London’s streetlamps flicker as owls spiral over the Thames . In the Department of Mysteries, the Veil exhales frost and a relic inscribed with the Gaunt sigil begins to sing . Harry—now a battle‑worn Auror—answers a midnight summons, scar quiet, wand steady .

A cult called the Hollow Crown raids vaults, stitching Riddle’s last echo into living shadow. Set pieces crackle: thestrals diving past clock faces that run backward , a Black Lake pursuit under ice‑blue moonlight , moving staircases sealing like jaws , and an Atrium duel where glass rains like stars . Choir and war drums rise; Patronuses bloom against a storm of curses . Final sting: Parseltongue hisses behind shattered mirrors; Harry lifts the wand. “Names have power. So do we.”