Eredin said nothing, quietly studying the pale-faced man before him.
He was pondering the meaning behind this man's words.
A thirst for knowledge and power?
"Knowledge of magic I can bestow upon you," Eredin said at last, speaking slowly. "But the White Frost... it is merely a natural phenomenon."
A sharp glint flashed in Crouch's eyes as he caught those words: "Natural phenomenon?"
"I will send magic books along with it," Eredin said with a dismissive wave. "Now take us to Ciri's friends, and the children."
Crouch shook his head. "Not yet."
Eredin's expression remained unchanged.
The Wild Hunt riders drew their weapons.
Black, malformed hounds crouched at their feet, growling lowly, waiting for the command to tear the man before them to shreds.
"No need to get so worked up," Crouch said lightly, flicking his wand.
The White Frost around them twisted slightly at his gesture—barely, almost imperceptibly blending into the swirling snow.
But everyone there noticed.
The Wild Hunt's eyes flickered with surprise.
Crouch tilted his head, smiling faintly at the projected image of Eredin: "You may be powerless against the White Frost... but we seem able to influence it."
He had long suspected this.
These long-eared, seemingly non-human beings did not seem capable of truly mastering the strange magic of the White Frost.
Partly it was human prejudice against non-human races.
Partly it was his own analysis.
The White Frost had chased them through a portal—it wasn't their native power. Even their armor, visibly enchanted, was meant to resist the Frost.
So he had deliberately baited them with his request—and his suspicions were confirmed.
They could only use the White Frost, not control it.
Eredin showed little emotion.
He locked eyes with Crouch, tapping his fingers lightly on the table—producing a crisp, repetitive sound. After a long moment, he said:
"You have convinced me. But in exchange, I expect you to prepare a share of your world's magical knowledge for me."
"Of course," Crouch agreed smoothly.
At Eredin's signal, a squad of Wild Hunt riders began unloading a staggering quantity of books, stacking them in the frozen snow—a heavy mountain of magical knowledge.
The sheer physical weight was immense, let alone the knowledge contained within.
No magical communication was allowed.
Eredin simply sat there, silent, watching.
The Wild Hunt clutched their sword hilts, ready at a moment's notice.
Crouch raised his wand and crisply incanted: "Reducio."
Whoosh—hundreds of books shrank to the size of peas.
He opened a small pouch.
With another swish of his wand and the familiar "Wingardium Leviosa," the tiny books neatly floated inside.
Crouch hung the pouch at his waist and lifted his head, meeting Eredin's gaze:
"How do I contact you? I'm not nearly as conveniently equipped as you."
Eredin waved a hand.
A Wild Hunt rider stepped forward and handed Crouch a small crystal orb, swirling inside with dark gray mist.
"Speak into it, reciting the incantation," Eredin instructed, teaching Crouch an ancient phrase in a tongue he did not know.
The syllables were complex and obscure.
Eredin didn't explain what they meant.
Crouch, cautious as always, conjured a parrot and taught it the phrase first.
When he was sure the parrot remained unaffected, he began practicing himself.
After a few tries, he mastered it.
"I hope we have a pleasant cooperation," Eredin said quietly.
"I look forward to it," Crouch replied.
The Wild Hunt packed up their instruments and stepped back into the portal, vanishing.
Crouch stayed behind, collecting the residual White Frost, gathering as much as he could.
Then, satisfied, he quietly left.
—
At Hogwarts, winter had fully settled in.
Most students preferred the warmth of their dormitories.
But not the Gryffindors—they loved nothing more than charging out for a raucous snowball fight on the weekends.
Still, this year wasn't quite as lively.
The Slytherins had kept surprisingly quiet.
Although internal conflicts still flared up, most disputes stayed within their own common room.
Other Houses only ever saw the occasional black-eyed snake wandering around.
Despite the bickering, this year marked one of Slytherin's best performances yet:
Since the start of term, they had held the lead in House points.
Gryffindor and Ravenclaw trailed them by only five and fifteen points respectively.
It drove Ron mad.
Since when had Gryffindor been beaten by Slytherin?
—
On Saturday, the students' favorite day in winter, Hogsmeade awaited.
No potion research, no pressing business at the castle—naturally, Harry and his friends made their way to the Three Broomsticks.
"I think we should head over to the Hog's Head too," Hermione said softly after Madam Rosmerta brought their butterbeers.
Ron wrinkled his nose: "Hermione, you've always been the clean-freak.
The Hog's Head—"
He'd always thought it should really be called "the Pigsty Pub."
"No, don't forget Harry's promise to Dumbledore," Hermione shook her head.
Harry hadn't shared Dumbledore's backstory with them—but anyone could tell there was family drama there.
And Harry had agreed to help mend it.
"So, should we head over now?" Ron asked, gulping down his butterbeer.
Hermione hesitated, glancing at the polished floor that gleamed like a mirror: "Maybe we wait a bit."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head:
"Dumbledore's family business isn't urgent.
Right now, I'm more focused on contacting someone critical."
He meant Grindelwald.
But before he could finish—
The simple ring on his finger gave a slight, urgent vibration.
"Someone's entered the Forbidden Forest," Harry said quietly, glancing down.
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Powerstones?
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