welcomed it. He had grown accustomed to the shadows during his time with Billy's crew, and then later, when he had been all alone in the dark wilderness, slowly starving and losing hope. He had learned how to move without making a sound; how to disappear into the background. His footsteps were light, and his ears stayed alert, always listening for the soft echo of another's approach. Getting caught wasn't part of the plan tonight.

Harry had a goal now. He was going to explore the castle, every inch of it. The idea had been tugging at him since he arrived at Hogwarts, the mystery of the ancient building gnawing at him with the same restlessness that kept him awake at night. There had to be secrets hidden within these walls—treasures, spells, maybe even answers. But Harry knew that if he wanted to find them, he had to be smart about it.

As he moved through the halls, his mind began to map out a strategy. He couldn't just wander aimlessly. That wouldn't work. He needed a system, something that would maximize his chances of uncovering the castle's secrets while staying undetected.

A map would be the first step. Surely the Hogwarts library had one. If he could get his hands on a detailed map, it would help him keep track of where he had been and where he still needed to explore. He would need a way to mark locations of interest, a way to mark the treasure and keep track of his victories.

Harry had learned all of this from a book that the cloaked figure had given him to read. The book was called "The Rational Pirate: Finding Treasure Using Math," and it had been a philosophy book of sorts. It had taught him the best ways to hide treasure, find treasure, and get away with crimes. It was a fantastic read, and Harry had read the book at least four times. Despite this, he still didn't feel like he had fully grasped it's contents, so he kept a copy in his enlarged school suitcase.

Spells would also be essential for his exploration. Unlocking charms, detection spells, and even simple light charms could reveal things that others might overlook.

Harry kept his eyes focused on his surroundings as he thought. The best way to learn an environment was to move through it until it became familiar enough that he could navigate it without full concentration. He would memorize how to get from the dungeons to the main hall quickly, just in case he would need a quick escape.

In the following days, Harry continued going to his classes, but dedicating the majority of his free time to the library in an effort to accelerate his magical education and deepen his understanding of the fundamentals of magic.

Despite his growing grasp of magical theory, Harry often found that his practical spells were less than cooperative. He performed incantations and wand movements with precision, yet his magic frequently failed to produce the intended effect and lacked the strength and specificity he desired. It seemed, at least from Harry's perspective, that his magical power was fairly ordinary, lacking any inherent potency that would reflect the extraordinary fame and story attached to his name.

Nevertheless, he remained steadfast, investing countless hours absorbing everything he could on magical theory, fundamental spellwork, wand techniques, and pronunciation.

Harry would select a secluded table at the far edge of the library, strategically nestled between two bookshelves so that he was partially concealed. He would surrounded by stacks of books, cross-referencing several at a time while Leafy explored the pages, investigating illustrations that caught his attention.

Harry often found himself smiling when Leafy got particularly animated, waving his small limbs enthusiastically each time he encountered depictions of moving trees, flowing water, or anything resembling life. Harry would obligingly lift the book closer so that the Bowtruckle could touch the page, watching with amusement as Leafy danced with delight.

The library was mostly frequented by Ravenclaws, with occasional Hufflepuffs and a smattering of students from Gryffindor and Slytherin, including Harry himself. He began to recognize some recurring faces, including Hermione Granger, his friend from the train.

While a part of Harry longed for more social interaction, an even stronger part of him was driven by an insatiable desire to learn, which often eclipsed his social appetites. He would offer a passing greeting to Hermione or nod at other students he recognized, but his pursuit of knowledge outweighed his desire for socializing.

However, after several weeks of this intense study regimen, Harry began to feel the first signs of burnout. Although Harry was accustomed to prolonged solitude, having experienced it for much of his life, the bustling environment of Hogwarts filled with students his own age made him reconsider the value of friendship. Perhaps having friends might make things easier, or at least more enjoyable. But how could he find friends who shared his interests?

Harry had considered approaching Hermione several times but found himself hesitating. He respected her dedication, but her study habits differed significantly from his own. While Harry preferred to discuss his learning in his own words, engaging with the material in a way that made sense to him, Hermione had an uncanny ability to recall and quote passages verbatim, almost as though she had memorized every text she encountered. It was impressive, but it also grated on him for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. He liked Hermione, in principle, but their differing approaches created a barrier he found difficult to overcome.

All that changed a few days later, when Harry finally began his real explorations.

Harry had a few tools under his belt now, including the "Lumos" light spell, the "Alohomora" unlocking spell, and a few other basic spells he thought might come in handy, including the silencing charm (which he managed correctly only about 50% of the time, and it didn't tend to last long) and the warming charm. He felt ready for adventure.

The weekend came, and Harry waited until most of the castle was asleep. He crept from his bed, ensuring his Slytherin dorm mates were fast asleep, their curtains drawn tightly around their large four poster beds.

Harry slipped out of bed, his bare feet making soft slapping sounds against the cold stone floor. He threw on his robes, then moved over to where Leafy's magical home sat, lifting the enchanted door gently. Leafy peeked out, his small eyes blinking in the dim light, and let out a squeak of excitement as he clambered onto Harry's hand.

"Shh, Leafy," Harry whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. Leafy gave an almost understanding nod, nestling himself comfortably in Harry's pocket, his small head poking out just far enough to see.

The Slytherin dorms were tucked away in the deepest part of the dungeons, almost entirely submerged beneath the lake. The air was cool and fresh, and Harry assumed that magic played a part in the ambiance. Harry paused for a moment, listening to the faint murmur of water pressing against the stone walls. The sound filled the room like a distant, comforting heartbeat, and Harry found it oddly calming. He took a deep breath, centering himself. It was going to be a long, sleepless night.

With Leafy settled, Harry slipped through the shadows of the dungeons, moving as silently as possible until he finally emerged from the depths. He pulled a folded map from his pocket—the result of days of painstaking research and drawing—and looked it over. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

Creating the map had not been easy. Every source of information seemed to contradict the next. The castle had an uncanny way of shifting, refusing to be pinned down. Most maps held relatively similar layouts of the common areas, classrooms, and main hall, but even those had inconsistencies that left Harry frustrated. The staircases moved, doors appeared and disappeared, and some rooms seemed to exist only on certain days. He concluded that there were officially seven floors in use, but the number of hidden spaces and upper floors remained unknown.

One attempt to reach the topmost point of the castle had led Harry up at least eighteen flights of stairs before he ran out of time. He knew that the castle held secrets buried deep within its ever-changing walls. He could feel it, beckoning to him.

He had, after much research and deliberation, mapped out the seven main floors, counting 142 staircases of varying shapes and sizes. Some had vanishing steps while others only changed direction at the strangest times: Tuesdays, Fridays, every third Monday. Some rooms also seemed to appear only when you said certain words, though most of the books would not say what the correct words were.

His wand, drawn and ready, was tucked just far enough up his sleeve to stay hidden but remain accessible.

The first floor seemed an appropriate place to begin. Harry crept through the hallways, pressing himself into the shadows and letting his instincts guide him. The silence was comforting, the dark corridors filled only with the faint echo of his own movements. His footsteps were muffled by the thick stone walls, and the dim moonlight streaming through the high windows cast long, shifting shadows across the cold floor.

Suddenly, a sensation crept up his neck—a prickling unease that made the hairs stand on end. Someone was following him. Harry didn't know how he knew, but he did.

His heart skipped a beat and, without thinking, he darted forward, slipping into an alcove. He pressed himself against the cold stone, crouching low, making himself as small as possible. He felt the adrenaline rushing through him, and he slowed his breathing, straining his ears to catch even the smallest of sounds.

The corridor was quiet, and yet, the feeling persisted. Harry waited, motionless, his wand held tight in his pocket, as he tried to determine who, or what, might be out there in the shadows.

Seconds turned into minutes as Harry's senses heightened, attuned to every sound and movement. The faint rustle of fabric, the distant drip of water somewhere within the dungeons, and an odd clinking sound from the floor above all seemed amplified in the silence.

A shadow shifted at the far end of the corridor, barely visible in the dim light. Harry's eyes narrowed, his muscles tensing instinctively as he lifted his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at the direction of the moving shadow. He could make out a vague silhouette moving slowly, as though trying to remain unseen. Whoever it was, they were practiced. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he watched, waiting for a clue, any clue, as to who was stalking him.

Leafy stirred slightly in his pocket, sensing Harry's tension, and Harry gently placed a hand over the Bowtruckle to reassure him. He had to stay calm and focused. If he panicked, he would lose the advantage.

Suddenly, the figure moved, stepping into a sliver of moonlight, and Harry recognized who it was right away.

Theodore Nott was one of Harry's dorm mates, a tall and handsome boy with a light tan and neat black hair combed to the side of his dark blue eyes. His robes were expensive looking, with light green edges that were only visible when you got close or shared a dorm room.

Harry had been observing the boy since day one. Something about the boy's behavior reminded Harry of himself.

Theodore was extremely quiet and kept mostly to himself, but it was the way he observed everything and everyone that had caught Harry's attention. He had sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing, and he seemed to notice many of the things that Harry noticed. Harry could see it, even when the boy said absolutely nothing at all.

Theodore appeared to have befriended Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins in the first few days, which had turned Harry off from him at first. But closer examination had shown Harry that he was really a loner, and Harry did not think he had heard the boy say a single word since he had met him. He certainly did not seem to care much for his current friendships.

"Theodore, what are you doing here? Why are you following me?" Harry demanded, his voice louder than he had intended.

Theodore Nott jumped into the air, startled by Harry's voice coming from the side of the alcove.

Theodore regarded Harry, his expression inscrutable.

Harry repeated, quieter this time, though his tone remained firm and demanding, "Theodore, answer me. What are you doing here? Why are you following me?"

Theodore cleared his throat, his eyes dropping to the floor momentarily. He began to say something, hesitated, then looked up at Harry, his dark blue eyes scrutinizing Harry as though gauging his next words based on Harry's expression before choosing his next words.

"I followed you because I was curious where you were going and what you were up to," Theodore finally said, his voice low, almost apologetic.

He paused, his eyes flickering down to the map hanging limply in Harry's left hand. There was a glint of intrigue, a strong curiosity that Harry recognized all too well in himself.

"I've been watching you make that map," Theodore continued, "and I looked through some of the books you were reading after you left the library. I had to know what you were looking for."

Harry deliberated on whether he should trust Theodore. The explanation seemed plausible, if not slightly unnerving. The idea that someone had been watching him that closely, tracking his movements, made him a uncomfortable. But there was also a sincerity in Theodore's voice that Harry felt trusting of.

"Well, I am exploring the castle—just trying to do it in a smart way," Harry admitted, opting for honesty. His voice softened as he spoke, the defensive edge fading. He realized that, for all his caution, maybe this wasn't a bad thing. Maybe having someone who shared his interest could be useful.

There was something about Theodore's demeanor that Harry liked: calm, collected, and intelligent—qualities starkly different from the irritating chatter he often heard from many of the other eleven-year-olds around him. Theodore was reserved but not withdrawn, focused but not overbearing.

To be fair, Harry thought, perhaps his own lack of friends over the years had made him the odd one out, but he simply couldn't muster interest in the things that occupied his peers.

Harry nodded toward Theodore. "I believe you. Want to explore with me?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry felt a pang of surprise at himself. Where had that come from? Of course he didn't want anyone tagging along! He was meant to uncover all the castle's secrets alone! This was his adventure; his journey into the unknown.

Nonetheless, Harry didn't retract his offer. When Theodore nodded, extending his hand, Harry found himself shaking it. "Call me Theo, Harry. I'd love to discover Hogwarts' secrets with you. And I've got a few tips that might help!"

Harry grasped Theo's hand firmly, and a grin tugged at his lips. There was something undeniably exciting about having an ally in this. Theo's excitement was palpable as he began sharing insights from his family's extensive and uncensored library—books and accounts that weren't available in Hogwarts' collection. Harry listened, intrigued, as Theo described some of the hidden passages and rooms that he had read about. He promised Harry that he would bring some of the books to Hogwarts next time he went home, so they could uncover more of those secrets together.

The night turned out to be one of the most exhilarating experiences Harry had in a long time. They moved stealthily through the darkened corridors, whispering in hushed voices as they planned their route, their footsteps barely making a sound on the cold stone floors. They explored forgotten classrooms, dusty stairwells, and narrow passageways that seemed to twist and turn endlessly. Each corner they turned held the promise of discovery, and each unexpected sound sent them running to a corner to hide, evoking muffled laughter and fear in the 11 year olds.

Theo seemed to open up in a way Harry could never have anticipated from his initial impression of him. Though still reserved, he spoke in animated, hushed tones, his eyes alight with a fire of enthusiasm. Harry realized that perhaps Theo had never had the right friends before—because tonight, he was very alive. It was as if exploring the mysteries of the castle with a new friend who understood him had brought out a different side of him, a side that Harry found himself enjoying.

They shared theories about the castle's secrets, speculated about the lives of the witches and wizards who had once roamed these halls, and even debated the nature of the magic that seemed to pulse through the very stones of Hogwarts. Theo's insights were sharp and well-informed, and Harry found himself genuinely impressed by the depth of his knowledge. It was clear that Theo was no ordinary first-year. He had a mind that craved understanding and loved learning, much like Harry's own.

It was near sunrise when they heard a loud, angry meow from behind them—a sound that cut through the stillness of the early morning like a knife. Both boys froze, their eyes widening in alarm as they turned to see the familiar silhouette of Mrs. Norris, Filch's dreaded cat, her glowing eyes fixed on them with an accusatory glare.

Panic shot through Harry as he met Theo's gaze, the two of them exchanging a look that needed no words. They were about to get caught! Without missing a beat, they spun on their heels, dashing down the nearest corridor, their hearts pounding as they fled from the menacing feline and the certainty of being reported to Filch.

Moody was no ordinary wizard. He had a few distinct advantages that made him more dangerous, useful, and unpredictable than most of his peers.
Firstly, he was incredibly paranoid. His magical eye was always moving, expecting trouble, and his heart never settled. He anticipated a trap at every waking moment and never let his guard down.

Beyond his paranoia, Moody was willing to use any tool, any method, to gain an advantage. Unlike most witches and wizards, he had no qualms about employing Muggle innovations to his benefit.

And, unlike most light wizards, he had no hesitation in using dark and even evil spells when it served his purposes. So, when Moody landed from the portkey and immediately felt a wand shoved in his face, he barely blinked. Always expect a trap, he thought. It helped to be overly prepared for such situations.

Before he could catch more than a glimpse of his surroundings, something heavy and dark was thrust over his head, blotting out his vision entirely. A sharp, male voice cut through the air, aggressive and tense. "Don't move a muscle."

Moody remained calm, his hands slowly rising as he let his wand drop to the floor with a clattering sound. "Alright, from the temperature, the sound of the wand hitting the floor, and the ambiance... we're definitely inside," Moody thought, his mind racing as he decided on which backup plan to use. He made up his mind when he heard multiple footsteps around him. If there were multiple kidnappers, and they were indoors, then he had plan that would be great for this situation.

Moody shifted his entire focus to his toes. Carefully, almost imperceptibly, he maneuvered a ring around his left big toe into position—a practice he'd run through countless times.

Simultaneously, the toes on his right foot moved with precision, activating a hidden lever in his right shoe, releasing a backup wand strapped near his shoulder. A small, unstable wand, yes, but functional enough for emergencies like this.

The ring was now perfectly aligned around his left big toe, and Moody whispered the command, barely audible beneath the suffocating cloth that covered his face.

Unbeknownst to his captors, a cloud of invisible gas began seeping from Moody's person, utterly undetectable—clear, odorless, and extremely potent. This will end quickly, he thought grimly.

His captors shoved him roughly forward, forcing him down into a stiff chair. His arms and legs were swiftly bound behind it, ropes biting into his skin. Moody heard footsteps and soft shuffling around him, but the thick cloth remained over his head, trapping him in darkness.

A rich, deep voice spoke, its accent foreign and unfamiliar. "I apologize for this, Mr. Moody, but we had no choice. You were getting too close to the truth, and now we must either stop you or convince you of our caussse."

There was a distinct slur in the man's voice near the end. Moody smiled beneath the cloth—it's working. He could already hear the telltale signs: a dull thump as one body hit the ground. Moments later, two more heavy thumps echoed through the room.

"Apology noted," Moody muttered under his breath as he set to work.

He began the slow and painful process of shimmying the hidden wand down his arm, maneuvering it through the tight confines of the rope tying his arms together until it was finally in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he twisted his wrist painfully, casting a quick spell to sever the ropes that bound him.

With a swift yank, Moody tore the black bag from his head, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light.

He found himself in a room that exuded wealth and power. The floor beneath him was made of dark, polished marble, gleaming as though freshly buffed. The walls were paneled with rich, dark wood, their surface lustrous and flawless. The large executive desk in front of him was carved from deep mahogany, its surface immaculate, adorned with only a few choice items—a silver quill, a sleek black inkpot, and an expensive dragon-leather-bound ledger. With its high ceilings and expensive decorations, it looked like the office of a wealthy pureblood wizard.

He glanced down. He had been seated in a grand Victorian-style chair, complete with intricate gold trim and plush cushions. It was the kind of chair that would be reserved for royalty or someone who fancied themselves as such.

Moody's attention quickly turned to the three bodies sprawled across the marble floor in front of him, each unconscious.

The first was a middle-aged man, his black hair neatly combed and a sharp beard outlining his face. He wore expensive robes, the kind that only someone with real wealth could afford. There, on his chest, was an odd symbol embroidered into the fabric. Moody narrowed his eyes—it appeared to shift and distort under his gaze, a clear sign of concealment magic. "Interesting choice," he thought. Why wear a symbol only to hide it?

Next was a short, stout woman. She wore plain black robes, and her light brown hair was streaked with gray. She looked to be in her early fifties. Moody's sharp eyes quickly caught the gleaming hilt of a knife tucked into her belt, the handle ornate and ancient. "It looks like a ritual knife, if I am not mistaken. What is going on here?" he wondered.

Then his gaze landed on the third figure, an older man slumped onto his arm, his body sprawled sideways on the found.
"I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, taking in the familiar face of the man on the floor. "Newt Scamander! Now that I did not expect. Not who I thought I'd find in this type of situation."

Newt Scamander, the world-famous Magizoologist, lay unconscious, right in the middle of a kidnapping plot. Moody's eyes glittered with interest. He knew Newt fairly well, having worked with him on multiple cases when he had been an Auror. Newt had a stellar reputation and was always willing to assist the Ministry with magical creatures.

In fact, Newt had been particularly active lately, investigating the strange occurrences affecting magical creatures worldwide.

"This is going to be interesting," Moody muttered as he leaned back in the luxurious chair, already piecing together his next steps.

A/N: I really appreciate your reviews and feedback! Onwards :)