The Wild Hunt retreated,
Leaving behind only a trail of footprints in this world.
The three of them went back to sleep. Hermione, though, suffered a bit of insomnia. They had just endured a surprise attack—even if it had no consequences and felt more like a bathroom break in the night.
Still, it was her first such experience.
Harry and Ciri slept peacefully. They were used to this, battle-hardened long ago.
Surrounded by their steady breathing, Hermione finally drifted off.
She slept in late, until the sun was high—woken by the sound of clashing weapons.
Combat?
Groggy, the word sparked through her mind, instantly waking her. She grabbed her wand and crept to the window.
Outside, two figures were sparring.
She relaxed.
It was Harry and Ciri.
She pushed open the door just in time to see Harry break Ciri's wooden sword and lightly tap her neck.
"Your swordsmanship hasn't improved much," Harry remarked, shaking his head.
Ciri scowled, tossing the broken sword aside. "You've improved too much, Harry."
"Besides, I barely use the sword anymore."
She turned and greeted Hermione before turning to make breakfast while they waited for the Hunt's return—whenever that might be.
Meanwhile, in another world—
A tall, thin man wearing the Ravenclaw Diadem studied the armored figure emerging from the portal.
"Eredin's navigator?" Voldemort asked.
The navigator nodded. "Yes. Lord Eredin sent me to assist you—but only for one day."
"And I must return with all research regarding the White Frost."
Voldemort nodded. "Of course. No problem at all."
"For now, I don't need to leave—conserve your magic."
The navigator cast him a disdainful glance but said nothing, waving his wand to close the portal.
Voldemort led him deeper into the cavern, casually gathering information.
Magic subtly flowed as he probed.
Deeper and deeper into the lair—
Then suddenly, Voldemort drew his wand and cast:
"Spiritus Eximium!" (Soul Ejection)
The navigator froze—his soul destabilized, sucked into Voldemort's grip.
"The first harvest," Voldemort murmured, twirling his wand.
The navigator continued walking as if nothing had happened.
The Aen Elle had no soul-defensive magic.
Besides,
Both Crouch and Voldemort had been careful to selectively teach Eredin only what they wanted. Most importantly, they had never revealed the Unforgivable Curses.
Normal wizards abhorred them.
And all prior Hunt encounters had been with white wizards—Harry, Dumbledore, Bashat, Gorshak—who refused to use dark magic.
As for the two captured—
They certainly wouldn't reveal the Unforgivables either.
Smart men always keep a trump card.
Voldemort liked to think of himself as quite intelligent.
In the depths of the cavern, he took out a mirror and waited.
Back at Hogwarts—
Snape had just finished a painfully exhausting class. Second-years were at least somewhat aware of magical basics, but first-years were painfully naive—infatuated with the allure of dark magic. Managing both their foolishness and ignorance took all of his patience.
He closed his eyes for a moment's rest when—
A large owl swooped in and dropped a heavy package on his desk.
A package?
For him?
Snape blinked. This wasn't the time for journal deliveries, and he hadn't ordered ingredients.
A prank?
Another idiotic Gryffindor trying to stir trouble?
Excellent.
"Gryffindor, minus five points," he muttered. Even suspicion was reason enough.
He waved his wand.
No curses, no hexes, not even prank spells.
Another wave—
The package opened to reveal not explosive tuber pus or prank goo—but a mirror.
Snape recognized it.
A two-way mirror.
Who would send him this?
A possibility dawned.
He lifted it and infused it with magic.
The surface shimmered—
And a face appeared.
"Karkaroff!" Snape growled. "So it's been you, beside the master all this time?"
"It's me, Severus," Karkaroff said—his voice echoing from above.
He raised his hand, revealing the Ravenclaw Diadem on his head.
"Master!" Snape's voice flattened.
"My dear Severus, you look exhausted," Voldemort said lightly, amused.
Snape remained silent, eyes locked on the mirror.
"Can I still trust you, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked.
"Of course, my Lord," Snape replied without hesitation.
"But Crouch has been captured for some time now," Voldemort said softly. "Dumbledore is still alive and well—he might live another hundred years."
"I have not had the chance," Snape answered evenly.
"Have Potter and Dumbledore begun to doubt you?" Voldemort pressed.
"Possibly."
"Then I need your help now, Severus," said the figure in the mirror. Even through another body and a mirror, his gaze was just as piercing.
Snape bowed his head slightly. "Your will, my Lord."
"I have secured aid from the Aen Elle," Voldemort said, playing with his wand. "Now I need to be resurrected. Karkaroff is not loyal enough—I need you, Severus. Potter is away. This is our best chance."
"This afternoon. Riddle House. Little Hangleton. You know the place."
Snape nodded.
"There are also these ingredients…"
The conversation lasted ten more minutes. Then the mirror darkened.
Snape set it down.
Without hesitation, he swept from the room—class forgotten.
He stormed into Dumbledore's office.
"Fawkes, just one bite—" Dumbledore pleaded with his phoenix perched atop a chandelier, holding two unopened bottles of cockroach clusters in its claws.
The sudden entrance startled both bird and wizard—and the curious portraits.
"What is it, Severus?" Dumbledore asked.
Snape's face was grim. "Albus, Voldemort has returned. He's preparing to be resurrected."
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Powerstones?
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