webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, exhaled a long-held breath of rot and ancient, suffocating dust as Kreacher pushed the heavy, iron-bound door open. The air inside was thick, layered with the metallic, sharp tang of dark magic that saturated the very mortar of the walls. It was a suffocating, familiar embrace. Kreacher stepped inside, his bare, gnarled feet finding purchase on the uneven, freezing stone floor. His joints ached with a deep, pulsating resonance that spoke of long hours spent in the unnatural damp of the cave, beneath the black, lightless water. Every muscle in his slight body trembled with an exhaustion that went deeper than marrow—it was the weariness of a creature who had glimpsed the end of all things and had been forced to drag a piece of that shadow back with him. His thin, spindly fingers pressed instinctively against the rough, dirty cloth tied around his waist, feeling the reassuringly solid weight of the locket and the sharp, folded edge of the letter tucked within his meager rags. He was a vessel of secrets now, a vault forged by grief and stubborn, agonizing loyalty.

He wanted, with a desperation that tasted like bile in his throat, to crawl into the cramped, dark sanctuary beneath the stairs and wither away into the gloom. But the house was not a place of quiet exits. The wall opposite the hearth erupted with motion. The heavy, velvet curtains obscuring the portrait of Walburga Black whipped aside with a violent, jagged tear. The frame creaked, wood protesting against the sudden, forced awakening of its occupant. Within the gold-leafed border, the figure of the mistress materialized, her face a mask of gaunt, high-cheekboned severity, her dark eyes flashing with a frantic, unyielding malice. She did not merely appear; she manifested as a tempest of frozen fury, her silver locket glinting cruelly in the dim light of the kitchen.

"Kreacher!" the shriek tore through the stagnant air, vibrating against the stone walls with the force of an actual blow. "Where have you been, you pathetic, sniveling scrap of filth? You crawl back into this house like the vermin you are, reeking of failure and damp, and you dare not acknowledge your Lady?"

Kreacher did not stop. He kept his gaze fixed on a patch of peeling, charcoal-colored wallpaper near the sink, a small, stubborn spot of rot that seemed to mirror his own inner dissolution. He felt the vibration of her voice in his very teeth. To look at her was to drown in the torrent of her contempt, and he had no strength left for that. He moved with a sluggish, agonizing deliberation, his posture hunched, his long, bat-like ears drooping in a mask of practiced, hollow indifference. The locket pressed against his skin, a burning point of cold, draining his warmth even as he protected it, reminding him that the only life that mattered was the one he had watched slip away in the dark.

"I am asking you a question, you useless, wasted piece of house-elf refuse!" Walburga bellowed, her voice spiraling into a discordant, glass-shattering screech. "Do not think you can hide behind your silence! I know you have been sulking in the shadows of this house, neglecting your duties, letting the dust settle like a shroud over my home! Answer me, you miserable creature! What business have you had tonight that warrants such insolent ignoring of your betters?"

He felt the whip-lash of her words—words he had been lashed with for decades—but they reached him as if from a great, muffled distance. They were mere static compared to the silent, soul-crushing weight of the Horcrux. He reached up, his bony, trembling hand adjusting his rags, ensuring the cloth shielded the locket and the note from her manic, glaring eyes. Every movement he made was executed with a calculated, sluggish care, a defense against the scrutiny of the portrait. He did not know what expression crossed his face—he only knew the way his jaw felt locked in a hard, unbreakable line, his lips pulled tight over his teeth.

"Kreacher has chores," he muttered, his voice a gravelly, subterranean croak that barely rose above the scratching of his own feet on the stone. "Kreacher serves the House. Kreacher does what the Master left undone."

"The Master?" Walburga laughed, a sharp, jagged sound like breaking crystal that echoed off the cold tiles. "You speak of the dead with the tongue of a traitor! You are naught but a scavenger, a creature born to scrub the floors and hide in the corners when the true-blood stands tall! You bring nothing but the stench of the gutter into this kitchen, and I will not have it! I will have you shackled to the wall, I will have your ears pinned to the floorboards if you do not account for your time, you wretched stain!"

She continued to scream, her vitriol flowing in a relentless, intoxicating tide of pure-blood rhetoric and biting curses. She invoked his lineage, or rather, the lack of it, mocking his servitude, his deformity, and his very existence. She railed against the decay of the house, blaming him for every fleck of paint that peeled, every shadow that gathered in the corners. She was an engine of abuse, powered by her own fanatical inability to accept the ruin that had claimed her family and her influence. To her, he was a mirror of her failures—unclean, broken, and failing to hold back the encroaching void.

He stepped closer to the stairs, the cool draft from under the steps offering a slight, illusory comfort. He felt his legs trembling, the cartilage in his knees grinding with every step. The journey had stripped him of the ability to care for the house as she demanded. He felt the cold iron of the locket pulse against his chest. It was a rhythm now—a slow, sickly heartbeat that harmonized with his own fatigue.

"The mistress does not understand," Kreacher whispered, though the words were meant only for the shadows. "The mistress screams at ghosts while the real shadow comes from the locket."

"What did you say?" Walburga shrieked, leaning forward in her frame until her face appeared distorted, her skin tight over her pale, skeletal cheeks. "Speak up, you insolent dog! Or is your brain as rotted as your hide? I see you clutching at your chest! What is that? What have you brought into my kitchen, you thieving, sniveling wretch? Show me!"

She erupted into a new level of fury, sensing the secret he guarded, even if she couldn't name it. She railed against him with a fervor that made the very air in the kitchen feel thin and electric. She cursed the air he breathed, the floor he stood upon, and the very concept of his service. She poured her venom out in long, breath-deprived sentences, demanding that he tear off his rags, that he reveal what he deemed more important than her, that he admit his treachery in the face of her noble authority. The sound was deafening, a relentless assault that vibrated in his ears and made his vision blur at the edges.

Kreacher’s knees buckled. It was not a choice; it was the final, total surrender of his physical form to the gravity of his grief. He felt the sensation of his joints giving way, a sharp, sickening slide toward the cold stone. He did not cry out. He collapsed with a dull, heavy thud, his limbs folding like a broken puppet. The impact jolted his frame, but his hands stayed true the entire time.

His palms were pressed hard against the rags and the objects hidden beneath them. He hit the kitchen floor, cold and unyielding, his face resting against the grit of the tiles. He felt the sharp sting of the stone against his cheek, but he did not move away. He tightened his grip on the locket, tucking the cold metal deeper, pressing it into the soft fabric so that even if she stared, she would see only the rags of an elf who had finally lost the fight to stand.

Walburga’s voice was still raining down upon him, a shrill, hysterical torrent of insults and commands that seemed to grow in volume as he descended into silence. She was screaming about blood traitors, about filth, about the sanctity of the Black line, but the words had lost their meaning. They were just noise, a dying fire's last, frantic flicker. The kitchen floor was cold, smelling of ancient tallow and long-forgotten grief. He felt the silence behind the noise, a deep, resonating stillness that filled the hollow space under the stairs.

"Scream, Mistress," he thought, his own heartbeat laboring against his ribs, slow and heavy like a tolling bell. "Scream at the dust. Scream at the dark. Kreacher has done what none of you could. Kreacher has the life of the Master held in his hand."

She continued to shriek, a ceaseless, maddened loop of condemnation, her mouth moving in a terrifying, rhythmic distortion in the portrait. She shouted until her voice cracked, until the golden frame seemed to shudder under the intensity of her rage. Kreacher didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge the assault. He remained collapsed on the kitchen floor, a small, broken heap amidst the shadows, his hand clutching the locket and the hidden letter against his chest, anchored to the floor by the unbearable weight of a promise that had outlived the grave.

The kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, exhaled a long-held breath of rot and ancient, suffocating dust as Kreacher pushed the heavy, iron-bound door open. The air inside was thick, layered with the metallic, sharp tang of dark magic that saturated the very mortar of the walls. It was a suffocating, familiar embrace. Kreacher stepped inside, his bare, gnarled feet finding purchase on the uneven, freezing stone floor. His joints ached with a deep, pulsating resonance that spoke of long hours spent in the unnatural damp of the cave, beneath the black, lightless water. Every muscle in his slight body trembled with an exhaustion that went deeper than marrow—it was the weariness of a creature who had glimpsed the end of all things and had been forced to drag a piece of that shadow back with him. His thin, spindly fingers pressed instinctively against the rough, dirty cloth tied around his waist, feeling the reassuringly solid weight of the locket and the sharp, folded edge of the letter tucked within his meager rags. He was a vessel of secrets now, a vault forged by grief and stubborn, agonizing loyalty.

He wanted, with a desperation that tasted like bile in his throat, to crawl into the cramped, dark sanctuary beneath the stairs and wither away into the gloom. But the house was not a place of quiet exits. The wall opposite the hearth erupted with motion. The heavy, velvet curtains obscuring the portrait of Walburga Black whipped aside with a violent, jagged tear. The frame creaked, wood protesting against the sudden, forced awakening of its occupant. Within the gold-leafed border, the figure of the mistress materialized, her face a mask of gaunt, high-cheekboned severity, her dark eyes flashing with a frantic, unyielding malice. She did not merely appear; she manifested as a tempest of frozen fury, her silver locket glinting cruelly in the dim light of the kitchen.

"Kreacher!" the shriek tore through the stagnant air, vibrating against the stone walls with the force of an actual blow. "Where have you been, you pathetic, sniveling scrap of filth? You crawl back into this house like the vermin you are, reeking of failure and damp, and you dare not acknowledge your Lady?"

Kreacher did not stop. He kept his gaze fixed on a patch of peeling, charcoal-colored wallpaper near the sink, a small, stubborn spot of rot that seemed to mirror his own inner dissolution. He felt the vibration of her voice in his very teeth. To look at her was to drown in the torrent of her contempt, and he had no strength left for that. He moved with a sluggish, agonizing deliberation, his posture hunched, his long, bat-like ears drooping in a mask of practiced, hollow indifference. The locket pressed against his skin, a burning point of cold, draining his warmth even as he protected it, reminding him that the only life that mattered was the one he had watched slip away in the dark.

"I am asking you a question, you useless, wasted piece of house-elf refuse!" Walburga bellowed, her voice spiraling into a discordant, glass-shattering screech. "Do not think you can hide behind your silence! I know you have been sulking in the shadows of this house, neglecting your duties, letting the dust settle like a shroud over my home! Answer me, you miserable creature! What business have you had tonight that warrants such insolent ignoring of your betters?"

He felt the whip-lash of her words—words he had been lashed with for decades—but they reached him as if from a great, muffled distance. They were mere static compared to the silent, soul-crushing weight of the Horcrux. He reached up, his bony, trembling hand adjusting his rags, ensuring the cloth shielded the locket and the note from her manic, glaring eyes. Every movement he made was executed with a calculated, sluggish care, a defense against the scrutiny of the portrait. He did not know what expression crossed his face—he only knew the way his jaw felt locked in a hard, unbreakable line, his lips pulled tight over his teeth.

"Kreacher has chores," he muttered, his voice a gravelly, subterranean croak that barely rose above the scratching of his own feet on the stone. "Kreacher serves the House. Kreacher does what the Master left undone."

"The Master?" Walburga laughed, a sharp, jagged sound like breaking crystal that echoed off the cold tiles. "You speak of the dead with the tongue of a traitor! You are naught but a scavenger, a creature born to scrub the floors and hide in the corners when the true-blood stands tall! You bring nothing but the stench of the gutter into this kitchen, and I will not have it! I will have you shackled to the wall, I will have your ears pinned to the floorboards if you do not account for your time, you wretched stain!"

She continued to scream, her vitriol flowing in a relentless, intoxicating tide of pure-blood rhetoric and biting curses. She invoked his lineage, or rather, the lack of it, mocking his servitude, his deformity, and his very existence. She railed against the decay of the house, blaming him for every fleck of paint that peeled, every shadow that gathered in the corners. She was an engine of abuse, powered by her own fanatical inability to accept the ruin that had claimed her family and her influence. To her, he was a mirror of her failures—unclean, broken, and failing to hold back the encroaching void.

He stepped closer to the stairs, the cool draft from under the steps offering a slight, illusory comfort. He felt his legs trembling, the cartilage in his knees grinding with every step. The journey had stripped him of the ability to care for the house as she demanded. He felt the cold iron of the locket pulse against his chest. It was a rhythm now—a slow, sickly heartbeat that harmonized with his own fatigue.

"The mistress does not understand," Kreacher whispered, though the words were meant only for the shadows. "The mistress screams at ghosts while the real shadow comes from the locket."

"What did you say?" Walburga shrieked, leaning forward in her frame until her face appeared distorted, her skin tight over her pale, skeletal cheeks. "Speak up, you insolent dog! Or is your brain as rotted as your hide? I see you clutching at your chest! What is that? What have you brought into my kitchen, you thieving, sniveling wretch? Show me!"

She erupted into a new level of fury, sensing the secret he guarded, even if she couldn't name it. She railed against him with a fervor that made the very air in the kitchen feel thin and electric. She cursed the air he breathed, the floor he stood upon, and the very concept of his service. She poured her venom out in long, breath-deprived sentences, demanding that he tear off his rags, that he reveal what he deemed more important than her, that he admit his treachery in the face of her noble authority. The sound was deafening, a relentless assault that vibrated in his ears and made his vision blur at the edges.

Kreacher’s knees buckled. It was not a choice; it was the final, total surrender of his physical form to the gravity of his grief. He felt the sensation of his joints giving way, a sharp, sickening slide toward the cold stone. He did not cry out. He collapsed with a dull, heavy thud, his limbs folding like a broken puppet. The impact jolted his frame, but his hands stayed true the entire time.

His palms were pressed hard against the rags and the objects hidden beneath them. He hit the kitchen floor, cold and unyielding, his face resting against the grit of the tiles. He felt the sharp sting of the stone against his cheek, but he did not move away. He tightened his grip on the locket, tucking the cold metal deeper, pressing it into the soft fabric so that even if she stared, she would see only the rags of an elf who had finally lost the fight to stand.

Walburga’s voice was still raining down upon him, a shrill, hysterical torrent of insults and commands that seemed to grow in volume as he descended into silence. She was screaming about blood traitors, about filth, about the sanctity of the Black line, but the words had lost their meaning. They were just noise, a dying fire's last, frantic flicker. The kitchen floor was cold, smelling of ancient tallow and long-forgotten grief. He felt the silence behind the noise, a deep, resonating stillness that filled the hollow space under the stairs.

"Scream, Mistress," he thought, his own heartbeat laboring against his ribs, slow and heavy like a tolling bell. "Scream at the dust. Scream at the dark. Kreacher has done what none of you could. Kreacher has the life of the Master held in his hand."

She continued to shriek, a ceaseless, maddened loop of condemnation, her mouth moving in a terrifying, rhythmic distortion in the portrait. She shouted until her voice cracked, until the golden frame seemed to shudder under the intensity of her rage. Kreacher didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge the assault. He remained collapsed on the kitchen floor, a small, broken heap amidst the shadows, his hand clutching the locket and the hidden letter against his chest, anchored to the floor by the unbearable weight of a promise that had outlived the grave. «The Locket's Secret», part 1. Fanfiction — Harry Potter.

The Return to Grimmauld Place. The Locket's Secret — Harry Potter fanfiction | Fanfica

The Return to Grimmauld Place

Padfoot Always

When Kreacher returns from the cave clutching the locket, a hidden message from Regulus Black reveals a truth that shatters his world. Bound by his master's dying wish, the bitter house-elf must forge an uneasy alliance with Severus Snape. Together they face the impossible task of destroying a Horcrux while Walburga's portrait screams betrayal from the walls. Can loyalty overcome centuries of hatred?

The Locket's Secret — The Return to Grimmauld Place

Parte 1: The Return to Grimmauld Place