Of course, Kingsley had met all sorts of people with different personalities and appearances.
Neville might have looked timid, but that didn't change the fact that he was decisive and brave.
Still, it made Kingsley feel uneasy.
The rumors floating around outside were completely unreliable—Neville was nowhere near as cowardly as people claimed. He was a true Gryffindor. As for his poor academic performance, that was normal. In reality, it was people like Harry, Hermione, and Ron who were the exceptions in Gryffindor.
How many Gryffindors actually sat down and studied?
The best Gryffindors never cared about grades—look at Fred and George.
Perhaps Neville had simply struggled with a few subjects.
Unfortunately…
He still turned Kingsley down.
What was going on with Hogwarts these days?
Back in his time, most top Gryffindor students wanted to become Aurors after graduation. But now? The best Gryffindors didn't want to be Aurors at all.
What was happening?!
Kingsley sighed and climbed onto the motorbike.
Tonks stood nearby, looking awkward. "Harry, should I just, uh… squeeze in with you?"
Harry flicked his wand.
A sidecar appeared, attaching itself to the left side of the bike. "Tonks, sit here."
Tonks pursed her lips and climbed in, curling up with her knees against her chest.
The Sorting Hat wobbled. "The weight is unbalanced. It's uncomfortable. Why not make another one on the right, Harry?"
"Drive." Harry smacked the hat again.
It grumbled but revved the engine, the sound roaring to life.
"So the infamous motorbike that gives Arthur headaches is yours," Kingsley muttered as he looked down at the brightly lit Hogsmeade and the deep, quiet silhouette of Hogwarts Castle.
"Did you hear that?" Harry tapped the horn.
The Sorting Hat responded reluctantly. "That's not my fault. You can't expect a motorbike to stay cooped up at home all day—it's unfair and unhealthy."
"I thought you were just a hat," Harry reminded it.
The Sorting Hat flashed its headlights. "That doesn't change the fact that I'm now a free-spirited motorbike! Godric is so jealous of me. He's been pestering Albus all day, asking him to find a way to turn him into a motorbike, too—at least then he'd have some freedom."
Both Kingsley and Tonks instinctively raised their hands to cover their ears.
They didn't want to hear this.
This was not something they should be listening to.
The Sorting Hat was fast, its flying skills honed over time. In less than twenty minutes, they landed in a small alley beside the Leaky Cauldron.
"Didn't feel that fast," Kingsley commented as he got off.
"Next time, you can invite the Sorting Hat for a flight—without magical protection," Harry suggested as he dismounted. Through his Witcher senses, he detected a few Muggles passing by the alley, along with some stray cats leaping across rooftops.
No traces of magic.
Even the Leaky Cauldron nearby was silent.
"Harry, put the sidecar away," the motorbike grumbled, shifting its rear wheel.
With a flick of Harry's wand, the sidecar transformed back into a stone, landing with a dull thud just as Tonks stepped out.
"Now put me away. I want to see what's happening," the motorbike continued.
With another flick, the Sorting Hat's energy returned to its original form, settling back onto Harry's head.
In an instant, the bike became ordinary again.
The Sorting Hat twitched on Harry's belt. Taking a deep breath, it shook its tip. "Oh, I haven't felt this way in ages."
"This reminds me of our first—"
It suddenly stopped speaking.
Its voice rose in shock. "Harry! What on earth have you stuffed inside me?!"
"I thought you weren't using this body anymore," Harry replied, sounding perfectly justified.
The Sorting Hat gritted its teeth. "Of course, I still use it! It's been my body for a thousand years! I'm not one to abandon my old self for something new."
"Oh?" Harry murmured. "Then, dear Sorting Hat, since you got your motorbike body, how many times—other than the Sorting Ceremony—have you chosen to return to your old body?"
The Sorting Hat fell silent.
Thinking back, aside from official duties or when Harry requested it, it had rarely gone back.
Even when playing with Hedwig and the others, it had always used the motorbike body.
Even Crookshanks had stopped using the Sorting Hat as a scratching post and had started using the moving motorbike instead—cats, after all, were fickle creatures.
Harry gestured for Kingsley to follow him.
They carefully approached the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.
With a wave of his wand, Harry transfigured a nearby rock into a humanoid shape. The stone figure clumsily walked forward and pushed open the tavern door.
Inside, the innkeeper—another Tom—greeted it warmly. "Welcome, sir! What would you like to drink tonight?"
The stone figure continued walking forward.
Tom, oblivious to the transfiguration, muttered with slight irritation, "Thank Merlin, finally a customer. Bloody hell, I haven't had any visitors since noon—what's going on?"
"Is no one going to Diagon Alley today?"
"Even if they entered from another entrance, didn't they think about coming here for a drink afterward?"
"Has my tavern fallen out of favor?"
"Even if it's Christmas and people are with family—am I not family to them?"
He grumbled and sighed, then finally noticed that the "customer" hadn't responded at all. He looked up. "Sir, what would you like to drink? You look like it's your first time in my—"
No danger.
Kingsley cast a Shield Charm on himself and pushed open the door. "No, not my first time."
Tom blinked, glancing between the unfamiliar "customer" and Kingsley.
Why was an Auror answering instead?
"Sorry, he's not your long-lost customer." Harry stepped inside, waving his wand. The stone figure reverted back to its original form and flew past Tonks as she entered.
"Mr. Potter?" Tom looked at him in surprise. "What's going on?"
"Just a small issue," Harry replied briefly. "The reason you haven't had customers today isn't because they don't consider you family."
Tom's face turned a bit red. "That was just a figure of speech."
"You've heard about the Death Eaters breaking into Gringotts, haven't you?" Harry asked.
Tom's expression turned to shock. "Gringotts?"
"Death Eaters broke into Gringotts?"
Kingsley frowned. "Looks like they planned this well in advance. If they started at noon, damn it—why didn't the Ministry receive any reports?"
"Isn't that normal?" Harry shook his head.
Kingsley grumbled something about how "that was the old Ministry," and that "Mr. Thicknesse is leading us to a new future," and how "he's nothing like Fudge."
Tonks couldn't help but laugh.
They walked to the small courtyard behind the pub. Kingsley pulled out his wand, counted three bricks up from the trash can, then two bricks across, and tapped the weathered stone.
Nothing happened.
He knocked again, harder this time. Thud. Still nothing.
"It's sealed with magic," Kingsley frowned. "Mr. Potter, any ideas?"
Harry nodded.
He raised his wand, took a deep breath, and channeled all his magic.
With a serious expression, he cast:
"Alohomora!"
A spell they had learned in first year surged forward, crashing against the enchanted wall—both a barrier and the gateway to Diagon Alley.
A series of sharp cracks echoed.
The wall trembled, bricks lifting and shifting, struggling against the magic.
But against Harry's sheer magical power, the spells sealing the entrance were slowly unraveled.
The passage to Diagon Alley opened.
A surge of people burst through, gasping in fear.
They were ordinary shoppers, out on Christmas Eve, picking gifts for loved ones—only to find themselves trapped.
Now, seeing the passage open, panic set in.
Tonks quickly stepped forward to restore order.
Harry reinforced the gate with another spell, stabilizing it.
"Mr. Abbot," Harry turned to Tom.
Tom blinked in response.
"Dumbledore will be arriving soon. Send him straight to Gringotts," Harry instructed. "We're heading there first. You and Tonks handle things here."
Tom nodded.
At Gringotts.
Inside the Lestrange vault, an eerie glow flickered from an oil lamp, casting light over piles of gleaming Galleons, gemstones, and golden artifacts—scattered carelessly.
At the very center stood a golden cup.
Hufflepuff's Cup.
A false Holy Grail.
The liquid inside should have been wine—
But instead, it was blood.
Thick. Bubbling.
A grotesque mouth had formed on the cup—drinking greedily.
Bloodlines stretched from twenty corpses, their warm, fresh blood continuously flowing into the cup—feeding it.
Dark. Evil.
No grandeur. Only a deep, bone-chilling horror.
A man in the corner suddenly opened his eyes. "The spell sealing Diagon Alley was broken—faster than expected. Those damn werewolves barely delayed them."
"It's either Dumbledore or Harry Potter."
A wild-haired woman asked anxiously, "How much longer until the Dark Lord revives?"
"At least twenty more minutes," another man murmured. "I can feel his soul awakening, but it's still too unstable."
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Powerstones?
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