McGonagall seemed unsure.
Should she inform Neville's family now?
As a professor and Head of House, she certainly should. But…
"Let him do it himself," Harry said gently. "Something worth boasting about shouldn't be told by anyone else."
McGonagall nodded, glancing at Neville, tilting her head in thought.
Yennefer scooted her chair closer. "Harry, Ciri and I just talked. We might've found a way to deal with the mess on your forehead."
Ciri leaned in, staring at the lightning-shaped scar beneath his dark hair. "It's a terrible thing."
"Didn't you want it once?" Harry teased. "I could give it to you now."
"If it didn't come with the soul of that noseless bald freak," Ciri shrugged.
When she was little—right after Harry arrived in her world, picked up by Vesemir and trained at Kaer Morhen—Ciri had been envious of Harry's scar. In her world, scars were no shame. A lightning-bolt scar? That was seriously cool.
She'd even picked out nicknames for herself in case she had one—something like "Lightning."
McGonagall turned. "What method?"
Yennefer nodded at Geralt.
The White Wolf pulled a book from his pocket and handed it over.
Flipping through it, Yennefer explained: "The soul fragment on Harry's head is hard to remove because it's deeply embedded. If you try to force it out, it could damage his own soul."
"But what if we heal the wound the moment it's removed?"
McGonagall frowned, shaking her head. "Ms. Yennefer, we all know that's possible in theory."
"But not practical."
"Even Albus couldn't manage it."
Separating a soul wasn't like cutting meat off a bone. It was an excruciating process—far more painful than the Cruciatus Curse.
There had been many dark wizards in history who created Horcruxes. But aside from Voldemort, nearly all of them made only one. Not because they lacked the will to kill, but because splitting the soul was unbearably agonizing.
And more importantly—
It wasn't as simple as slicing it off and healing with a charm. The goal wasn't just to remove the fragment—it had to be done without harming Harry. Which made it delicate, precise, and extremely risky.
"No one can do that," McGonagall emphasized. "Ms. Yennefer—"
Yennefer raised her hand, cutting her off: "I know. But what if time itself could be stopped?"
McGonagall froze.
Stopped time? That was well beyond her magical knowledge.
But if so...
Harry's soul might be saved. If time froze, there'd be no deterioration, no damage to the exposed soul. No true wound—only a chance for healing.
Her expression turned troubled. "If that's possible… perhaps. But no such magic exists. Not even Albus can do that."
"I can!" Ciri piped up—then quickly ducked her head. "Well… not yet."
She had Elder Blood, the ancient magic capable of manipulating time and space. She could pause time, choose who could move within it, who couldn't—if she mastered it.
But she hadn't. Most of her control was spatial, not temporal.
"How long would it take?" McGonagall straightened up, taking on her Deputy Headmistress tone.
Ciri instinctively answered like a student: "Avallac'h is here. He can teach me."
"I should be able to learn quickly."
McGonagall nodded. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Yennefer smiled. "Professor, you're Hogwarts' Deputy Headmistress—you know education. That makes you perfect."
She clapped Ciri on the back. "She's yours now."
McGonagall looked serious. "Of course."
Ciri's eyes widened—disbelief all over her face. She'd been out in the wild for so long, and now she had to go back to being a student? That's not what Yennefer had said earlier.
But she didn't argue. She accepted it.
If it helped solve the problem on Harry's head, she'd do it. It was just school.
They kept discussing the details. Yennefer offered many theories, trying her best to adapt her magical knowledge into something that could deal with a Horcrux. But Horcruxes were native to this world. In the end, it would require its own magic.
That part was beyond her capabilities.
Madam Pomfrey soon joined in. As a gifted Healer, she'd been invited to join St. Mungo's many times but always refused. She preferred Hogwarts.
While they stayed up all night planning how to extract the Horcrux—
Elsewhere, the Ministry of Magic was far from quiet.
Scrimgeour was awoken and rushed in.
An Auror sat trembling, hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, with Kingsley Shacklebolt at his side.
"What now?" Scrimgeour growled, exhausted.
Today had been the longest day of his life.
He'd spoken to Dumbledore. Voldemort had returned and attacked Hogwarts—though only a few knew that. The public assumed Death Eaters were responsible.
Gringotts had been assaulted—by over three hundred goblins.
Thankfully, Dumbledore had intervened. Otherwise, the Ministry wouldn't have been able to handle it.
He'd barely made it home and slept a few hours before being called again. Kingsley's Patronus had mentioned something urgent but not clearly.
"Nurmengard is gone," the Auror said, voice trembling.
Scrimgeour stared. "What?"
"Nurmengard is gone," the Auror repeated. "A ghost ship appeared. A wizard summoned a massive snowstorm. Nurmengard vanished almost instantly."
Scrimgeour's brow furrowed.
A massive snowstorm... That sounded like Voldemort. Dumbledore had said something about his resurrection involving a thing called White Frost.
He opened his mouth to say something—
Another Auror burst in, panicked: "Minister Scrimgeour!"
"Diagon Alley is under attack!"
"A ghost ship!"
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Powerstones?
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