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
    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
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      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
  }
}


The cool evening air clung to Harry’s clothes as he stepped through the threshold of The Burrow. The transition from the suffocating, stale silence of Grimmauld Place to the cluttered, bustling warmth of the Weasleys’ home felt unnervingly sharp. He walked into the living room, his boots feeling heavy against the worn boards. Papers and books lay scattered across the tables, evidence of Hermione’s endless research.

He pulled the heavy, metallic locket from his pocket. It felt colder than it should have, a piece of dark history resting in his palm. He laid it gently on the wooden surface where Hermione was currently hunched over an open encyclopedia. He did not say a word at first, letting the rhythmic scratching of her quill provide the only sound as he settled into a nearby chair, his knuckles white against his knees.

Hermione lifted her head, pushing a loose strand of hair back from her forehead. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimming light of the room, her expression shifting from focused concentration to mild confusion. She looked down at the locket, then up at Harry, before her gaze slid to the scrap of parchment he held in his other hand. Her movements were precise and fluid as she reached out to pull the note toward her, her fingers brushing the fragile, yellowed paper with an almost reverent caution.

She read the words silently. Her lips moved slightly, forming the shapes of the sentences. After a moment, she let out a sharp, ragged breath and looked at Ron, who was leaning against the wall near the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest. Ron had stopped his idle fidgeting, his brow furrowing as he watched the scene unfold with an expression of barely hidden agitation.

Hermione looked back at Harry. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with a sudden, tense energy. She tapped the note twice, her nails clicking against the wood. You actually believe this, Harry? she asked, her voice tight, echoing with a mixture of disbelief and concern. We know who wrote this. We know how he behaved all those years, how he served them from the very start. To trust an instruction left by him now, given everything we saw at Grimmauld Place, seems incredibly risky.

Ron pushed off the wall, walking over to join them, his shoulders hunched. It is not just about him being a house-elf or following orders, he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. It is about how many times he has lied directly to our faces. Even before we knew everything, he was working against us. Why would he change now? Why should we think this note is anything other than another trick, another way to lead us into a dead-end or something worse?

Harry stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. He felt a surge of defensive heat rising behind his eyes, a desperate need to make them understand the weight of what he had witnessed. Kreacher has changed, he said, his voice coming out sharper than he had intended. I saw his grief. It was real. He isn't just following orders; he’s trying to finish something that has consumed his entire existence for years. He isn't the same creature he was when he tried to sell us out.

Hermione sighed, picking up the note again and holding it up to the light. It is easy to see signs of remorse when you want to see them, Harry, she murmured, her voice soft but insistent. I have spent hours cross-referencing his past actions, the inconsistencies in his testimonies, and the reports from the order. Every time we rely on him, we leave ourselves vulnerable. His history with the Black family isn't something he can just wash away with a moment of sorrow. It is a part of who he is. How are you so sure he isn't playing a game with you, one that we aren't meant to win?

Ron paced the small space between them, his hands animated as he gestured toward the locket. Exactly, he said, gesturing at the object on the table. It is dark magic, Harry. The darkest kind. It doesn't just hold secrets; it twists the truth away from things. Using it as a compass based on a note that could have been written at any time, under any duress... it feels wrong. It feels like we are walking into a trap set by someone who doesn't care if we live or die.

Harry stared at them, feeling the crushing weight of their skepticism pressing in on him. He hadn't expected them to be this rigid, though he knew their arguments were based on logic that was difficult to dispute. Their concern felt like a barrier, a wall of caution that kept the truth of his intuition at a distance. He needed to prove it, and he couldn't do that while they were questioning every breath he took.

I am not asking you to trust him implicitly, Harry started, his voice dropping into a lower, more controlled tone. I am asking you to look at the facts. The latch wasn't just a physical mechanism; it recognized him. He knew things that were never written down. This isn't just about his word; it is about the connection he has toward the person who left this behind. If we ignore this guide, we are ignoring the only lead we have. We cannot keep sitting here in circles while time runs out.

Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes fixed on his with a mixture of pity and frustration. It is not about circles, Harry, it is about strategy, she replied, her voice cooling. Jumping headfirst into a lead coming from a source as compromised as him is how people get killed. We need to verify, we need to test, we need to dismantle this methodically. You act as if we have all the time in the world to be reckless.

Ron shook his head, his face reddening. I am with Hermione on this one, mate. We have been through too much to let a house-elf pull the strings now. If you want to check it, fine, but don't expect us to walk into the dark just because he said there is light on the other side. This is too much of a gamble.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He looked from Ron’s stubborn posture to Hermione’s analytical gaze. He felt a profound sense of isolation, an awareness that his burden was something he would have to manage himself if he wanted to honor the truth he had found. The frustration burned in his chest, a tight, cold knot that pushed him toward a decision he had been trying to avoid.

If you don't want to come, I’ll do it on my own, he said, his voice steadying into a final, icy resolve. I have seen enough to know this is the path. I didn't come to you for permission; I came because I trusted you would see what I saw. Since you cannot, I will handle the next step myself. I am finished with the doubt. I am going to find what was left behind, even if I have to go alone. He turned his back on them, his gaze fixed on the doorway, his muscles coiled, ready to move without waiting for a rebuttal.

The cool evening air clung to Harry’s clothes as he stepped through the threshold of The Burrow. The transition from the suffocating, stale silence of Grimmauld Place to the cluttered, bustling warmth of the Weasleys’ home felt unnervingly sharp. He walked into the living room, his boots feeling heavy against the worn boards. Papers and books lay scattered across the tables, evidence of Hermione’s endless research.

He pulled the heavy, metallic locket from his pocket. It felt colder than it should have, a piece of dark history resting in his palm. He laid it gently on the wooden surface where Hermione was currently hunched over an open encyclopedia. He did not say a word at first, letting the rhythmic scratching of her quill provide the only sound as he settled into a nearby chair, his knuckles white against his knees.

Hermione lifted her head, pushing a loose strand of hair back from her forehead. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimming light of the room, her expression shifting from focused concentration to mild confusion. She looked down at the locket, then up at Harry, before her gaze slid to the scrap of parchment he held in his other hand. Her movements were precise and fluid as she reached out to pull the note toward her, her fingers brushing the fragile, yellowed paper with an almost reverent caution.

She read the words silently. Her lips moved slightly, forming the shapes of the sentences. After a moment, she let out a sharp, ragged breath and looked at Ron, who was leaning against the wall near the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest. Ron had stopped his idle fidgeting, his brow furrowing as he watched the scene unfold with an expression of barely hidden agitation.

Hermione looked back at Harry. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with a sudden, tense energy. She tapped the note twice, her nails clicking against the wood. You actually believe this, Harry? she asked, her voice tight, echoing with a mixture of disbelief and concern. We know who wrote this. We know how he behaved all those years, how he served them from the very start. To trust an instruction left by him now, given everything we saw at Grimmauld Place, seems incredibly risky.

Ron pushed off the wall, walking over to join them, his shoulders hunched. It is not just about him being a house-elf or following orders, he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. It is about how many times he has lied directly to our faces. Even before we knew everything, he was working against us. Why would he change now? Why should we think this note is anything other than another trick, another way to lead us into a dead-end or something worse?

Harry stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. He felt a surge of defensive heat rising behind his eyes, a desperate need to make them understand the weight of what he had witnessed. Kreacher has changed, he said, his voice coming out sharper than he had intended. I saw his grief. It was real. He isn't just following orders; he’s trying to finish something that has consumed his entire existence for years. He isn't the same creature he was when he tried to sell us out.

Hermione sighed, picking up the note again and holding it up to the light. It is easy to see signs of remorse when you want to see them, Harry, she murmured, her voice soft but insistent. I have spent hours cross-referencing his past actions, the inconsistencies in his testimonies, and the reports from the order. Every time we rely on him, we leave ourselves vulnerable. His history with the Black family isn't something he can just wash away with a moment of sorrow. It is a part of who he is. How are you so sure he isn't playing a game with you, one that we aren't meant to win?

Ron paced the small space between them, his hands animated as he gestured toward the locket. Exactly, he said, gesturing at the object on the table. It is dark magic, Harry. The darkest kind. It doesn't just hold secrets; it twists the truth away from things. Using it as a compass based on a note that could have been written at any time, under any duress... it feels wrong. It feels like we are walking into a trap set by someone who doesn't care if we live or die.

Harry stared at them, feeling the crushing weight of their skepticism pressing in on him. He hadn't expected them to be this rigid, though he knew their arguments were based on logic that was difficult to dispute. Their concern felt like a barrier, a wall of caution that kept the truth of his intuition at a distance. He needed to prove it, and he couldn't do that while they were questioning every breath he took.

I am not asking you to trust him implicitly, Harry started, his voice dropping into a lower, more controlled tone. I am asking you to look at the facts. The latch wasn't just a physical mechanism; it recognized him. He knew things that were never written down. This isn't just about his word; it is about the connection he has toward the person who left this behind. If we ignore this guide, we are ignoring the only lead we have. We cannot keep sitting here in circles while time runs out.

Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes fixed on his with a mixture of pity and frustration. It is not about circles, Harry, it is about strategy, she replied, her voice cooling. Jumping headfirst into a lead coming from a source as compromised as him is how people get killed. We need to verify, we need to test, we need to dismantle this methodically. You act as if we have all the time in the world to be reckless.

Ron shook his head, his face reddening. I am with Hermione on this one, mate. We have been through too much to let a house-elf pull the strings now. If you want to check it, fine, but don't expect us to walk into the dark just because he said there is light on the other side. This is too much of a gamble.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He looked from Ron’s stubborn posture to Hermione’s analytical gaze. He felt a profound sense of isolation, an awareness that his burden was something he would have to manage himself if he wanted to honor the truth he had found. The frustration burned in his chest, a tight, cold knot that pushed him toward a decision he had been trying to avoid.

If you don't want to come, I’ll do it on my own, he said, his voice steadying into a final, icy resolve. I have seen enough to know this is the path. I didn't come to you for permission; I came because I trusted you would see what I saw. Since you cannot, I will handle the next step myself. I am finished with the doubt. I am going to find what was left behind, even if I have to go alone. He turned his back on them, his gaze fixed on the doorway, his muscles coiled, ready to move without waiting for a rebuttal. «Regulus's Last Command», part 3. Fanfiction — Harry Potter.

Hermione's Skepticism. Regulus's Last Command — Harry Potter fanfiction | Fanfica

Hermione's Skepticism

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 — Hermione's Skepticism

Part 3: Hermione's Skepticism