The Gryffindors listened to the wizened wizard from the Wizengamot, and heard the envious murmurs from the other Houses. Their expressions were complicated.
The thing everyone else so desperately wanted...
Was something Harry had just said he didn't care much about.
The award ceremony went on.
Since they couldn't host it at the Ministry or within the Wizengamot, they moved it to Hogwarts instead.
But none of that had anything to do with Harry. After dinner, he simply left, and no one tried to stop him.
In fact, his absence made it easier for the Wizengamot—giving them more space to perform their grand ceremony.
Winter had long since arrived, but their spirits burned high.
Meanwhile, in the German territories, Geralt lay comfortably on a soft bed next to a giant floor-to-ceiling window, beyond which a blizzard howled across the land.
It was the most comfortable, pleasant trip he'd had in years.
No need to worry about food, or where to sleep.
Even his time staying in royal palaces hadn't been this relaxing—no inn during this trip had disappointed him.
He flipped through a letter in his hand.
It was from Yennefer, updating him on her findings in Britain.
Ciri had indeed left traces.
But they were only traces—no key evidence or new trails yet.
The rest of the letter was filled with stiff, awkwardly written expressions of longing.
Geralt set the letter down and glanced outside.
Yennefer hadn't found anything crucial; neither had he.
The Wild Hunt had become a myth in this world.
He had even found the corpse of a Hunt hound, proving they had indeed visited this world a thousand years ago—but he had yet to find any sign of them now.
With winter setting in and the storms growing fierce, he'd have to wait until the weather improved.
—
Meanwhile, in Britain:
In a narrow canyon, Barty Crouch Jr. stood, his eyes fever-bright as he stared at the scene before him.
A milky-white portal opened.
A squad of armored riders stepped out.
They immediately spotted Barty, drawing their weapons.
A strange cold wind poured from the portal, adding even more bite to the already freezing air.
"Lower your weapons," Barty said calmly. "We could be friends. You're looking for Ciri, aren't you?"
He flicked his wand, weaving magic to stall the frost and the riders.
He was a highly talented wizard.
Though for Harry or Dumbledore, earning twelve "Outstanding" N.E.W.T.s was easy, that didn't mean it was easy for everyone. Even the excellent Weasley brothers—Charlie, Bill, and Percy—earned twelve certificates, but not twelve "O"s.
Barty's natural gifts had been why Voldemort recognized him as his godson.
The Wild Hunt froze at his words.
One of them spoke: "You know Ciri?"
"Of course," Barty nodded. "You're after her because of the Elder Blood, right?"
The Hunt's voice was razor-sharp: "You seem to know quite a bit."
"I know more than you think," Barty said, lowering his voice, tapping his temple. "I've been waiting a long time for you."
"For example, that the Elder Blood allows travel through time and space."
"And for instance..."
"That Ciri visited this world a thousand years ago—and left descendants."
The Hunt was startled. "Descendants?"
Barty nodded. "Yes. And I know where they are."
"Where are the descendants of the Elder Blood?" a Hunt rider demanded, stepping forward, the frost swirling even harder.
"I want to speak to your leader," Barty said smoothly. "We need to cooperate."
The Hunt grew tense.
Cooperate?
The Aen Elle needed no allies—only the conquered and the soon-to-be conquered.
"This world is far more dangerous than you think," Barty whispered. "Wouldn't it be easier to find the Elder Blood with help?"
"As a show of good faith—"
"I'll tell you the name of the descendant: Harry Potter. A very powerful and troublesome wizard."
He wasn't sure about the exact relationship between Harry and Ciri.
From Voldemort's memories, Barty knew only that Geralt and Yennefer were not from this world—and that Ciri had traveled between worlds, introducing Geralt and Yennefer as her 'parents.'
So Barty boldly guessed:
Maybe Harry and Ciri were related by blood.
After all, Geralt and Harry shared the same golden eyes.
The Wild Hunt fell silent.
The news was simply too important.
"We will report this back," one of them said, turning toward the portal. "Stay here. We'll return."
Barty nodded.
When the Hunt and the portal vanished, he flicked his wand.
The lingering frost reacted, resisting his magic faintly.
Barty's curiosity grew stronger.
At Malfoy Manor, he'd only dared glance at the frost from afar, fearing Harry would catch him.
This strange substance lived up to his expectations.
When the Hunt returned, Barty collected a bit of the frost and preserved it magically.
"Lord Eredin wishes to speak with you," said a Hunt rider.
Several others came out carrying unfamiliar devices, arranging them on the ground, enchanting them with a strange, elegant language Barty didn't recognize.
The machinery pulsed with subtle light.
A pale projection appeared:
A tall, well-built man with porcelain skin and dark blue eyes, like moonlight over the sea.
He wore ornate, ancient robes and carried himself with imperious dignity.
"Harry?" the man said, his voice rich and magnetic. "Are you certain he is Ciri's child?"
Barty blinked. "You know Harry?"
"I've heard of him," Eredin nodded. "But I was told he was only the adopted son of Geralt and Yennefer."
"You know Geralt and Yennefer are here?" Barty caught a fleeting shift in Eredin's expression.
"They are?" Eredin asked lightly.
Barty nodded: "Of course."
That was all he said—two words, no more.
"Then, state your price," Eredin said loftily.
"I want two things," Barty said softly.
"First, knowledge—your world's magical knowledge."
"Second, the power of the frost you bring with you."
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Powerstones?
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