webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      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
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments {
    id
    media {
      id
      type
      origin
      status
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      generationError
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      activeGenerationJob {
        status
        currentStage
        id
      }
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  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
  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
  }
}


Several hours had slipped into the dust-choked silence of the house since Kreacher last stood before the portrait in the attic. His limbs felt heavy with a fatigue that settled deep into his knobby knees, a weariness born as much from the weight of forbidden knowledge as from the physical toil of scrubbing decades of grime from the floorboards. The bucket in his hand clattered rhythmically against his bony shin, the metal echoing through the narrow, high-ceilinged corridor of the portrait gallery. Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through the grime of the upper floor windows, illuminating the grim, painted faces that lined the walls.

Kreacher kept his gaze fixed on the frayed hem of his dirty tea towel, his ears twitching at the sound of his own shuffling footsteps. He felt their eyes, even if he did not look up. He felt the cold, judgmental weight of ancestors who had spent centuries perfecting the art of disdain. He knew every scratch on the floorboards, every peeling bit of wallpaper, and every nuance of the scorn that radiated from the canvasses.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek shattered the heavy silence. The sound hit Kreacher like a physical blow, vibrating in his oversized ears and causing his hands to tremble.

Filth! Stinking, wretched, vermin of a creature! How dare you slink through these halls as if you own the very floor your foul feet tread upon!

Kreacher froze in place, the bucket handle digging painfully into his palm. He did not need to raise his head to know who spoke. The voice of Walburga Black was a sharp, serrated blade, honed by centuries of bitterness and the rigid, suffocating pride of her lineage. He could feel her gaze burning into his hunched back, colder and sharper than any winter wind.

Master Kreacher is merely doing his work, my mistress, he mumbled, his voice raspy and barely coherent, his head tucked into his hunched shoulders.

Work? You call this stumbling, pathetic display work? You are a stain on this house, a blot on the memory of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! Walburga’s voice rose to a hysterical crescendo, her silhouette in the portrait appearing to vibrate with the intensity of her rage. What have you been doing up in the rafters, you traitorous little whelp? You have been absent from your station for far too long!

Before Kreacher could find a tremor of excuse, another figure materialized in the frame beside her. Phineas Nigellus Black adjusted his robes with practiced elegance, his thin, haughty features twisted into an expression of profound irritation. He peered through his monocle, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the house-elf from head to toe.

He has been in the attic, Phineas, Walburga hissed, her painted hands clenching at the frame’s edge. He has been skulking where no servant belongs. Tell me, you miserable scrap of hide, what have you been hiding from your superiors?

Kreacher’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The secret of the portrait in the attic—the quiet, analytical eyes of the man who had spoken such dangerous truths—felt like a coal burning in his chest. He could not reveal it. To share the secret was to invite destruction, and yet to remain silent was to invite the wrath of his mistresses.

Kreacher knows nothing, Phineas. Kreacher just… cleans. He cleans the dust. He removes the cobwebs that gather in the dark corners, the elf stammered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the bucket. There is nothing to hide.

Phineas snorted, a sharp, cynical sound that echoed along the gallery like a dry leaf skittering across stone. Nothing to hide? You are a creature of bad habits and worse secrets, Kreacher. I have lived long enough to know when a house-elf is lying. You have been whispering to the walls, haven’t you? Or perhaps someone has been whispering to you?

Walburga leaned forward, the locket around her neck catching the dim light. You will tell us the truth this instant! I demand your obedience! Does your wretched brain not recall to whom you are bound? You belong to this family, soul and marrow. Your loyalty is not a choice, it is a cage.

Kreacher felt the air grow thin and frigid as the portraits crowded their frames. The pressure was suffocating, a psychological weight that pinned him to the floor. Part of him wanted to drop the bucket and prostrate himself, to beg for forgiveness in the traditional manner of his kind. He remembered the sting of the whip, the lash of the words that had defined his existence for six centuries.

But then, a memory flickered—the calm, measured tone of the voice from the attic. Truth holds a power the whip can never reach. The words were not his, but they felt like a seed taking root in the barren soil of his consciousness.

I have no secrets, he mumbled, though his voice lacked conviction. Just the dust. Always the dust.

Liar! Walburga shrieked, her painted face contorting. If you do not speak, I shall ensure your miserable life becomes a purgatory of your own making. You think you can keep things from us? You are a worm in the mud of this house!

Phineas tapped his fingers on his painted chair, his eyes fixed on the house-elf with a predatory patience. Very well. Let him wallow in his silence, Walburga. He will break soon enough. But mark my words, creature, the eyes of the ancestors do not blink. We see the path you take, and we know when you deviate from the service of our line.

Kreacher tightened his grip on the handle, his joints aching. The insults washed over him, familiar and stinging, but for the first time in his long life, they didn't crush him entirely. They were merely words from dead people in frames, trapped in their own cold, stagnant reality. He realized with a jolt of clarity that their fury was born of their helplessness. They could shout, they could berate, but they could no longer reach him in the way that mattered.

He did not offer another apology. He did not grovel or promise to scrub the gallery until his paws bled. Instead, he simply turned his back on them, the silence of his defiance more deafening than their screams.

He began to walk down the gallery, the rhythmic thud-thud of his feet keeping time with the beating of his own heart. He heard Walburga’s outraged gasps and Phineas’s low, thoughtful mutterings, but he did not turn his head. He pulled his dirty tea towel closer around his waist, feeling the rough fabric against his skin. Every step away from them was a step further into the mystery, a move toward the truth that lay waiting in the quiet dark of the attic.

He ignored the insults as they grew louder and more frantic, drifting behind him like smoke from a dying fire. He kept his eyes ahead, focused on the shadows shifting at the end of the corridor. His mind was made up; the secrets were not a burden to be discarded, but a treasure to be guarded. He would keep them, no matter the cost, with a determination etched into his very bones.

Several hours had slipped into the dust-choked silence of the house since Kreacher last stood before the portrait in the attic. His limbs felt heavy with a fatigue that settled deep into his knobby knees, a weariness born as much from the weight of forbidden knowledge as from the physical toil of scrubbing decades of grime from the floorboards. The bucket in his hand clattered rhythmically against his bony shin, the metal echoing through the narrow, high-ceilinged corridor of the portrait gallery. Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through the grime of the upper floor windows, illuminating the grim, painted faces that lined the walls.

Kreacher kept his gaze fixed on the frayed hem of his dirty tea towel, his ears twitching at the sound of his own shuffling footsteps. He felt their eyes, even if he did not look up. He felt the cold, judgmental weight of ancestors who had spent centuries perfecting the art of disdain. He knew every scratch on the floorboards, every peeling bit of wallpaper, and every nuance of the scorn that radiated from the canvasses.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek shattered the heavy silence. The sound hit Kreacher like a physical blow, vibrating in his oversized ears and causing his hands to tremble.

Filth! Stinking, wretched, vermin of a creature! How dare you slink through these halls as if you own the very floor your foul feet tread upon!

Kreacher froze in place, the bucket handle digging painfully into his palm. He did not need to raise his head to know who spoke. The voice of Walburga Black was a sharp, serrated blade, honed by centuries of bitterness and the rigid, suffocating pride of her lineage. He could feel her gaze burning into his hunched back, colder and sharper than any winter wind.

Master Kreacher is merely doing his work, my mistress, he mumbled, his voice raspy and barely coherent, his head tucked into his hunched shoulders.

Work? You call this stumbling, pathetic display work? You are a stain on this house, a blot on the memory of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! Walburga’s voice rose to a hysterical crescendo, her silhouette in the portrait appearing to vibrate with the intensity of her rage. What have you been doing up in the rafters, you traitorous little whelp? You have been absent from your station for far too long!

Before Kreacher could find a tremor of excuse, another figure materialized in the frame beside her. Phineas Nigellus Black adjusted his robes with practiced elegance, his thin, haughty features twisted into an expression of profound irritation. He peered through his monocle, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the house-elf from head to toe.

He has been in the attic, Phineas, Walburga hissed, her painted hands clenching at the frame’s edge. He has been skulking where no servant belongs. Tell me, you miserable scrap of hide, what have you been hiding from your superiors?

Kreacher’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The secret of the portrait in the attic—the quiet, analytical eyes of the man who had spoken such dangerous truths—felt like a coal burning in his chest. He could not reveal it. To share the secret was to invite destruction, and yet to remain silent was to invite the wrath of his mistresses.

Kreacher knows nothing, Phineas. Kreacher just… cleans. He cleans the dust. He removes the cobwebs that gather in the dark corners, the elf stammered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the bucket. There is nothing to hide.

Phineas snorted, a sharp, cynical sound that echoed along the gallery like a dry leaf skittering across stone. Nothing to hide? You are a creature of bad habits and worse secrets, Kreacher. I have lived long enough to know when a house-elf is lying. You have been whispering to the walls, haven’t you? Or perhaps someone has been whispering to you?

Walburga leaned forward, the locket around her neck catching the dim light. You will tell us the truth this instant! I demand your obedience! Does your wretched brain not recall to whom you are bound? You belong to this family, soul and marrow. Your loyalty is not a choice, it is a cage.

Kreacher felt the air grow thin and frigid as the portraits crowded their frames. The pressure was suffocating, a psychological weight that pinned him to the floor. Part of him wanted to drop the bucket and prostrate himself, to beg for forgiveness in the traditional manner of his kind. He remembered the sting of the whip, the lash of the words that had defined his existence for six centuries.

But then, a memory flickered—the calm, measured tone of the voice from the attic. Truth holds a power the whip can never reach. The words were not his, but they felt like a seed taking root in the barren soil of his consciousness.

I have no secrets, he mumbled, though his voice lacked conviction. Just the dust. Always the dust.

Liar! Walburga shrieked, her painted face contorting. If you do not speak, I shall ensure your miserable life becomes a purgatory of your own making. You think you can keep things from us? You are a worm in the mud of this house!

Phineas tapped his fingers on his painted chair, his eyes fixed on the house-elf with a predatory patience. Very well. Let him wallow in his silence, Walburga. He will break soon enough. But mark my words, creature, the eyes of the ancestors do not blink. We see the path you take, and we know when you deviate from the service of our line.

Kreacher tightened his grip on the handle, his joints aching. The insults washed over him, familiar and stinging, but for the first time in his long life, they didn't crush him entirely. They were merely words from dead people in frames, trapped in their own cold, stagnant reality. He realized with a jolt of clarity that their fury was born of their helplessness. They could shout, they could berate, but they could no longer reach him in the way that mattered.

He did not offer another apology. He did not grovel or promise to scrub the gallery until his paws bled. Instead, he simply turned his back on them, the silence of his defiance more deafening than their screams.

He began to walk down the gallery, the rhythmic thud-thud of his feet keeping time with the beating of his own heart. He heard Walburga’s outraged gasps and Phineas’s low, thoughtful mutterings, but he did not turn his head. He pulled his dirty tea towel closer around his waist, feeling the rough fabric against his skin. Every step away from them was a step further into the mystery, a move toward the truth that lay waiting in the quiet dark of the attic.

He ignored the insults as they grew louder and more frantic, drifting behind him like smoke from a dying fire. He kept his eyes ahead, focused on the shadows shifting at the end of the corridor. His mind was made up; the secrets were not a burden to be discarded, but a treasure to be guarded. He would keep them, no matter the cost, with a determination etched into his very bones. «The Portrait's Secret», part 4. Fanfiction — Harry Potter.

Interference from the Ancestors. The Portrait's Secret — Harry Potter fanfiction | Fanfica

Interference from the Ancestors

Padfoot Always

Kreacher, the aging house-elf of the Black family, is tasked with cleaning Grimmauld Place after the war. But when he stumbles upon a hidden portrait of a young Severus Snape, he uncovers a secret that could shatter everything the wizarding world believes. Now Kreacher must choose: obey his master Harry Potter or reveal a truth that may change history forever.

The Portrait's Secret — Interference from the Ancestors

Parte 4: Interference from the Ancestors