The Library — Late Afternoon
The Hogwarts library in the afternoon has its own rhythm.
There are tables that are always filled by the same people at the same hour. There are certain corners that are busier than others. There is a way the light enters from the high windows that changes as the hours pass in a consistent and predictable way.
However, since a few weeks after the semester began, something has changed in one part of the library.
The table in the middle—not too close to the door, not too far from the reference shelves—which is usually occupied by three Ravenclaw students, has begun to feel different. It was not dramatic. It was not sudden. It was more like the way something grows naturally when the conditions are right.
It started with Hermione, who was already used to sitting at her own table not far from there, but slowly shifted her position until the distance between her table and Kenzo's table no longer felt like the distance of two different tables. Then Cho Chang, who one afternoon came with Marietta with the reason of looking for Astronomy references and somehow landed in a chair at that same table. And a few days later, Daphne Greengrass appeared with her books—without explanation, without small talk, sitting in a way that showed she indeed intended to be there.
No one inaugurated anything. There was no official invitation, no spoken agreement. Just the way several people from different places found that one spot in this library was already very comfortable to occupy.
Terry Boot, who observed this development for several days, finally sat in the manner of someone who had just found the right word for something.
"Unity Circle," Terry said.
Kenzo turned from his book. "What?"
"A name for this." Terry pointed around the table—to Hermione who was reading across from them, to Cho and Marietta who were whispering softly at his side, to Daphne who sat neatly with her notebook. "Three houses. One table. One goal." Terry nodded with satisfaction. "Unity Circle."
Michael stared at Terry. "We do not need a name for this."
"All important things have a name."
"This is not an official organization."
"Not yet," Terry said with a tone containing full conviction.
Michael shook his head. However, on the other side of the table, Hermione, who heard those words, raised her eyes from her book and thought for a moment.
"Unity Circle," she repeated softly—testing the sound and the meaning. "Not bad."
Terry immediately turned to Michael with a very clear expression. Michael sipped his tea without acknowledging anything.
The way the group worked formed naturally within a not-too-long time. They sat, read, or did their respective assignments, and occasionally questions arose. Questions that were answered first by those nearby. If not answered, the question moved to Kenzo.
Kenzo answered. Always. In a way that did not feel like a lecture or an explanation from top to bottom—more like someone who took the time to look at a problem from the same angle as the one asking, then showing a path that was already very clear once you looked at it from the right direction.
Cho once asked about a mid-level defensive spell where the explanation in the book felt incomplete. Kenzo answered in three sentences. Cho took notes, tried, and succeeded on the first attempt.
She stared at Kenzo in a way she could not entirely hide. "How do you know how to explain something exactly right for every different person?"
"I pay attention to the way people think," Kenzo answered. "The different ways people process things are different. An explanation that works for one person does not always work for another."
Cho noted that too. Marietta, at her side, nodded slowly—the way of someone who just heard something very precise describing something she had felt all this time but could not formulate. Daphne occasionally asked questions about more technical spells—the kind of questions that showed she read far beyond the curriculum but found certain gaps that the book did not explain well enough.
Kenzo filled those gaps. And occasionally, questions shifted from magic to other things.
One afternoon, Daphne mentioned Astoria—not in a way of asking for something, more like someone who, for the first time in a long time, could mention that name in a place that felt safe. Kenzo had activated a silencing spell from the start—an invisible but effective layer, ensuring whatever was discussed at this table could not be heard by anyone outside a certain radius.
When Daphne realized that, she stared at Kenzo.
"Since when?" Daphne asked quietly.
"The first day you all sat here," Kenzo answered.
Hermione stared at Kenzo in a way that said nothing but was very clear. Cho smiled very slightly. Marietta wrote something in her notebook. And Terry, who heard it all, leaned back in his chair in the way of someone who was very satisfied.
"Unity Circle," Terry said softly—to no one in particular, more like a confirmation for himself.
Michael sipped his tea. He did not argue this time.
Kenzo stared at his table for a moment—at the faces that had become very familiar in the last few weeks. He thought that in the future, maybe there would be more people sitting here. The table that now felt just right for six people might one day not be enough anymore. He did not say it. Just enough to be thought about for now.
A Few Days Before Halloween
That morning the library filled up earlier than usual. The morning Unity Circle session had become a routine—questions, answers, discussions that sometimes moved far from the original topic before finding a way back.
In the middle of that session, Kenzo closed his book.
"I will be going away for three days," he said.
Terry raised his eyes. "Where to?"
"Washington D.C." Kenzo answered with a casual tone. "There is a gala event that I need to attend. Someone I consider an older brother is hosting it."
"Who?" Terry asked.
"Tony Stark."
One second of silence. Then Terry Boot stood up from his chair. Not a dramatic stand—more like his body reacted faster than his mind. "Tony Stark."
"Yes."
"Tony Stark."
"Yes, Terry. Tony Stark."
"The inventor. The billionaire. The genius who built a private laboratory at age seventeen and already had twenty patents before age twenty." Terry took a breath. "You consider him a brother."
"Unofficially."
"And you are going to attend his gala."
"Yes."
Terry stared at Kenzo with an expression containing many things at once. Then with a way that was very clear he had considered for the last few seconds, he said, "Take me with you."
Michael pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead. "Terry—"
"I am serious." Terry turned to Michael. "This is Tony Stark. The most narcissistic and the most genius human at the same time on earth and Kenzo knows him personally." He returned to Kenzo. "Please. I beg you. I never beg for anything earnestly but this is a very justified exception."
Kenzo stared at Terry.
Across the table, Hermione, who had been listening all along in a way trying to look like she was not too interested, very clearly did not succeed. "I have also read about Tony Stark," she said with a very careful tone. "His achievements in the field of technology are quite extraordinary for someone his age. And some of his theories about energy can be applied to magic in ways that have not been seriously researched."
Terry turned to Hermione. "You also want to meet him."
"I said his achievements are interesting to discuss."
"That is Hermione Granger's way of saying yes."
Hermione snorted. Cho and Marietta glanced at each other—they indeed wanted to know more about the name that had appeared several times in the Muggle newspapers they had once read, but chose not to say it as loudly as Terry.
Daphne put down her pen. "He is indeed known in American wizarding family circles."
"Everyone knows Tony Stark," Terry said. "The question is when I can meet him."
Kenzo stared at Terry for two seconds. Then said something that made everyone at that table stop moving.
"I will invite you all one day to meet that narcissist." A short pause. "And if he refuses, maybe I will drag him to Britain."
Silence. Then laughter broke out—from Terry who laughed loudly, from Hermione who could not hide her smile despite trying, from Cho who laughed in a neat but real way, from Marietta who held back laughter behind her book but did not succeed, from Daphne who raised her book to cover her expression but was too late.
Michael Corner let out a small sound that could not be called anything but a laugh.
Kenzo sat in the middle of all that in a way that showed nothing on the surface. However, at the corner of his lips, there was something very clear.
Terry, who had stopped his laughter, stared at Kenzo with a warm expression. "You just joked."
"Most likely."
"No. You joked. You know how to joke now."
"I always knew how to joke."
"You just chose to do it."
Kenzo did not argue.
However, among all that laughter and relief, there was something secretly happening with the four people sitting on the other side of the table.
Hermione was the first to feel it. Not something that could be formulated clearly—more like her instinct that was used to processing information very quickly caught something that did not entirely fit. The way Kenzo answered was too smooth. Too without hesitation. Like someone who already very much knew what he wanted to say long before the question appeared.
He was lying.
Not a malicious lie. Not something threatening. There was just something behind Tony Stark's gala that was not entirely as it was delivered.
Hermione glanced toward Daphne. Daphne, who was very trained in reading people, stared back for a moment. One gaze. Not more than two seconds. Enough for Hermione to know that Daphne felt the same thing.
On the other side, Cho Chang put down her pen very slowly. Marietta at her side said nothing. However, the way her fingers stopped tapping the table was already very much enough.
Four instincts. One same conclusion.
Kenzo realized that. Of course he realized it—he was the one who chose not to use magic that could make them believe completely. Not because he was unable, but because he wanted to let their instincts work in their own natural way. A more honest way.
They felt that there was something. They did not know what. And for now, that was enough.
Terry, who did not feel anything because he was indeed not designed to feel things like that, spoke with undiminished spirit. "Three days. I will miss the morning sessions."
"Three days, Terry," Michael said. "Not three years."
"Still."
Room of Requirement — Night Before Departure
The night before Kenzo left, the Room of Requirement decided to become the right practice room.
Terry and Michael were already there when Kenzo entered. They had already started—Terry with defensive spell practice that he had been pursuing for several weeks, Michael with casting precision practice that was very Michael in its way.
Kenzo joined without words. They practiced.
Occasionally Kenzo corrected—the way Terry held his wand which was still too stiff at the wrist under pressure, the way Michael allocated energy which was too even when certain spells required concentration at different points. Corrections that were received and immediately applied.
In between practice, Michael asked a question he had kept for a long time—about the theory behind a spell whose explanation was not in any book he could access. A long and technical question. Kenzo answered.
Terry, who listened while resting at the side of the room, noted something in his small book. The session continued for nearly two hours. When finished, the three sat on the floor in a way showing that energy had been very much used in a good way.
Terry laid his back on the floor staring at the ceiling. "Three days."
"Yes," Kenzo answered.
"Go safely."
"Yes."
"And if Tony Stark turns out to be more annoying than I imagined—"
"He is more annoying," Kenzo said.
"Meaning you will be fine facing him."
Kenzo did not answer. However, at the corner of his lips something moved—a way Terry already very much recognized. Michael sat with a straight back although already very tired. "Return in the same condition as when you left."
"Or better," Terry added.
"Yes," Michael agreed. "Or better."
Kenzo stared at both. "Yes," he answered. "I will return."
Dumbledore's Office — Morning of Departure
Kenzo knocked on the door of Dumbledore's office on time.
"Come in."
Dumbledore was already at his desk. He showed no sign of surprise even though Kenzo did not send a notice beforehand.
"Kenzo." Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Sit down."
Kenzo sat. Fawkes on his perch let out a soft sound—a sort of greeting.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" Dumbledore asked.
"Permission to go away for three days," Kenzo answered. "Washington D.C. There is a gala event organized by Tony Stark—someone I have known for quite a long time."
Something moved in Dumbledore's expression—very small, only in the way his eyes blinked once differently from usual.
"Tony Stark," Dumbledore repeated. "The name is quite well known even in the wizarding community. A very productive genius."
"Yes."
"And you know him personally."
"Yes."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. He did not ask further questions—a way Kenzo noticed was different from the way Dumbledore responded to previous permission requests. More accepting. More like someone who already had enough context to not require additional explanation.
"Fine," Dumbledore said. "I give that permission."
Kenzo stood up.
"Kenzo."
He stopped. Dumbledore stared at him from behind his half-moon spectacles—in a way Kenzo had learned over several months as Dumbledore's way of delivering something more than what was heard on the surface.
"If you encounter difficulty there," Dumbledore said softly, "I am ready to help."
Kenzo stared at Dumbledore. A very simple sentence. From someone who clearly knew that Tony Stark's gala was not the only reason for this journey. From someone who chose not to ask further—but clearly wanted Kenzo to know that he was not going entirely alone.
Kenzo stood in a way slightly different from usual after the conversation ended.
"I will remember that," Kenzo said. "Thank you, Professor."
Dumbledore smiled slightly. Kenzo walked out.
Hogwarts Corridors — Before Departure
Kenzo walked toward the main door of Hogwarts.
The corridor that morning was crowded in a way different from usual—a mix of energy between enthusiastic and tired that always accompanied ordinary days before Halloween.
In one of the second-floor corridors, something made the flow of walking students slow down slightly. Four men with robes different from Hogwarts robes stood on the side of the corridor—not blocking the way, just being there in a way that made people unconsciously choose a further distance when passing them.
Order of Ninshu.
The way they stood said everything without a single word—calm but not ordinary calmness, more like the calmness of something that no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. Some students who recognized the emblem on their robes stopped for a moment. Those who did not recognize the emblem felt something that made their steps a bit more cautious.
At the end of another corridor, Draco Malfoy walked in his usual way—a step designed to look above anyone who crossed paths with him. Until his eyes found the four men on the side of the corridor. His step stopped.
His face changed faster than he could control. Color leaving the cheeks. The way his hands, which were relaxed at the side of his body earlier, suddenly did not know where to be placed. Draco bowed his head. Not an ordinary nod—something deeper than that, more like the way a body moves reflexively before the mind decides whether to do it.
He did not dare to look directly at them. Then from the corner of his eye that was not fully lowered, Draco saw something that made something in his chest move in an unpleasant way.
Kenzo stood not far from those four men. Talking with one of them. In a very ordinary way—the way someone talks to someone already well known. There was no excessive solemnity, no forced distance. Just a short conversation.
Draco stared at that sight for two seconds. Then the conversation ended, short greetings were exchanged, and the four members of the Order of Ninshu vanished—not through the door, not through the stairs. Just were no longer there at the place they stood before.
Kenzo continued walking to the main door. Draco stood in the corridor for several seconds after everything passed.
Crabbe whispered. "Malfoy, who were they?"
Draco did not immediately answer. "Order of Ninshu," he said finally. His voice was quieter than the way he usually spoke. "My father once mentioned them once." A pause. "Only once. And in a way that he never used to mention anyone else."
"Why was Kenzo talking to them?"
Draco did not answer. Because the answer was already very clear and did not need to be spoken.
Red Room Headquarters, Soviet Union
The facility looked the same from the outside. However, there was something in the air that was different. More tense. Like a place that already felt that something was going to happen but did not know when.
Kenzo stood outside with twelve members of the Order of Ninshu who had already taken positions at the points that had been mapped. From the shadow, White Zetsu appeared.
"Finally!" White Zetsu said with an enthusiasm that had been held back for a very long time. "I have been waiting for this!"
"Zetsu," Kenzo said.
"Yes?"
"Wait for my instructions first."
White Zetsu restrained himself in a way that looked like it required great effort. In his hands there were already several objects—preparations that had been going on for quite a long time. Some from Tony Stark, who gladly agreed to his contribution with one condition: do not forget to photograph the result.
Black Zetsu appeared from a different shadow—slower, without excessive expression.
"Report," Kenzo said.
"All senior personnel are still inside," Black Zetsu said. "Security has been increased since the first visit—they know someone entered but do not know who yet. There are thirty-seven active agents inside. Twelve Black Widows who have not been successfully taken out before are still on the third floor." A short pause. "Natasha and Yelena are not among them—they are already in America, condition is good."
"The photos for my father?"
"Sent through your father's Zetsu two days ago. All documentation is in his hands."
Kenzo nodded. "Fine."
He turned to White Zetsu. "After everyone who needs to be saved has come out and passed through the portal," Kenzo said, "only then may you begin."
White Zetsu stared at him. "Everything?"
"Everything."
White Zetsu nodded in a way that was already very impatient. "May I photograph the result?"
"It is already included in the instructions from Tony."
White Zetsu smiled widely. "I like Tony Stark."
Kenzo turned to the Order of Ninshu. "Be ready at the reception point when I start sending people out."
Twelve members of the Order nodded in unison. Kenzo entered.
Inside the Facility
The way Kenzo moved this time was different from the first visit. The first time he moved very carefully, choosing silence above everything. This time he already very much memorized the layout of every corridor, how the security system rotated, where every personnel was located.
The first guard in the first-floor corridor realized Kenzo's presence a fraction of a second before everything ended. Enough to raise a hand toward the alarm. Not enough to reach it.
Chakra pulse, exactly on target. Kenzo continued.
On the second floor there were six guards in a formation different from the first visit—more alert, more ready. They knew there was a threat, just did not know the form yet. Which made all that readiness not enough. Six guards. Twelve seconds. All six on the floor.
In the operator's surveillance room, the one who was just about to press the emergency button found that his hand could not move in the direction he wanted. Kenzo scanned all the screens in ten seconds. The map he already memorized was confirmed.
He moved to the third floor.
In the hallway toward the cells there were three trained Black Widows—not standard guards. The way they stood showed training of a different class than what Kenzo had faced before. The first one moved without warning. Fast. With techniques that were clearly the result of years of training.
Kenzo tilted his body one centimeter. That attack passed exactly at the side of his face. The second one attacked from the opposite direction—trained coordination, designed to make a target avoiding the first attack directly face the second attack.
Kenzo was not at the place where he should have been when the second attack arrived. The third one tried from above—jumping from a high shelf at the side of the corridor. Kenzo caught her ankle before the attack landed, using her momentum to deflect the direction of the fall to a safe side.
Two seconds later the three were on the floor. Breath still there. Injuries not permanent.
On the fourth floor Kenzo found Dreykov. After which Kenzo already knew what needed to be done—the way Momoshiki extracted something that should no longer be in the hands of someone like Dreykov. An ability that for years was used to build this program. Extracted, could not be used again.
"You can still live," Kenzo said. "In a way that cannot build something like this again."
In the third-floor children's cells, Kenzo opened the door. From the corner of the cell one child stared at him in a way very similar to the way Natasha stared at him during the first visit.
"Natasha and Yelena," the child said softly. "Are they all right?"
"Yes. They are safe in America."
The child nodded once. And stood up. Kenzo gathered everyone from every floor—in an efficient way that did not waste time but was not hurried in a way that made people panic.
In the middle of that gathering process he found Natasha Romanoff in one of the third-floor corridors—not in a cell, a way showing that she already very much knew how to move inside this facility even outside a cell.
Natasha stared at Kenzo.
"Sisters and Mother," Natasha said directly. "Are they all right?"
"Yes. Both are safe."
Natasha did not say anything for two seconds. Then only nodded once—a way that contained more than what was shown on its surface.
"Follow me," Kenzo said.
Kenzo activated a teleportation magic circle in the middle of the third-floor corridor. One large circle, enough for everyone gathered.
"Hold the hand of the person next to you. Close your eyes."
A few seconds. The circle glowed softly. Then everyone inside was no longer inside the facility.
Outside the Facility
The night air of the Soviet Union was cold and clean—a stark contrast from the air inside. Order of Ninshu immediately moved, guiding the people who just came out toward the portal.
Kenzo stood at the side ensuring everyone had come out. Counting. Verifying. The last person passed through the portal.
Kenzo turned to White Zetsu. White Zetsu turned to Kenzo. Kenzo nodded.
And White Zetsu—in the way he had imagined since weeks ago—began to work.
What happened during the next twelve minutes could not be described only by the word exploding. The Red Room facility that had stood for years, which had stored so much of what should not have been there—no longer stood.
White Zetsu cheered in a way that was already very unrestrained. "AMAZING! THIS IS A WORK OF ART!"
In different shadows White Zetsus from other Otsutsuki families—not only Kenzo's, but also members of the family who observed through a special live broadcast that could only be accessed by the Otsutsuki network—watched that sight in different ways. Some were quiet with deep satisfaction. Some took notes. Some chuckled.
And Kenzo's White Zetsu raised his camera—equipment from Tony Stark that he had already very much taken care of—and took photos many times from various angles in the way of someone very serious about documenting a work of art.
Before Natasha entered the last portal, she stood in front of Kenzo.
"Can I meet you again one day?" Natasha asked. "You, not other members of your family."
Kenzo stared at the seven-year-old Natasha Romanoff—with eyes that were already too old for her face. Then flicked her forehead gently in a very light way.
"When you are in your best condition," Kenzo said, "we will meet."
Something in Natasha's expression moved—very small, very fast, very controlled. But real. Then slowly changed into something that did not have an exact name for a seven-year-old child—but was already very much there.
A very thin smile.
"Fine," Natasha said.
She entered the portal and vanished from Kenzo's sight heading toward America.
Washington D.C. — A Few Hours Later
The city never fully slept. However, that night Washington D.C. was busier than usual—in a way different from ordinary night busyness, more like the way of a city that was processing something very big that had just happened.
In the Pentagon lights were on in floors that were usually dark. In Langley, the CIA was verifying the documentation that had just been received—documentation that was very complete, very accurate, and very undeniable.
Fujin Otsutsuki was in Washington D.C.—present but not visible, involved but not recorded. The photos he had received moved to the right places.
And Howard Stark, who had not been seen angry in a real way for a very long time, was in the right room talking to the right people in a way that gave no room for refusal.
News broke toward morning. The Pentagon and CIA released reports simultaneously—about a secret Soviet Union program that used children as weapons. With evidence that could not be denied, with documentation that was very complete.
The reaction of the American public happened within hours. A great and uncontrolled anger—from various directions, from various groups that usually never spoke in one voice about anything.
The President of America stood before the UN Council the next morning.
"The Soviet Union must face consequences for this crime. And the world will not let this go without accountability."
Embargoes. International pressure. Quiet support for the Soviet state regions that had long wanted to separate. And inside the American government itself, the reorganization that had been very long planned—at the push of a source that did not need to be mentioned—started moving. About agents who should not be in their positions. About networks that had been operating for too long in places they should not be.
NATO followed. Then allies outside NATO. One report. One night. Effects that will be felt for years to come.
The Headmaster's Office of Hogwarts
Dumbledore read the report in the morning newspaper—not a wizarding newspaper, but a Muggle newspaper that he ordered every day. He read it very slowly. Slower than the way he usually read.
Fawkes on his perch let out a very soft sound.
Dumbledore put down his newspaper. Stared out of his office window—at the Scottish sky that morning was coincidentally very blue and very clean.
He exhaled—a long, slow breath, in the way of someone who was laying something very heavy in a place that could rest.
"Yes," Dumbledore said softly. "The wizarding world and Muggle world are indeed not different."
Fawkes let out another sound. Dumbledore smiled very slightly—a smile that contained many things at once. Sadness. Relief. Something close to a hope that he had already very long guarded carefully.
He picked up his newspaper again. And continued reading.
And somewhere in this castle, a first-year Ravenclaw student had already returned—sitting in his library, opening his book, in a very ordinary way as if nothing happened in the last three days.
Except that the world outside this castle had already changed in a way that will not be able to be returned.