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
  }
}


The corridor was quiet, lit only by the faint glow of a few torches that flickered in their sconces. Hermione Granger stood near the end of the hall, her wand held firmly in her right hand, the polished wood warm against her palm. She had read about the Apparition charm—the theory, the risks, the precise incantation—but practice was another matter entirely. At Hogwarts, it was forbidden to apparate within the castle walls, but this was not Hogwarts. This was an empty school, long abandoned after the war, its corridors filled with dust and the echo of her own footsteps. She had been searching for a lost artifact, something hidden in the depths of the building, but time was running short. The sun had set an hour ago, and the shadows grew long and hungry.

"I can do this," she whispered to herself, her voice small against the vast silence. She closed her eyes, picturing the map she had studied—the basement storage room, the crates, the exact coordinates. She took a deep breath, focused her intent, and turned on the spot.

There was a lurch, a violent tug behind her navel, and then—

Pain. Searing, white-hot pain exploded through her skull as she slammed into something hard. The world spun, colors streaked past her vision like a broken kaleidoscope, and she tasted copper and dust. She gasped, her lungs filling with stale, cold air that smelled of mold and rust. Her knees hit concrete, a jarring shock that shot up her thighs. The wand slipped from her fingers and clattered away somewhere in the darkness.

"No, no, no," she muttered, blinking rapidly, trying to orient herself. The teleportation had gone wrong—terribly wrong. She was not in the storage room. She was in a basement, a real basement, with low ceilings and pipes that dripped water onto the floor in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The only light came from a single bare bulb hanging from a wire above, casting harsh shadows across the room.

Her breath caught in her throat. Voices. Low, gruff, male voices, punctuated by laughter that had no warmth in it. She pressed herself flat against the cold concrete floor, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain they could hear it. Slowly, carefully, she raised her head just enough to see over the edge of a broken crate.

There were five of them. They stood in a loose semicircle around a wooden chair, and in that chair sat a woman. Hermione's eyes widened. The woman was bound to the chair with thick ropes—wrists, ankles, chest—her body twisted in an unnatural angle, her head bowed. Her hair was blonde, pulled into messy pigtails that fell forward, hiding her face. She wore a red and black top, torn and dirty, and shorts over ripped fishnets. Her boots were scuffed, and one of them had a loose heel. A baseball bat lay on the ground several feet away, out of reach.

The man closest to Hermione was large, muscular, with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck. He cracked his knuckles, a sound like breaking twigs, and laughed. "Come on, Viktor, let's have some fun. She's been quiet too long."

A second man, stockier, with a bald head and a scar over one eye, stood with his arms crossed. He wore a black leather jacket and gold chains that glinted in the dim light. His voice was low and calm, carrying a faint accent Hermione couldn't place. "Patience, Garrett. We have time. All night, if we wish."

A third man—younger, lean, with nervous eyes—shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He wasn't looking at the woman. He was looking at the floor. Hermione saw his lips moving silently, as if praying.

Two more men stood further back: one tall and gaunt with long black hair tied back, his face expressionless, wearing a dark coat and black gloves; the other overweight, balding, with missing teeth and a stained shirt that stretched over his belly. The latter was laughing, a loud, barking sound. "You hear that, Harley? Viktor says we got all night. Think you can last that long?"

Harley. The name struck Hermione like a slap. She knew that name. Everyone knew that name. Harley Quinn—the Joker's girlfriend, the criminal, the lunatic. What in Merlin's name was she doing here? And who were these men?

The woman in the chair lifted her head. Even in the harsh light, Hermione could see her face—pale, with exaggerated makeup smudged and running, blue eyes that burned with defiance. She spat, a glob of red-tinted saliva that landed near Garrett's boot. "You wish, you ugly sack of shit. I've had worse for breakfast."

Garrett's grin widened. "Yeah? Let's see how tough you are when we start breaking fingers."

Hermione's stomach turned. She had to get out of here. Her wand—where was her wand? She patted the ground around her frantically, her fingers brushing against splinters and dust, but finding nothing. She dared not move too much, not make a sound. They were all armed—she'd seen guns tucked into waistbands, a knife on the hip of the tall one. She was just a girl, unarmed, outnumbered, in a place where no one knew she existed.

The stocky man—Viktor—stepped forward. He reached out and grabbed Harley's chin, forcing her head back. "You will tell us where he is," he said, his voice still calm, still quiet. "Or we will make you wish you had never met him."

Harley laughed, a hysterical edge to it. "I already wish that, sweetheart. Every damn day. But I don't know where he is. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Viktor's thumb traced along her jaw, almost tenderly. Then his hand snapped back and slapped her across the face. The crack echoed through the basement like a gunshot. Harley's head snapped to the side, and a thin line of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. She didn't cry out. She just laughed again, quieter this time, her eyes glistening.

Hermione pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. Tears burned in her own eyes—not from pain, but from terror. She had read about cruelty, studied history and dark magic, but this was real, and it was happening ten feet away from her.

"Again," Garrett said, stepping closer. "Let me have a go."

Viktor held up a hand. "No. We do this right. Dmitri, the pliers."

The tall man—Dmitri—nodded once and turned, walking toward a metal table against the far wall. Hermione could see tools laid out there: pliers, knives, a hammer. She felt bile rise in her throat.

She had to do something. But what? She was a witch, yes, but her wand was gone, and even if she had it, she had never used magic against a person. The thought of causing harm made her feel sick. But the thought of doing nothing while a woman was tortured was worse.

Her hand closed around something cold. Her wand. She almost cried out in relief. She gripped it tightly, the familiar weight grounding her. She could try a disarming spell, or a stunning charm, but she would have to be quick. And then what? She could apparate, but her previous attempt had failed. Could she take Harley with her? She had never side-along apparated before.

As she hesitated, Viktor spoke again. "Bring her closer. I want her to see the tools."

Garrett grabbed Harley by the hair and dragged the chair forward. The legs scraped against the concrete with a horrible screech. Harley grunted, but she didn't scream. She kept her eyes fixed on Viktor, a smirk still lingering on her lips.

Hermione's heart pounded. She needed a plan. She needed to think. But her mind was a blank, filled only with the image of Harley's blood, the sound of her laughter, the cold concrete beneath her knees.

She crawled backward, inch by inch, until her shoulders met the wall. She was behind a stack of crates now, hidden in shadow, but she could still see through the gaps. Her fingers trembled around her wand. She raised it, aiming at Viktor's back, but her hand shook so badly she knew she would miss.

Focus. Breathe. She closed her eyes, steadied her breath, and opened them again. The men were distracted, all eyes on Harley. This was her chance.

But as she drew a breath to cast, the overweight man—Rex—turned his head, his gaze sweeping the room. Hermione froze. His eyes passed over her hiding spot once, then twice. He frowned.

"Hey, boss," he said, his voice suddenly less jovial. "I think we got a mouse."

Viktor's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing. "What?"

Hermione didn't wait. She didn't think. She dove deeper behind the crates, pressing herself into the narrow space between two wooden pallets, her wand clutched to her chest. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She could hear footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate.

"I saw something move," Rex said. "Over there, by the crates."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Please, she thought. Please don't find me.

The footsteps stopped. She could hear them breathing, just inches away. She dared not move, not even to open her eyes. The air was thick with dust and sweat and fear.

Then Viktor's voice, calm as ever: "Check it. If it's a rat, kill it."

She heard the sound of a safety clicking off. The footsteps resumed, coming closer.

And Hermione Granger, eighteen years old, brilliant student, accidental traveler, hid in the shadows of an abandoned basement, her wand useless in her trembling hand, waiting for the inevitable.

The corridor was quiet, lit only by the faint glow of a few torches that flickered in their sconces. Hermione Granger stood near the end of the hall, her wand held firmly in her right hand, the polished wood warm against her palm. She had read about the Apparition charm—the theory, the risks, the precise incantation—but practice was another matter entirely. At Hogwarts, it was forbidden to apparate within the castle walls, but this was not Hogwarts. This was an empty school, long abandoned after the war, its corridors filled with dust and the echo of her own footsteps. She had been searching for a lost artifact, something hidden in the depths of the building, but time was running short. The sun had set an hour ago, and the shadows grew long and hungry.

"I can do this," she whispered to herself, her voice small against the vast silence. She closed her eyes, picturing the map she had studied—the basement storage room, the crates, the exact coordinates. She took a deep breath, focused her intent, and turned on the spot.

There was a lurch, a violent tug behind her navel, and then—

Pain. Searing, white-hot pain exploded through her skull as she slammed into something hard. The world spun, colors streaked past her vision like a broken kaleidoscope, and she tasted copper and dust. She gasped, her lungs filling with stale, cold air that smelled of mold and rust. Her knees hit concrete, a jarring shock that shot up her thighs. The wand slipped from her fingers and clattered away somewhere in the darkness.

"No, no, no," she muttered, blinking rapidly, trying to orient herself. The teleportation had gone wrong—terribly wrong. She was not in the storage room. She was in a basement, a real basement, with low ceilings and pipes that dripped water onto the floor in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The only light came from a single bare bulb hanging from a wire above, casting harsh shadows across the room.

And she was not alone.

Her breath caught in her throat. Voices. Low, gruff, male voices, punctuated by laughter that had no warmth in it. She pressed herself flat against the cold concrete floor, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain they could hear it. Slowly, carefully, she raised her head just enough to see over the edge of a broken crate.

There were five of them. They stood in a loose semicircle around a wooden chair, and in that chair sat a woman. Hermione's eyes widened. The woman was bound to the chair with thick ropes—wrists, ankles, chest—her body twisted in an unnatural angle, her head bowed. Her hair was blonde, pulled into messy pigtails that fell forward, hiding her face. She wore a red and black top, torn and dirty, and shorts over ripped fishnets. Her boots were scuffed, and one of them had a loose heel. A baseball bat lay on the ground several feet away, out of reach.

The man closest to Hermione was large, muscular, with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck. He cracked his knuckles, a sound like breaking twigs, and laughed. "Come on, Viktor, let's have some fun. She's been quiet too long."

A second man, stockier, with a bald head and a scar over one eye, stood with his arms crossed. He wore a black leather jacket and gold chains that glinted in the dim light. His voice was low and calm, carrying a faint accent Hermione couldn't place. "Patience, Garrett. We have time. All night, if we wish."

A third man—younger, lean, with nervous eyes—shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He wasn't looking at the woman. He was looking at the floor. Hermione saw his lips moving silently, as if praying.

Two more men stood further back: one tall and gaunt with long black hair tied back, his face expressionless, wearing a dark coat and black gloves; the other overweight, balding, with missing teeth and a stained shirt that stretched over his belly. The latter was laughing, a loud, barking sound. "You hear that, Harley? Viktor says we got all night. Think you can last that long?"

Harley. The name struck Hermione like a slap. She knew that name. Everyone knew that name. Harley Quinn—the Joker's girlfriend, the criminal, the lunatic. What in Merlin's name was she doing here? And who were these men?

The woman in the chair lifted her head. Even in the harsh light, Hermione could see her face—pale, with exaggerated makeup smudged and running, blue eyes that burned with defiance. She spat, a glob of red-tinted saliva that landed near Garrett's boot. "You wish, you ugly sack of shit. I've had worse for breakfast."

Garrett's grin widened. "Yeah? Let's see how tough you are when we start breaking fingers."

Hermione's stomach turned. She had to get out of here. Her wand—where was her wand? She patted the ground around her frantically, her fingers brushing against splinters and dust, but finding nothing. She dared not move too much, not make a sound. They were all armed—she'd seen guns tucked into waistbands, a knife on the hip of the tall one. She was just a girl, unarmed, outnumbered, in a place where no one knew she existed.

The stocky man—Viktor—stepped forward. He reached out and grabbed Harley's chin, forcing her head back. "You will tell us where he is," he said, his voice still calm, still quiet. "Or we will make you wish you had never met him."

Harley laughed, a hysterical edge to it. "I already wish that, sweetheart. Every damn day. But I don't know where he is. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Viktor's thumb traced along her jaw, almost tenderly. Then his hand snapped back and slapped her across the face. The crack echoed through the basement like a gunshot. Harley's head snapped to the side, and a thin line of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. She didn't cry out. She just laughed again, quieter this time, her eyes glistening.

Hermione pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. Tears burned in her own eyes—not from pain, but from terror. She had read about cruelty, studied history and dark magic, but this was real, and it was happening ten feet away from her.

"Again," Garrett said, stepping closer. "Let me have a go."

Viktor held up a hand. "No. We do this right. Dmitri, the pliers."

The tall man—Dmitri—nodded once and turned, walking toward a metal table against the far wall. Hermione could see tools laid out there: pliers, knives, a hammer. She felt bile rise in her throat.

She had to do something. But what? She was a witch, yes, but her wand was gone, and even if she had it, she had never used magic against a person. The thought of causing harm made her feel sick. But the thought of doing nothing while a woman was tortured was worse.

Her hand closed around something cold. Her wand. She almost cried out in relief. She gripped it tightly, the familiar weight grounding her. She could try a disarming spell, or a stunning charm, but she would have to be quick. And then what? She could apparate, but her previous attempt had failed. Could she take Harley with her? She had never side-along apparated before.

As she hesitated, Viktor spoke again. "Bring her closer. I want her to see the tools."

Garrett grabbed Harley by the hair and dragged the chair forward. The legs scraped against the concrete with a horrible screech. Harley grunted, but she didn't scream. She kept her eyes fixed on Viktor, a smirk still lingering on her lips.

Hermione's heart pounded. She needed a plan. She needed to think. But her mind was a blank, filled only with the image of Harley's blood, the sound of her laughter, the cold concrete beneath her knees.

She crawled backward, inch by inch, until her shoulders met the wall. She was behind a stack of crates now, hidden in shadow, but she could still see through the gaps. Her fingers trembled around her wand. She raised it, aiming at Viktor's back, but her hand shook so badly she knew she would miss.

Focus. Breathe. She closed her eyes, steadied her breath, and opened them again. The men were distracted, all eyes on Harley. This was her chance.

But as she drew a breath to cast, the overweight man—Rex—turned his head, his gaze sweeping the room. Hermione froze. His eyes passed over her hiding spot once, then twice. He frowned.

"Hey, boss," he said, his voice suddenly less jovial. "I think we got a mouse."

Viktor's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing. "What?"

Hermione didn't wait. She didn't think. She dove deeper behind the crates, pressing herself into the narrow space between two wooden pallets, her wand clutched to her chest. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She could hear footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate.

"I saw something move," Rex said. "Over there, by the crates."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Please, she thought. Please don't find me.

The footsteps stopped. She could hear them breathing, just inches away. She dared not move, not even to open her eyes. The air was thick with dust and sweat and fear.

Then Viktor's voice, calm as ever: "Check it. If it's a rat, kill it."

She heard the sound of a safety clicking off. The footsteps resumed, coming closer.

And Hermione Granger, eighteen years old, brilliant student, accidental traveler, hid in the shadows of an abandoned basement, her wand useless in her trembling hand, waiting for the inevitable. «A wrong turn», part 1. Fanfiction — Harry Potter, DC Universe.

A wrong turn — A Wrong Turn

Part 1: A Wrong Turn