Who Is He Contacting?

Greenhouse Seven.

Professor Sprout gave Neville a quick instruction before grabbing her bag from the corner and rushing out.

Only a group of bewildered students remained.

Neville and Ron exchanged a glance.

They didn't know much, but the white frost…

Harry had mentioned it—it was a weather phenomenon heralding the Wild Hunt.

"Parvati," Ron called across to the girls, standing on tiptoe, "you and the Hufflepuff prefect stay in the greenhouse and take record."

Neville was already storming out.

Parvati frowned. "You're going out?"

The Hufflepuff prefect stepped forward. "Weasleys aren't the only heroes, you know. We can—"

Ron shook his head and raised a hand. "No, we're not going to help the professors."

"And none of you should try either."

"Professor Dumbledore is still in the castle, and the teachers are already heading out. There's nothing they can't handle right now."

"Neville and I are going back to the castle."

The Hufflepuff prefect still looked like he wanted to argue.

Ron lowered his voice. "The safest place is here. Right now, the best way to help is to stay safe."

The Hufflepuff nodded. "Let Parvati stay here."

"There are still students in the castle."

"Especially the younger ones."

Fifth- and seventh-years weren't too much of a concern—they had experience. Fifth-years had faced the basilisk in their first year, Dementors in their second. They knew what to do.

But those in fourth year and below didn't have that kind of experience. The younger they were, the harder it would be for them to act rationally in a crisis.

They needed prefects.

Ron nodded. "You're right."

Neville was already gone.

The two Hufflepuff prefects and Ron followed quickly behind him.

Parvati took out her wand and drew a deep breath.

Hogwarts was in danger once again.

At the Black Lake—

Dumbledore and Voldemort exchanged spells, their expressions growing grim.

"Tom, seems your new body isn't working out so well," Dumbledore remarked lightly, though his wand-hand trembled slightly.

Fighting Voldemort, who had just resurrected using hoarfrost and a torrent of Hogwarts' magic, was a huge strain.

Dealing with the frost alone was already exhausting.

But—

Voldemort relied not just on the frost, but a new form of magic woven around it.

The only sliver of good news—

Voldemort seemed unfamiliar with his new body, which wasn't made of flesh. His spellcasting had occasional lags—fleeting, less than a second, but in a duel between top-tier wizards, even that momentary "frame drop" could be fatal.

Still, it wasn't much comfort.

Dumbledore's face darkened.

If it were Harry fighting him—and if Dumbledore suffered even a split-second delay—his head might've already been severed and used as a Quaffle.

Even so, all Dumbledore could do was barely hold Voldemort at bay.

The Dark Lord's magical power was seemingly endless.

He was getting old.

Once Voldemort adapted to his body, Dumbledore knew he wouldn't be able to win.

Voldemort's expression was grim too.

Things weren't going how he'd planned.

With his intelligence, strength, and immense magical reserves, he should've crushed Dumbledore.

Why was the old man still holding out?

"But you're still just an old man," Voldemort said, raising a finger. Frost formed instantly.

Amid the storm—

A tabby leapt from behind a snowbank, landing lightly before transforming into a woman—Minerva McGonagall.

Her human body was too old for speed. A cat's was faster.

"Tom Riddle?" McGonagall looked up hesitantly at the floating figure. "He's returned?"

Dumbledore cast Evanesco, trying to clear the frost Voldemort summoned.

McGonagall raised her wand too.

As one of the century's greatest Transfiguration masters, her spells were remarkable—ice blocks and driftwood transformed into catapults. With a flick of her wand, the massive stones launched at Voldemort.

Professor Sprout arrived second—her greenhouse was closest to the lake.

She pulled a handful of seeds from her pocket and scattered them on the ice. No soil, no fertilizer—but deadly, aggressive plants sprouted instantly, lashing upward toward Voldemort.

Hagrid also arrived.

Untrusting of the ice's thickness, he yanked a tree from the shore—about as thick as his arm—and hurled it like a spear into the sky.

"Ordinary spells won't work on me," Voldemort said calmly, waving a hand.

Hoarfrost surged forth.

In an instant, hundreds of vines froze mid-air. Even as magical plants with immense vitality, they were powerless.

The apocalypse had come.

They couldn't even reach Voldemort's feet.

Sprout's magic failed instantly. McGonagall and Hagrid's attacks fared slightly better—their stones and trees, propelled by inertia, still flew toward Voldemort.

But—

Under the extreme cold, their inner energy was drained. One gentle gust from Voldemort and they shattered into dust.

McGonagall and Sprout watched in fear.

He had returned—

And he was stronger than ever.

Before, Voldemort could never have swatted away their attacks so casually.

He was about to taunt them, when something drew his gaze from Dumbledore.

Dumbledore had whispered something to his Patronus.

As Voldemort looked, the silver phoenix flapped its wings and vanished in an instant.

Voldemort couldn't cast a Patronus Charm.

But he knew it well enough. Dumbledore had just sent a message.

To whom?

And why—at this moment?

A name flashed in his mind: Harry Potter.

Dumbledore didn't scare him.

Even the Hogwarts professors didn't scare him.

But if Potter joined the fight...

Voldemort scowled.

While he was still adjusting to his body and unfamiliar with its immense power, facing both Potter and Dumbledore wasn't wise.

He pointed a finger.

A mass of hoarfrost shot toward the castle.

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Powerstones?

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