Chapter One
The Worlds at War
The front page of the Daily Prophet was smudged where Alastor Moody's fingers had gripped it too tightly. He hadn't realized how hard he was clutching the paper until Hagrid's voice startled him.
"Yeh alright there, Alastor?" Hagrid asked, his thick, lopsided eyebrows furrowed in concern as he tried to squeeze into the train compartment. He was too big for the space, his knees knocking against the seat opposite Moody's.
"I'm fine," Moody muttered, though his knuckles were white against the edges of the newspaper. The headline glared back at him in bold, enchanted script:
TINWORTH TRAGEDY: TWO DEAD IN SUSPECTED GRINDELWALD ATTACK.
The article beneath described the destruction of a cottage in Cornwall, home to a wizarding couple who had been sheltering Muggleborns and attempting to protect their Muggle neighbours by casting protective charms against chaos of Grindelwald's rise. A "crackling storm of black magic," the witnesses called it. The Ministry refused to name the culprits outright, but everyone knew the truth. Grindelwald's followers were moving closer.
Moody lowered the paper, his gaze shifting to the countryside rushing past the window. For a moment, he saw not the barren rolling hills and distant cottages but his father's face—red with frustration—as the Ministry officer had informed them of the evacuation.
"All of us? To Diagon Alley? I can't—do you realize what you're asking?" his father had barked. "The RAF needs every pilot it can get right now. I have to fight!"
His mother's hand had landed lightly on his father's arm, her voice calm but unyielding. "We can't stay here. Not with the rumors, not with everything Alastor's told us. It's not safe anymore."
And so they had left. Moody remembered the train pulling out of the station, his father gripping the edge of the seat so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He had stared out the window, jaw clenched, as though the planes circling above the airfield might somehow turn the tide. Moody hadn't known what to say—he'd only been thirteen—but the unspoken tension between his parents had sunk into him, solid and immovable.
They'd lived in Diagon Alley ever since, crammed into a flat above Flourish and Blotts. His father still complained every morning about being grounded, and Moody still woke up wondering when the war, both magical and Muggle, would find them again.
Another cold wave swept through the train, pulling him back to the present. The lights in the corridor flickered faintly. Moody stiffened, his wand sliding instinctively into his hand. Through the frosted window, a dark, hooded figure drifted past, its skeletal hand trailing along the glass.
"Blimey," Hagrid whispered, his eyes wide. "Didn't think they'd be out this far…"
It was testament to the mood of the train that the Dementor barely affected him. The boy's voice whispered, "Alastor," and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, the phantom sensation of breath brushing his skin. Then came the familiar plummeting feeling of dread, sinking like a stone deep in his stomach.
He imagined this must be how his Dad had felt, ejecting themselves into the unknown, the earth hurtling toward them. The thought of his father piloting a Spitfire filled him with a brief, fierce pride—steady hands, unyielding resolve. It was a reminder that fear wasn't something to run from, but to face head-on.
Neither of them moved until the Dementor had floated out of sight. Moody's chest tightened as the ice-cold feeling lingered in the air, long after the creature had gone.
"We're not safe anywhere," Moody muttered at last, his voice low. He folded the newspaper carefully and tucked it into his bag. "Not while people like Grindelwald are out there."
Hagrid shifted awkwardly in his seat, his enormous hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag. For all his size and clumsiness, he had a gentleness Moody had admired as soon as they had met two years ago to the day. The two had formed an unlikely friendship—Hagrid, with his wild enthusiasm for creatures that most wizards avoided, and Moody, proud to a fault of his Muggle-born heritage. In a school where bloodlines still held sway, they had found a kindred spirit in each other.
Even within Gryffindor, Moody wasn't universally liked. Some of his housemates, especially those from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, barely hid their disdain for Muggle-borns like him. They didn't openly sneer—Gryffindors had their pride, after all—but their condescension was thinly veiled. "Oh, Alastor, you wouldn't know," girls like Evelyn Greaves would say with a false smile, her voice dripping with insincerity whenever the conversation veered toward wizarding traditions or magical ancestry.
Moody tolerated it, mostly because he had no choice, but the constant undercurrent of prejudice stung. In Gryffindor house only the Weasleys, a sprawling family of red-haired pure-bloods who were too down-to-earth to care about such things, treated him with unreserved warmth.
Hagrid, though, was different. "People like us," Hagrid had once said, thumping his massive chest for emphasis, "we don't need to prove nothin' to anyone. We just are what we are."
Moody respected that, even if he didn't share Hagrid's forgiving nature. Where Hagrid laughed off cruelty or ignorance, Moody burned with frustration. He couldn't understand why anyone should have to prove their worth to people who thought their blood was worth more than their actions.
Moody gave him a sharp look, his mouth tightening. "You think those things are here to protect us?" he said quietly. "They're here to control us, Hagrid. They don't care who they scare half to death in the process."
Hagrid's face fell, his usual good humor evaporating. He opened his mouth to reply but stopped when a group of older students passed by the compartment door, their voices loud and confident. Slytherins, of course. Moody caught a snatch of their conversation as they walked past.
"Just a couple of Blood Traitors, anyway," one boy said, laughing. "Honestly, I heard they were trying to help muggles, treating them like equals.?" There was a bark of laughter at his.
"Come on," another said, "Riddle's waiting."
Moody's grip on his wand tightened. He half-rose from his seat, his temper boiling, but Hagrid caught his arm. "Don't," Hagrid said in a low voice. "It's what they want."
Moody glared after them, his chest burning with frustration. He sank back into his seat, but the tension in his body remained. "Cowards," he muttered. "They wouldn't last five minutes if Grindelwald's lot turned on them."
The train gave a jolt as it began to slow. Moody glanced out the window and saw the familiar outline of Hogsmeade Station coming into view. Above them, the mist hung low, curling around the edges of the carriages like ghostly fingers.
Moody stood and pulled his bag from the overhead rack. "Come on," he said to Hagrid. "Let's get off before the Dementors decide they fancy another stroll."
Stepping onto the platform, Moody felt the cold hit him like a slap. The air was thick with a damp chill, and the presence of the Dementors only made it worse. They floated at the far edges of the station, their hooded figures barely visible in the swirling fog. Students gave them a wide berth, their chatter subdued as they hurried toward the waiting carriages.
Moody kept his head down, gripping his bag tightly as he followed the flow of students. The weight of his wand in his pocket was a small comfort, though he doubted it would do much good if one of those creatures decided to get closer he had never quite got the hang of the Patronus Charm.
"I say, Moody!" a voice called out. He turned to see Gideon Harper, one of the fellow Gryffindors, waving him over. "You riding with us?"
Moody looked over at the carriage and saw Evelyn Banks shook his head. "I'll catch the next one," he said shortly. Harper gave him a puzzled look but didn't press the issue, disappearing into the crowd with a shrug.
Moody lingered near the edge of the platform, his gaze fixed on the Dementors. He couldn't help but wonder how much worse it would get before it was over. Grindelwald's war was already creeping closer to Britain; the Tinworth attack was proof of that. How long before the shadow of it reached Hogwarts?
He thought of his father again, of the heated arguments they'd had over the summer. "You're safe here," his father had insisted, as though repeating it would make it true. But Moody had seen the worry in his father's eyes, the same worry he felt now.
He shook the thought away as the sound of hoofbeats caught his attention. The Thestral-drawn carriages were waiting, their skeletal drivers stamping their bony feet impatiently. Moody climbed into one of the carriages, sinking into the seat as it jolted into motion and then sliding into Hagrid who sat next to him before Professor Kettleburn tutted and then dispatched the steedless carriage.
"Yeh seen the Thestrals yet, Alastor?" Hagrid had asked, his wide grin barely visible under his wild mop of hair.
Moody shook his head. "No. Should I be worried if I do?"
"Nah," Hagrid said, his tone cheerful despite the solemn topic. "Just means yeh've seen death, is all. They're magnificent creatures, they are—strong, clever, and loyal. Bit misunderstood, like most beasts."
Moody entered the Great Hall with the rest of the Gryffindors, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor as he approached the long, familiar table. The enchanted ceiling above reflected the night sky outside, thick with clouds that seemed to press down on the castle. Normally, the Great Hall buzzed with excitement on the first night of term, students jostling for seats and catching up after the summer. This year, though, the atmosphere was different—quieter, heavier.
The benches weren't full. Moody noticed it immediately. At every house table, there were conspicuous gaps where students should have been. The empty spaces were glaring reminders of the war outside these walls, of the fear that had crept into every corner of the magical world.
Some of the absences, Moody knew, were due to pure-blood families who had withdrawn their children, claiming that Hogwarts was no longer "pure" enough for their liking. They spoke of pollution—of Muggle-borns diluting the school's proud heritage—and had sent their children abroad or chosen private tutors instead.
Others were missing for an even grimmer reason. Muggle-born families, terrified by Grindelwald's rise and the growing hostility toward their kind, had pulled their children out of Hogwarts altogether. Many had gone into hiding, and Moody couldn't blame them. Every day, the Daily Prophet reported new attacks, new tragedies. He had seen firsthand how dangerous it was to stand out, to refuse to be cowed.
He grimaced and looked as a motley band of frightened-looking first years was led across the hall by Professor Merrythought to The Sorting Hat. Perched as it was on its familiar stool at the front of the room, it suddenly twitched; A sharp crease formed like a mouth, and the hall fell silent as the hat began its song.
Oh, gather close and take a seat,
For Hogwarts' halls are quite the feat.
This castle stands for every kind,
No blood, nor birth, can rule the mind.
The founders built the houses four,
Each different, yet they shared a core.
But labels only scratch the skin—
Your heart decides what lies within.
Gryffindor, for courage bright,
But bravery alone's no light.
Ravenclaw, for wisdom's art,
Yet cleverness can miss the heart.
Hufflepuff, with steady hand,
But kindness needs a stronger stand.
Slytherin, so bold and sly,
Yet cunning dreams can twist and die.
Beyond these walls, dark shadows creep,
And rifts may grow, both wide and deep.
But here, together, we stand tall—
A haven safe for one and all.
So place me gently on your crown,
I'll tell you where you might be found.
Yet know this truth, as years unfold:
Your choices shape the life you hold.
As the hat finished its song, a cursory ripple of applause swept through the hall, though it was quieter than usual. The tension from the carriages, the many absent students, and the looming presence of Dementors outside still lingered in the air. Moody noticed a few nervous glances exchanged among the older students and, his eyes caught Riddle, a Slytherin sallow skinned sixth year, looking venomously at the hat, his face suddenly bestial before it smoothed over into a handsome yet oddly callous visage.
The sorting began and Moody let the names of the new first years sweep over him as he looked at the staff table. Professor Dippet sat at the head, small, wizened and withered then Dumbledore head of Gryffindor house sat to his right, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with a kind of quiet intensity that always unsettled Moody.
Professor Merrythought, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and head of Ravenclaw, was one of Moody's favorite teachers. Unlike most of the staff, she didn't shy away from challenging her students to think critically, especially about the morality of the spells they learned. And Professor Merrythought had a way of making him feel like his ideas mattered, even when others dismissed him as "just another Muggle-born trying to prove himself."
"Macmillan," she called out next to the sorting hat and a pudgy blonde boy waddled up, his cheeks trembling with fear. Moody smiled kindly and clapped distractedly as he sorted into Hufflepuff.
Further down the staff table sat Professor Slughorn, his walrus mustache twitching as he laughed at some private joke. Still stout and jovial, he was head of Slytherin House and had a reputation for collecting promising students like trophies, showering them with favors in exchange for loyalty. Moody had never been invited into Slughorn's exclusive inner circle—something he was perfectly fine with.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," Professor Dippet began, his voice warm yet firm as it echoed across the Great Hall. "It is a joy to see so many familiar faces, as well as those of you joining us for the first time. Hogwarts, as you know, is not merely a school. It is a bastion of knowledge, community, and tolerance—a place where every student, regardless of their background, has a right to learn and thrive."
Moody's gaze flickered to the Slytherin table, where Tom Riddle sat near the center, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever. Dippet's words about tolerance seemed to hang in the air, almost a challenge to anyone who might think otherwise.
"These are challenging times," Dippet continued, his tone growing somber. "The rise of dark forces in our world makes our commitment to those values even more vital. I urge all of you to carry that spirit of tolerance into your classrooms, your friendships, and your decisions this year."
There was a ripple of murmurs throughout the hall, a mix of agreement and unease. Moody's stomach churned; the weight of the year ahead felt heavier than ever.
"And with that," Dippet said, his tone lightening slightly, "some practical reminders. The Forbidden Forest remains strictly off-limits to all students, regardless of year or circumstance. It is a place of danger, and I cannot stress enough how important it is to follow this rule."
Moody felt Hagrid next to him shift slightly, his expression betraying his likely thoughts about the rule's flexibility.
"I am also pleased to announce," Dippet continued, "that Quidditch tryouts will begin this week. I encourage all those who are interested to speak with their house captains and put forth your best effort. Whether you are a returning player or attempting for the first time, I look forward to another season of spirited and fair competition."
A ripple of excitement moved through the hall. Moody heard Ethel Blythe, the Gryffindor captain, already leaning toward Charlie Wood, whispering strategy while a few younger students speculated nervously about the tryouts.
"And for our third years and above," Dippet added, "your first visit to Hogsmeade is scheduled for a few weeks from now. As always, this is a privilege and an opportunity to enjoy the village's many shops and attractions responsibly. I trust you will represent Hogwarts with pride during these visits."
The mention of Hogsmeade sent a new wave of chatter through the hall, particularly among the third years experiencing the anticipation of their first trip. Moody caught snippets of plans forming: visits to Honeydukes, Zonko's, and The Three Broomsticks.
"And now," Dippet concluded, spreading his arms, "enjoy your meal and remember: together, we make Hogwarts strong."
With a wave of his wand, the feast appeared—roasted meats, steaming vegetables, golden-brown pies, and bowls of bright fruits materialized across the tables, accompanied by pitchers of pumpkin juice and iced water.
As Moody filled his plate, he couldn't help but glance toward the Slytherin table again. Riddle seemed as composed as ever, laughing softly with those around him and then he looked back at the top table and saw Professor Merrythought leaned over to whisper something to Dumbledore, her sharp eyes scanning the students below. Moody thought he saw her gaze linger on Riddle. The shadow of Grindelwald was growing, and Moody couldn't shake the feeling that it had already begun to creep into Hogwarts.