Memory

The Wild Hunt.

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses.

He wasn't unfamiliar with the term—in the legends of Britain, there were tales of a "Wild Hunt," hounds and ghostly riders arriving with the sound of horns, bringing death and war. Those who encountered the Wild Hunt would be killed and become part of it.

"There have been tales of the Wild Hunt in our world as well," Dumbledore said softly.

Geralt and Yennefer looked over.

Harry also turned his head.

He almost never paid attention to such trivial folklore. That kind of intelligence gathering was usually Hermione's domain. Legends like the Wild Hunt, which had no connection to Voldemort, the Deathly Hallows, or any legendary artifact he might seek, were never mentioned.

Dumbledore continued, "In a book called The Peterborough Chronicle, it was recorded that over 800 years ago, the Wild Hunt appeared in Britain for two months. They were tall, clad in black armor, even their dogs were black."

"Some wizards fought them. They were powerful, but eventually driven away before Easter."

He paused.

"That same book also noted that winter arrived early that year. But with war and famine ravaging the land, no one paid much attention to the strange weather."

"In hindsight, the premature frost may have been caused by the Wild Hunt."

Harry murmured, "The Wild Hunt came over 800 years ago?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Likely earlier."

"The legend is ancient, dating back to the era of King Arthur."

"And it has recurred over the millennia—"

"Too bad Niccolò is gone. Otherwise, we could have asked him. He lived long enough to have seen them with his own eyes."

Harry rubbed his head. "Ciri also came to this world during Arthur's time."

"She met Galahad."

"Did Godric tell you?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Godric never trusted me like he trusts his heir. I am also a fine Gryffindor, you know."

"Did Ciri leave anything in this world?" Geralt asked.

Harry nodded. "Yes, I'll show you when we get to Hogwarts."

They chatted as they traveled.

A buzzing sound came from the sky, along with a beam of bright, focused light.

Geralt cautiously drew his sword.

"Relax, that's my steed," Harry said.

A horse?

That flies?

Geralt sheathed his sword and watched with interest—no Witcher could resist a flying horse.

The Sorting Hat landed, followed by a motorcycle spewing Gryphon smoke and emblazoned with "Gryffindor First."

"This is a horse?" Geralt looked at them. "It's got a certain charm."

The Sorting Hat grumbled, "Hey, I'm no horse."

"I'm the greatest hat in the world—and the greatest motorcycle."

"Harry, making a motorcycle ride another motorcycle is just absurd."

Harry eyed it. "Why would you come on that motorcycle?"

"I liked the look of it best," the hat answered proudly.

Harry sighed and patted the dashboard. "You'll take Geralt and Yennefer."

"We're heading back to Hogwarts."

Geralt looked at the two rather flashy motorcycles, unsure: "How do I ride this? Like a horse?"

"Nothing like a horse," the Sorting Hat trotted over. "Just get on. I'll drive myself."

Harry had already mounted the gaudy motorcycle. Dumbledore conjured a sidecar, tossed the tightly bound Bellatrix inside, and then got on.

Geralt mimicked Harry and sat in front.

Yennefer naturally wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Let's go!" the Sorting Hat cried out cheerfully. "White-haired man, what's your name?"

"Geralt."

"Geralt, just hold the handlebar. Don't move, and don't twist the throttle."

"Though you can try flicking that blue switch."

Blue switch?

Geralt reached out and flipped it.

A protective charm vanished, and a fierce wind blew, nearly making him close his eyes.

"How's that?" the Sorting Hat laughed.

Geralt noted the switch's position and flipped it back. The barrier reformed, blocking the wind.

"Almost thought I'd fall off," he chuckled.

"What's your relationship with Harry?" the hat asked curiously. "Are you a Potter ancestor? You've got the same eyes."

"The Potters have always attended Hogwarts, but I've never seen you."

Geralt replied succinctly, "If needed, Harry will explain."

"Alright, alright," the hat muttered.

The Malfoy estate wasn't far from Hogwarts.

Half an hour later, the majestic castle by the lake came into view.

Geralt's eyes darkened.

A castle—so familiar a structure.

They weaved between towers and entered a room through a massive window—Dumbledore had renovated his office window into a giant glass pane to let the Sorting Hat take Godric's portrait on outings.

They dismounted.

Dumbledore waved his wand. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Just a beer," Geralt said.

"Water," Yennefer declined.

No spell was needed—the drinks appeared on the table.

"Butterbeer—don't know if you'll like it," Dumbledore invited them to sit. "Harry doesn't. He prefers whisky or brandy."

Geralt sipped it.

Creamy with a hint of caramel, but surprisingly refreshing.

"Yen, you might like this. Want a taste?" He offered the glass.

Harry didn't sit down.

He summoned the Pensieve from the cabinet, conjured a high stool, and placed the heavy stone basin atop.

"Want to take a look?" Harry invited, holding a vial of memory.

They all stood again.

The Sorting Hat murmured, "Can I watch if I'm dunked in?"

"I doubt it," Harry shook his head. "You're too big."

"Just submerge your head." He explained the method.

Taking a deep breath, he went in first.

Dumbledore followed.

Geralt and Yennefer exchanged a glance, then dipped their heads.

As their faces touched the liquid, a cold, dark pull dragged them down.

The four landed soon after.

They stood in a lavish bedroom. Inside were Bellatrix and Voldemort.

"This is Bellatrix's memory. They can't see us," Harry whispered, stopping Geralt from drawing his sword.

Voldemort, like a newborn, lay on the bed, giving his final instructions to Bellatrix.

Harry paced as he listened.

Most things in the room were blurry—Bellatrix didn't recall them well. Only a few documents had legible content.

The Deathly Hallows, Avalon, Potter.

Things once deemed useful, now irrelevant.

Voldemort finished speaking and summoned Rodolphus.

He ended with, "If Severus betrays us, kill him by any means."

Then, a milky white mist flooded the memory.

"What's happening?" Geralt was startled.

Harry frowned. "This part was damaged. We'll see if we can repair it later."

Soon after—

The fog cleared.

Bellatrix reappeared. Voldemort was now in Rodolphus's body.

He raised his hand. "My dear Bella."

"Are you ready to give everything for me?"

Bella nodded gently, but opened a cabinet and grabbed a book.

The Portkey activated.

They followed her into a manor.

Inside was a tall, pale, gaunt man.

"Barty Crouch Jr.," Harry whispered deeply.

Since fourth year, two years had passed. This was his first time seeing him.

"Bella? Why are you here?" Crouch looked grim. "Using a Portkey, no less."

"Potter and Dumbledore found the Malfoy estate," she said sadly. "Narcissa, my dear sister, betrayed us. Run. Take the Master's treasure."

"Father's orders?" Crouch stood.

Bellatrix nodded. "Yes. The Master's command."

"He wants you to flee—far from Britain. Search elsewhere for ways to revive and empower him."

Crouch clenched his fists, ashamed. "What about Father's new memory?"

"There was no time to extract it," Bellatrix shook her head. "The Master had just possessed Rodolphus when they attacked. I barely escaped."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"But he gave some instructions," Bellatrix continued. "Harry has gained knowledge from another world."

"Seek the Wild Hunt."

"He has new allies: Yennefer and Geralt."

"Geralt, a white-haired man, has power equal to Harry without magic."

"And Yennefer, nearly as powerful as Severus."

"But the Wild Hunt is even stronger. Find them. Use their strength."

She paused, then spoke solemnly, "Try to trust Severus."

"The Master knows he'll help Dumbledore and Potter pass on some of our messages. But he's marked, and will always be a Death Eater. In the end, he will be a Death Eater."

Crouch nodded. "Understood."

"Where should we go now?"

"No. You," Bellatrix said.

"Barty, you are the Master's godson. The Death Eaters' final hope."

"I will remain with the Master—forever."

They left the room, descended to the basement, bypassed magical barriers, and entered.

Inside were two battered soda cans and a key.

Crouch pocketed the key, chose one can, and vanished with the Portkey.

Bellatrix took the other and returned to the Malfoy estate.

"That's all we can learn for now," Harry said, grabbing Yennefer and Geralt. The floor seemed to fall away—but quickly solidified as they pulled their heads out of the Pensieve, back in the office.

"Voldemort's final Horcrux is a key?" Dumbledore was surprised.

"Can we trust that memory?" Harry shook his head, summoned Bellatrix from the sidecar, and dropped her at Dumbledore's feet. "Check if her memory was altered."

They examined her closely.

"The conversation in the middle was violently destroyed. Unrecoverable," Dumbledore said.

"There are signs of memory modification, but unclear where," Harry frowned, stunned Bellatrix again, and muttered, "She probably met Crouch. But the rest…"

The highest form of lying is mixing lies with truth.

Voldemort excelled at that.

Making mature, experienced people willingly divulge secrets takes more than a handsome face.

The memory wasn't entirely false.

Both Harry's knowledge and magical analysis confirmed that.

But the problem was: which parts were real? Which were lies?

"I noticed the view outside—it should be easy to identify," Geralt said.

"South-east Britain," Harry nodded. "But the room was off. Did you notice the vanity table?"

"Barty Crouch is a man."

Geralt pondered. "Men don't wear makeup here?"

"The exterior might be real, but the interior definitely wasn't," Harry concluded. "As for the words—seeking the Wild Hunt likely isn't fake."

"Whatever version of Voldemort, he craves power."

Harry looked to Dumbledore. "If he were to search for the Wild Hunt, where would he go?"

Dumbledore considered. "The Germanic region."

"That's where most Wild Hunt records originate, and where they've appeared most."

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Powerstones?

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