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 at Grimmauld Place felt smaller than usual, the shadows clinging to the peeling wallpaper like damp, neglected ghosts. Harry sat at the heavy, scarred wooden table, the yellow light of a single tallow candle shivering against the encroaching gloom. Between them lay the locket, a cold, heavy lump of gold that seemed to absorb the dim light rather than reflect it. Harry’s fingers felt clumsy, his skin prickling with an inexplicable static, but he kept his focus on the surface of the metal. He reached for a frayed rag he had brought from the pantry, the fabric rough against his calloused fingertips. He began to polish the locket in slow, rhythmic circles, scrubbing away the grime of years spent in the dark, suffocating dust of the house. The metal felt wrong, unnaturally cold, a biting chill that seemed to seep directly into his marrow regardless of the room’s temperature.

Kreacher sat opposite him, his oversized, bat-like ears twitching at every creak of the floorboards above. The elf’s eyes, milky and rimmed with red, were fixed on the locket with an expression that shifted between reverent adoration and absolute, marrow-deep terror. His long, thin fingers were curled tightly around the edge of the table, the knuckles white and skeletal. Every time Harry’s thumb brushed against the intricate S engraved on the casing, Kreacher would let out a low, involuntary whimper, a sound that died in his throat like a trapped moth. Harry sighed, his jaw tight, his gaze flicking from the gold to the creature who had known the locket’s original owner far better than he ever would. The silence between them was heavy, weighted with the unspoken history of the Black family and the echoes of a war that had left them both hollowed out and scarred.

Harry stopped his cleaning and set the rag down, his green eyes meeting the elf’s erratic, shifting gaze. He felt a profound sense of exhaustion, an ache that settled deep beneath his breastbone, a permanent reminder of all he had lost and all he had failed to protect. He looked at the locket, then back at Kreacher, his voice surfacing from the quiet like a stone being dropped into a well. He had spent so long viewing all house-elves through the lens of his own bias, but now, seeing the way Kreacher gripped his ancient, threadbare towel, he felt a flicker of something new, something that defied his usual, blunt skepticism. He wanted to understand, not for the sake of the Order or the war effort, but because the look on the elf’s face was one of profound sacrifice, a echo of a loyalty that had transcended the bounds of master and servant.

You knew this belonged to him, Harry said, his voice raspy, the words hanging in the stagnant air. You know what needs to be done.

Kreacher did not answer at first, his head dipping low, his long, hooked nose nearly brushing the surface of the table. He muttered something in a tongue Harry couldn’t decipher, a string of archaic, jagged sounds that seemed to vibrate with a century of bitterness and grief. The elf’s body trembled, a rhythmic, violent shaking that made the candle flame dance and sputter in fear. He raised a gnarled, trembling hand and pointed a long, bony finger toward the side of the locket, his voice a frantic rasp that sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone.

Master Regulus, he whispered, his voice cracking with the strain of the name. Master Regulus provided, master, provided for the end, he never believed the dark master would fall, but he knew, he knew what was hidden.

Harry watched the elf’s finger, his heart hammering against his ribs as he turned the locket over. He had been looking for a mechanism, a seam, something that would reveal the truth, but until now he had seen only the solid, unyielding craftsmanship of Salazar Slytherin’s heir. Following Kreacher’s trembling guidance, he looked closer at the side, pressing his thumbnail into a nearly invisible groove he had overlooked in the dim light. There was a tiny, recessed latch, so expertly fitted that it seemed like a mere imperfection in the metal’s surface. He pressed, his thumb sliding against the polished coldness, and with a soft, metallic click, the side panel popped open.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Tucked inside a tiny, velvet-lined cavity was not a jewel or a dark relic, but a small, tightly folded sliver of parchment. The paper was yellowed and brittle, stained with the passage of time, yet it held itself intact, defying the decay that had claimed so much else in this house. Harry carefully extracted it with his pocketknife, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. He felt the weight of the moment, the shift in reality from a simple gold ornament to something far more personal, far more devastating.

Kreacher began to sob, a wet, rattling sound that didn’t belong in the silence of the kitchen. He bowed his head, resting his chin on the table, his arms crossed over his chest in a posture of desperate shame.

Read it, master, the elf choked out, his voice barely audible. Read what the young master left for those who come after, the words that were never heard, the truth that was meant for the one who would dare to hold his pride.

Harry unfolded the parchment, his fingers trembling. The writing was elegant, sharp, and hurried, the ink faded to a ghostly brown. He cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the lines, the weight of the words pressing down upon him with the force of a physical blow. He began to read aloud, his voice gaining a shaky, uncertain strength as he stumbled through the ink-stained tragedy.

To the one who finds this, he read, the sound of his own voice ringing hollow against the kitchen walls. It is not finished. The power he sought was never in the blood, but in the emptiness he left behind. The war concludes not with the destruction of the vessel, but with the fulfillment of the intent, the final wish of Regulus Arcturus Black, who chose to die so that others might live to see the dawn of a world that does not fear the shadow of a name long dead.

He paused, his chest burning, his eyes darting back to the parchment while his mind raced to comprehend the scope of what Regulus Black had really done. He thought of the inferi in the cave, the basin, the devastatingly simple sacrifice of a young man who had once been on the wrong side of history. He had assumed that destroying the Horcrux was the end, the final, messy battle of a long, brutal war, but reading the instruction in the flickering candlelight, he realized that he had only touched the surface of the truth.

Kreacher’s weeping had stopped, leaving him in a state of catatonic stillness. The elf looked up, his eyes wide and vacant, as if he were seeing the past walk through the kitchen door. The war’s conclusion, Harry realized, his throat tightening to the point of pain, it wasn't just about victory. It was about the memory, the redemption of a life traded for a flicker of hope, and as he gripped the parchment, he knew that the quest, his mission, was far from over.

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place felt smaller than usual, the shadows clinging to the peeling wallpaper like damp, neglected ghosts. Harry sat at the heavy, scarred wooden table, the yellow light of a single tallow candle shivering against the encroaching gloom. Between them lay the locket, a cold, heavy lump of gold that seemed to absorb the dim light rather than reflect it. Harry’s fingers felt clumsy, his skin prickling with an inexplicable static, but he kept his focus on the surface of the metal. He reached for a frayed rag he had brought from the pantry, the fabric rough against his calloused fingertips. He began to polish the locket in slow, rhythmic circles, scrubbing away the grime of years spent in the dark, suffocating dust of the house. The metal felt wrong, unnaturally cold, a biting chill that seemed to seep directly into his marrow regardless of the room’s temperature.

Kreacher sat opposite him, his oversized, bat-like ears twitching at every creak of the floorboards above. The elf’s eyes, milky and rimmed with red, were fixed on the locket with an expression that shifted between reverent adoration and absolute, marrow-deep terror. His long, thin fingers were curled tightly around the edge of the table, the knuckles white and skeletal. Every time Harry’s thumb brushed against the intricate S engraved on the casing, Kreacher would let out a low, involuntary whimper, a sound that died in his throat like a trapped moth. Harry sighed, his jaw tight, his gaze flicking from the gold to the creature who had known the locket’s original owner far better than he ever would. The silence between them was heavy, weighted with the unspoken history of the Black family and the echoes of a war that had left them both hollowed out and scarred.

Harry stopped his cleaning and set the rag down, his green eyes meeting the elf’s erratic, shifting gaze. He felt a profound sense of exhaustion, an ache that settled deep beneath his breastbone, a permanent reminder of all he had lost and all he had failed to protect. He looked at the locket, then back at Kreacher, his voice surfacing from the quiet like a stone being dropped into a well. He had spent so long viewing all house-elves through the lens of his own bias, but now, seeing the way Kreacher gripped his ancient, threadbare towel, he felt a flicker of something new, something that defied his usual, blunt skepticism. He wanted to understand, not for the sake of the Order or the war effort, but because the look on the elf’s face was one of profound sacrifice, a echo of a loyalty that had transcended the bounds of master and servant.

You knew this belonged to him, Harry said, his voice raspy, the words hanging in the stagnant air. You know what needs to be done.

Kreacher did not answer at first, his head dipping low, his long, hooked nose nearly brushing the surface of the table. He muttered something in a tongue Harry couldn’t decipher, a string of archaic, jagged sounds that seemed to vibrate with a century of bitterness and grief. The elf’s body trembled, a rhythmic, violent shaking that made the candle flame dance and sputter in fear. He raised a gnarled, trembling hand and pointed a long, bony finger toward the side of the locket, his voice a frantic rasp that sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone.

Master Regulus, he whispered, his voice cracking with the strain of the name. Master Regulus provided, master, provided for the end, he never believed the dark master would fall, but he knew, he knew what was hidden.

Harry watched the elf’s finger, his heart hammering against his ribs as he turned the locket over. He had been looking for a mechanism, a seam, something that would reveal the truth, but until now he had seen only the solid, unyielding craftsmanship of Salazar Slytherin’s heir. Following Kreacher’s trembling guidance, he looked closer at the side, pressing his thumbnail into a nearly invisible groove he had overlooked in the dim light. There was a tiny, recessed latch, so expertly fitted that it seemed like a mere imperfection in the metal’s surface. He pressed, his thumb sliding against the polished coldness, and with a soft, metallic click, the side panel popped open.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Tucked inside a tiny, velvet-lined cavity was not a jewel or a dark relic, but a small, tightly folded sliver of parchment. The paper was yellowed and brittle, stained with the passage of time, yet it held itself intact, defying the decay that had claimed so much else in this house. Harry carefully extracted it with his pocketknife, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. He felt the weight of the moment, the shift in reality from a simple gold ornament to something far more personal, far more devastating.

Kreacher began to sob, a wet, rattling sound that didn’t belong in the silence of the kitchen. He bowed his head, resting his chin on the table, his arms crossed over his chest in a posture of desperate shame.

Read it, master, the elf choked out, his voice barely audible. Read what the young master left for those who come after, the words that were never heard, the truth that was meant for the one who would dare to hold his pride.

Harry unfolded the parchment, his fingers trembling. The writing was elegant, sharp, and hurried, the ink faded to a ghostly brown. He cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the lines, the weight of the words pressing down upon him with the force of a physical blow. He began to read aloud, his voice gaining a shaky, uncertain strength as he stumbled through the ink-stained tragedy.

To the one who finds this, he read, the sound of his own voice ringing hollow against the kitchen walls. It is not finished. The power he sought was never in the blood, but in the emptiness he left behind. The war concludes not with the destruction of the vessel, but with the fulfillment of the intent, the final wish of Regulus Arcturus Black, who chose to die so that others might live to see the dawn of a world that does not fear the shadow of a name long dead.

He paused, his chest burning, his eyes darting back to the parchment while his mind raced to comprehend the scope of what Regulus Black had really done. He thought of the inferi in the cave, the basin, the devastatingly simple sacrifice of a young man who had once been on the wrong side of history. He had assumed that destroying the Horcrux was the end, the final, messy battle of a long, brutal war, but reading the instruction in the flickering candlelight, he realized that he had only touched the surface of the truth.

Kreacher’s weeping had stopped, leaving him in a state of catatonic stillness. The elf looked up, his eyes wide and vacant, as if he were seeing the past walk through the kitchen door. The war’s conclusion, Harry realized, his throat tightening to the point of pain, it wasn't just about victory. It was about the memory, the redemption of a life traded for a flicker of hope, and as he gripped the parchment, he knew that the quest, his mission, was far from over. «Regulus's Last Command», part 2. Fanfiction — Harry Potter.

The Hidden Instruction. Regulus's Last Command — Harry Potter fanfiction | Fanfica

The Hidden Instruction

Padfoot Always

In the quiet aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, Kreacher discovers a locket he thought long destroyed—Regulus Black's true final message. Its contents promise to reshape the wizarding world, but only if Harry Potter can bring himself to trust the house-elf who once handed him over to the enemy. Will old wounds heal, or will suspicion unravel the last chance at a different peace?

Regulus's Last Command — The Hidden Instruction

Parte 2: The Hidden Instruction