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…"

Moody shook his head, he felt like he had his own personal Dementor most of the time. 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.

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."

"Not worth one knut those lot aren't," murmured Hagrid.

Moody traced the rain as it dribbled down the window, the glass cold to touch as the countryside changed from the farmland of England to the mountains and forests of Scotland. All bracken and brittle and heavy.

Hours passed, and then Moody heard it, a sharp gale of laughter whip through the carriage, jeering, followed by a loud bang.

He was on his feet in a moment, wand ready.

"Come on," he said. Hagrid lumbered with him to the door.

It was a few compartments down where Moody saw a small girl dancing awkwardly in the middle of a group of Slytherin boys, Moody knew most of them by name: Mulciber, Rosier, Nott, McNair and in the middle the ringleader, Tom Riddle.

"Come on," Rosier was leering, "Make her do the tango now."

"Tangoli Tangolus," muttered Riddle lazily flicking his wand at the stricken girl.

"Stop it," the girl moaned her thick glasses steaming up with tears as she danced a series of awkward staccato jerks to imaginary music, "Leave me alone."

Moody felt sick.

With another flick of his wand Riddle released the girl, "Obliviate," he said, and the girl's eyes unfocused.

"Sorry," she said absent-mindedly wiping her tears, "I'm sorry, have you seen my things? Somebody seems to have taken them from my carriage?"

Riddle smiled, all malice hidden, "Well, I'm not sure, we found this," he said gesturing to a large and battered old suitcase, "Could this be it?"

The girl was all smiles, "Yes," she said, "Yes, that's it. Thank you."

Riddle nodded, "Take it, if you can," and he cast another spell, "Lapsurio."

Instantly, the girl's feet went out from under her.

She yelped, arms flailing wildly as she fought to keep her balance. Her shoes slid out at different angles, sending her teetering from side to side like a marionette with tangled strings.

Rosier howled with laughter while the others snickered quietly.

"Look at her!" he shouted. "She's like a duck on a frozen lake!"

The girl tried to reach the suitcase, her fingers stretching desperately—but she couldn't get a grip.

"Obliviate," Riddle said again and again the girl's eyes unfocused and she became oddly flat and placid before she took a deep breath and seeing the boys she asked.

"I—" she hesitated, her voice smaller now, dazed. "I'm sorry, have you seen my things? Somebody seems to have taken them from my carriage."

Riddle smiled. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle, kind, the sort of voice that made professors call him promising, made other students trust him without question.

"Well, I'm not sure," he said, gesturing to a large, battered suitcase in the corner of the compartment. "We found this. Could it be yours?"

She brightened instantly. "Yes!" she said, nodding quickly. "Yes, that's it. Thank you."

Riddle inclined his head slightly, almost like a gracious host.

Moody's stomach churned.

He should do something.

He should say something.

But before he could move—

A heavy knock on the window.

A massive shadow.

And then—a voice like rolling thunder.

"OI!"

The entire compartment shook as the window rattled violently, fogging with breath from the massive figure standing outside.

Hagrid's voice boomed through the compartment, and for the first time, the Slytherins flinched. The laughter died instantly. Moody swallowed, something hot and sharp twisting in his chest. For all his bluster, Hagrid had something Moody never had—size, strength, the sheer presence to make people listen. And Riddle? Riddle didn't even raise his wand.

His huge hands were cupped against the glass as he peered inside, eyes narrowed beneath his wild hair, "CUT IT OUT!" he shouted, the girl screamed and ran out the cabin taking her suitcase.

Rosier's grin faltered, his grip tightening on his wand.

Moody saw Riddle's fingers twitch, saw his wand lift ever so slightly—

"Stupefy."

The red streak of light shot toward the window—

And bounced off Hagrid's chest like a raindrop on stone.

The spell fizzled into nothing.

Riddle didn't blink.

Rosier staggered back. "Wh—what the hell was that?"

Hagrid's broad shoulders tensed, his huge fists clenched at his sides. His voice was low, dangerous as he stepped into the room.

Riddle turned to Rosier, his tone unbothered, indifferent. "Sorry I think he's frightened off the entertainment and Myrtle Warren is so entertaining."

"For a mudblood," agreed Rosier.

The words hung in the air.

Moody felt his stomach lurch, his heart hammering. He heard the Hogwarts Express slowing the rhythmic clatter getting less frequent.

"Say that again," Hagrid growled. "I dare yeh."

Rosier's eyes were wide, his face craning up to look at Hagrid's. Moody saw him swallow and saw the other Slytherins looking from Riddle, to Rosier to Hagrid, not sure how to react. Almost nervous.

But Riddle only smiled, leaning back against the seat, crossed one leg over the other, and watched, "Six of us against, well judging by your size, six of you. I'd say that's a fair fight."

Moody bristled as he stepped into the compartment. The Slytherins had their wands in their hands, their eyes narrowing.

"But," said Riddle, "Maybe we can sort this out one on one? Me and you Moody? Like honest men?"

Moody nodded, and tapped Hagrid's elbow, "Come on," he said, "Give us space."

Hagrid loped out, and Riddle moved.

Faster than anyone had a right to move.

His wand flicked up, sharp, precise, and—

"Confringo!"

Moody barely had time to dive aside as the hex blew apart the space where he had been standing a second before.

The train shook from the impact, and the lanterns above flickered wildly. The other Slytherins rushed out the compartment, barely looking back.

Moody rolled to his feet, wand raised.

Riddle was already smirking.

The train lurched as it slowed into the station, but Moody barely noticed. His heart pounded as he faced Tom Riddle—his wand raised, his stance loose and relaxed, like this wasn't even a fight.

Moody didn't wait.

"Stupefy!"

The red jet of light shot across the compartment—

But Riddle vanished.

No—not vanished—he sidestepped it so fast it was like he knew it was coming.

Riddle laughed, his followers looking through the window laughing, "Really, Moody?" he said, tilting his head slightly, his dark eyes glinting. "You're better than that, aren't you?"

Moody gritted his teeth, he looked at Riddle, still smiling, unphased.

His wand moved faster now, throwing a barrage of spells—

"Impedimenta!"—Blocked.
"Expulso!"—Dodged.
"Petrificus Totalus!"—Countered before it even landed.

Riddle was toying with him.

Holding back.

The realization hit Moody like a punch to the stomach. Moody's mind raced. He needed something unexpected. Wide aim, no marks—something Riddle wouldn't predict. His fingers tightened around his wand. He wasn't aiming at Riddle. He was aiming at where Riddle would be.

"Ardrentis!"

Riddle sidestepped straight into it. His face twisted—then his mouth wrenched open in a raw, strangled scream. For a fraction of a second, all Riddle knew was agony.

Moody allowed himself a bark of laughter. The Ardrentis Hex made it feel like your innards were burning. And judging by the way Riddle was shrieking it was having a strong effect.

"Finite," Riddle managed to choke out glaring at Moody his face suddenly bestial. Moody recoiled. Riddle had been testing him before, but now—something in the air had curdled. The smile was still there, but it was wrong now. Tight. Unnatural. And in his eyes—something Moody had never seen before.

"Lapsurio," Riddle said, aiming at Moody and the floor may as well have become ice.

Moody crashed down hard, his back slamming into the wood, his wand nearly knocked from his grasp. Riddle looked at him appraisingly, shaken, only for a moment, and then his smile returned.

Riddle lowered his wand as the train came to a grinding stop, he glanced outside, suddenly aware and Moody felt his grip tightened on his own, but Riddle simply straightened his robes, brushing nonexistent dust from the fabric.

"That was… interesting," he said.

Moody's breathing was ragged, his heart pounding.

Riddle's smirk widened. "You're getting there, Moody. Not quite fast enough—but close."

Moody's stomach twisted. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, to hear Riddle scream again, to feel like he'd actually won. But he hadn't. Not really.

And Riddle knew it.

Before he could move the compartment door slammed open, and Mr. Fenwick stepped inside, his dark green cloak dripping from the rain, his boots thudding heavily against the floor.

His piercing gaze swept over the scene—Moody, on the floor breathing hard, wand still raised; Riddle, composed, his expression placid; Rosier, crumpled in the corner.

Fenwick's face was unreadable, but the hard glint in his eyes made it clear that he wasn't in the mood for excuses.

"What in Merlin's name is goin' on here, then?" he said, voice low and sharp, his thick brows knitting together.

Moody opened his mouth, his pulse roaring in his ears, but Riddle moved first.

His wand was already tucked away, his hands calmly raised, like he had nothing to hide. His face shifted effortlessly from smug amusement to one of concerned diplomacy.

"Just a misunderstanding, sir," he said smoothly, his tone controlled, pleasant.

Fenwick's eyes narrowed slightly. His gaze flicked to Rosier's unconscious body. "That doesn't look like a misunderstanding. Looks like someone's been knockin' lumps outta someone else."

Riddle tilted his head, as if considering the matter with great sympathy. He gestured toward Rosier's limp form.

"We were helping Rosier," he explained, shaking his head with a sigh. "He had a bit of an accident."

Fenwick's jaw tightened slightly. His expression remained impassive, but Moody could feel the shift in the air.

He was measuring them.

His eyes flicked to Moody, then back to Riddle.

His posture stiffened—but only slightly.

Moody's stomach sank.

He wasn't going to do anything.

Not here. Not now.

Moody felt rage boiling up inside him, his hands curling into fists. He could see it happening—Fenwick, hesitating, unsure.

"No," Moody growled, voice shaking with fury. "That's not—"

Riddle turned to Fenwick fully, his voice dropping into something lower, gentler—persuasive.

"Mr. Fenwick," he said, carefully enunciating the man's name, "be reasonable. The train's here. No need for a fuss."

Fenwick's eyes narrowed further, but he didn't speak. His green eyes looked from boy to boy.

Riddle smiled, "Thanks," he said, holding his hand out to Moody who shook it, his heart pounding.

Then he followed Hagrid back to their compartment 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.

A heavy footstep thudded beside him, then a broad hand landed on his shoulder.

Hagrid.

"That was stupid, Moody," he muttered, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Moody didn't look at him. "He was hurting her."

"I know," Hagrid said, his voice quieter now, his breath misting in the cold air. "But pickin' a fight with Riddle in front of all his lot? Yeh know he ain't just some bully, don't yeh?"

Moody snorted, shaking off Hagrid's hand. "Of course I know," he said bitterly. "That's why someone has to stand up to him."

Hagrid didn't reply for a moment, just watched him carefully, like he was weighing his next words. Then, he sighed.

"Yeh think this is how yeh win?" he asked, voice heavy with something Moody didn't want to name. "Throwin' hexes in a train compartment? Bein' right don't mean much when no one's listenin'."

Moody's jaw tightened. "So what, we just let him do whatever he wants?"

Hagrid shook his head. "No," he said simply. "But yeh gotta be smart, Alastor. Pick yer battles."

Moody said nothing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Hagrid sighed again, then clapped him lightly on the back. "Come on," he said, his usual cheer returning, if only slightly. "Let's get up ter the castle before the Dementors decide ter give us a proper welcome."

Moody let out a slow breath, forcing himself to loosen his grip on his bag. He didn't say it, but he knew Hagrid was right.

"I say, Moody!" a voice called out. He turned to see Algernon 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 looked around the enclosure looking for Riddle and saw him, surrounded as usual by the Slytherin lot, their faces a mix of unease and forced composure—and for the briefest moment, Moody swore he made eye contact, and smirked, nodding at Moody.

Moody's fingers twitched at his side. He could tell Slughorn, maybe even Dumbledore. But he already knew what would happen—Riddle would flash his charming smile, say the girl had fallen, and the professors would shake their heads, believing what they wanted to believe.

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 Madam Idrisu 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 barely registered the rest of Hagrid's words. As the carriages trundled up the path toward the castle, his thoughts remained fixed on the duel, on Riddle's unshaken composure, on the way the Slytherins had waited for his reaction—not as friends, but as followers. The cold from the Dementors still clung to him, or maybe it was just the lingering weight of what had happened.

Moody stepped out of the carriage and paused at the entrance, casting one last glance over his shoulder. The train had vanished into the night, but the Dementors remained—floating at the edge of the station, waiting. They would always be waiting.

He clenched his fists. Hogwarts had always been a sanctuary.

But tonight, it felt like a fortress waiting to be tested.

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 caught the sharp glint of Riddle's eyes across the hall, his expression calm, unreadable—watching. Unlike the others, there was no unease in his face, no trace of the tension that lingered in the air. If anything, he looked... amused.

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.