"Gift?"
The word made Snape's expression shift subtly. He still hadn't quite learned how to accept kindness. He scoffed, mocking at once: "Let me guess, more books on potion-making? Potter, you really are committed to making me work for free."
"After all, you're the youngest Potions Master in history," Harry replied calmly. "Even with one hand missing, your level is still unmatched."
Snape sneered. "Let's be clear—I'm not a garbage dump."
"The stuff you picked last time was subpar at best."
"If it weren't from another world, they'd be worthless."
Snape was a harsh critic, but that was because of how high his standards were. In the Witcher's world, knowledge wasn't as widespread or reliable. A lot of it was fragmented and half-truths.
Had it not come from Harry, he likely would've tossed most of it straight into the fireplace.
"A method to transmute magic into potion form," Harry said quietly.
Snape's expression changed: "Transmute magic into potion?"
Harry nodded. "A fascinating idea. And a few other pieces of more credible potion knowledge."
"That doesn't sound too bad," Snape nodded.
They parted at the entrance of the castle.
Snape headed back to his office, waiting for a signal from his master.
Harry had to escort the two old men to their next stop.
The Hospital Wing.
Madam Pomfrey was checking over Ciri, while Yennefer anxiously held her hand, worried about internal damage from their escape. Professor McGonagall stayed at Neville's bedside—he still hadn't woken up.
The door creaked open.
All eyes turned.
In walked Harry and Hermione, which instantly eased the tense nerves in the room.
But then, floating behind them, were two unconscious figures—Dumbledore, and an unfamiliar man radiating thick dark magic.
McGonagall stood instantly, hurrying forward: "Harry?"
"What happened to Albus?"
Only Voldemort or Harry himself could take down Dumbledore, and if it were Harry, Dumbledore wouldn't just be unconscious—he'd be nursing broken bones.
"Don't worry, no one attacked them," Harry said gently, calming her. "Albus got drunk."
McGonagall blinked.
Drunk?
It was hard to associate that word with Dumbledore. The man rarely drank, and even then, only mild liqueurs. How much did he have to drink to get like this? More importantly, though eccentric, he'd never allow himself to get this wasted—not now.
Madam Pomfrey focused on Grindelwald, frowning. "Harry, this man…"
"He looks like he's been under Cruciatus for a long time?"
Harry nodded. "You're as sharp as ever, Madam Pomfrey."
She shot him an unimpressed look.
"This is Grindelwald," Harry said, levitating Dumbledore onto an empty bed.
Hermione placed Grindelwald on the adjacent one.
"Grindelwald?" McGonagall gasped. "Gellert Grindelwald?"
Pomfrey didn't react as strongly—she was too young. Grindelwald's rampage had ended before she was even born.
Harry nodded.
"How did he get to Hogwarts?" McGonagall stared at the man. "Wasn't he imprisoned in Nurmengard?"
"Voldemort came looking for him. He couldn't win, so he fled here, hoping Albus would help him," Harry explained.
"And the Cruciatus—was that Voldemort?" Pomfrey asked, wand already scanning Grindelwald.
Harry shook his head. "No. That was Dumbledore."
The professors froze.
They instinctively glanced at the unconscious Albus—only to realize: wrong Dumbledore.
"Aberforth Dumbledore," Harry clarified. "But it's not important. Family matters."
Pomfrey looked like she wanted to pry.
McGonagall didn't care in the least. She beckoned Harry closer and spoke about Neville—her voice tinged with worry but more so pride. Gryffindor had another lion to be proud of.
Hermione sat quietly beside Harry, listening attentively.
Pomfrey finished examining Grindelwald and lowered her wand. "Harry, you should take him to St. Mungo's."
"Whoever cast this curse didn't hold back."
"I've removed the magical effect, so he won't end up like the Longbottoms, but if he stays here, we don't have the facilities to prevent long-term damage."
"St. Mungo's won't accept him," Harry said softly.
Pomfrey didn't respond.
She hadn't lived through that era, but she'd heard the stories. Grindelwald's name still carried fear. If Voldemort hadn't emerged in Britain, Grindelwald would've remained the nightmare of the magical world.
"No. I'll stay here," Grindelwald murmured, his voice weak.
Pomfrey looked at him.
Grindelwald spoke slowly, each word like a child learning to talk: "This is… the punishment… fate gave me."
"I won't run."
"This way… Albus will be… okay."
Pomfrey didn't fully understand.
But Harry did. He turned to her and said, "Let him be. This is an important choice for him."
He didn't feel guilty—but he wouldn't run from the consequences.
The two weren't mutually exclusive.
A mark of greatness was a resilient will.
"Fine," Pomfrey sighed. "But let me be clear. If you don't go to St. Mungo's, you'll be plagued with uncontrollable tremors for the rest of your life. Your hands, your legs, your spells—you might never land a hit again."
Grindelwald said nothing, only nodded.
She sighed again and went to retrieve potions.
"They…" McGonagall looked between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
"Some dramatic things," Harry replied, not elaborating. Instead, he turned to Neville. "Still hasn't woken?"
"Poppy says it's stress," McGonagall shook her head. "She gave him a potion to restore his spirit. He'll probably sleep until tomorrow. But don't worry—it's just flesh wounds. He's in good health."
She hesitated.
"I'm wondering whether to tell Augusta now…"
"Or wait until Neville's awake to tell her himself."
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Powerstones?
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