Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Kane's feet touched solid ground. He opened his eyes.

He stood on a barren plain, with rolling hills in the distance. The wind was strong, carrying the scent of heather. The rain had just begun, and fine raindrops pattered against his face.

The boxes, the train, and Hogwarts all disappeared.

They are now somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, at least thirty miles from the railway line.

Igor landed back on his shoulder, the luster on his feathers fading. The phoenix looked a little tired, but his eyes remained bright.

The whole process took less than ten seconds.

There were no loud noises, no feeling of pressure; it was as natural as walking from one door to another—if that door were outside of reality.

Kane looked around. The agreed meeting place should be nearby.

He sensed something and turned around.

Fifty yards away, in front of a half-collapsed stone house, stood a person.

The man, dressed in a tattered travel cloak and leaning on a twisted wooden cane, was staring at him—or more accurately, at Igor on his shoulder.

Alastor Moody's magical prosthetic eye spun wildly, while his real eye narrowed into a slit.

"Phoenix teleportation." Moody's voice was rough, tinged with undisguised interest. "I thought only Dumbledore could do that."

"Not anymore," Kane said.

Moody took a few steps closer, his prosthetic eye scanning every inch of the surrounding space, as if checking for cracks. "Dumbledore taught you that?"

"More or less." Kane stroked Ig's feathers.

Moody stared at the phoenix for a long time. Finally, he snorted, took a flask from his cloak, and took a sip. "Let's go. Morag is still far away, and I don't like chatting in the rain."

He turned and walked north, his wooden leg striking the ground with a rhythmic tapping sound.

Kane followed. Igor preened his feathers on his shoulder, his silver eyes gazing at the distant mountains where dark clouds were gathering.

It was raining heavily.

The summer hunt has begun.

The rain intensified, pattering softly against the heather bushes. Kane followed Moody, keeping three steps behind. Igor stood quietly on his shoulder, but Kane could sense the phoenix's vigilance—it was watching Moody, assessing the old Auror's every subtle movement.

Suddenly, Moody turned around without warning.

His wand was already in his hand, not held horizontally, but pointed at the ground at an unusual angle—a posture that allowed for both quick defense and immediate counterattack. Rain dripped from the tip of the wand.

"Stop." Moody's voice had lost its previous casual roughness, replaced by a razor-sharp edge. "Before we continue, there are some things that need to be made clear."

Kane stopped, his right hand hanging naturally at his side. He didn't touch the wand, but simply looked calmly at Moody.

"Dumbledore arranged this meeting," Moody's prosthetic eye spun wildly, while his real eye remained fixed on Kane. "He said you're a 'special' student, with 'unique' abilities, and that you volunteered to go to Morag. But he didn't say why a Malfoy—Lucius Malfoy's son—would want to cause trouble for werewolves."

The sound of rain formed a curtain between the two.

Igor moved slightly, shaking off the raindrops from his feathers, which shimmered with a dark golden luster in the dim light.

"I am not my father," Kane said.

“Anyone can talk the talk.” Moody took a step forward, closing the distance to two meters—the effective range of the spell. “I’ve captured too many Death Eaters, and they all claim they ‘aren’t real Death Eaters,’ just ‘following orders.’ But your father, Lucius Malfoy—he whitewashed himself with Galleons and lies after the Dark Lord’s first downfall. Now things are starting to get weird again. Do you know who he’s been in contact with lately?”

"They're from Eastern Europe, claiming to be antique dealers," Kane said. "Their luggage has remnants of black magic."

Moody's prosthetic eye paused for a moment, then spun even faster. "How did you know?"

"Draco told me. And I could feel the disturbance in the manor's protective magic—new markings were being added, very subtly, but definitely there."

"What mark?"

"An ancient Eastern European blood magic used to mark 'allies' or 'vassals.' It affects the flow of magic energy in protective arrays, allowing specific individuals to pass through more easily."

Kane spoke calmly, as if discussing magical theory, "I studied the protective array diagram of Malfoy Manor and discovered that three nodes have recently been fine-tuned. The adjustment method was very professional, but the purpose was clear—to create three pinhole-sized holes in the complete protective net."

Moody was silent for a few seconds, rain streaming down the scars on his face. "You found out, and then what?"

"I patched two and left one," Kane said. "The one I left, I added a reverse tracking spell. Anyone who passes through that node will be marked. The mark will automatically disappear after seven days without arousing suspicion."

Old Auror's breathing quickened almost imperceptibly for a moment. His true eyes narrowed further: "You're spying on your own father."

"I'm monitoring who's coming in and out of my house," Kane corrected. "And if they're legitimate guests, they should use the front door, not the secret passage."

Igor let out a soft chirp, as if in agreement.

Moody stared at Kane for so long that even the rain seemed to lessen. Then, he did something unexpected—he tucked his wand back into his sleeve.

“Dumbledore said you’re very clever,” he said, “but there are many kinds of cleverness. There’s the cleverness of a bookworm, the cleverness of a politician, and then there’s…” He paused, “the cleverness of a hunter. Do you know which kind you are?”

Kane did not answer, but simply waited.

Moody pulled a flask from his cloak, unscrewed it, and took a big gulp.

This time, instead of putting it away immediately, he handed the flask to Kane: "Have a sip."

Kane glanced at the flask, then at Moody.

"What, afraid I'll poison him?" Moody's lips curled into a smile. "Or is it that the Malfoy young master can't stand the cheap liquor of commoners?"

Kane took the flask. The moment he touched it, he sensed it—the flask itself was enchanted with powerful Confusion and Protection spells, making it impossible for ordinary poisons to penetrate its defenses.

He raised the wine jug and took a sip.

The spiciness of the fiery whiskey cut through my throat like a knife, then transformed into a warm current spreading through my stomach. But beyond that, there was a subtle, almost imperceptible magical fluctuation—not poison, but a carrier of some kind of detection magic.

"An improved version of Truth Potion," Kane said, handing the flask back without changing his expression. "The dosage is very small, about one-tenth of the normal effect. It only makes people lower their guard when answering certain questions; it won't force them to tell the truth."