Voldemort had never imagined before that there could exist such a peculiar substance in the world.
A force that invades one world after another, unstoppable and relentless.
The moment he heard the words "White Frost," he found himself uncontrollably fascinated by it.
"This is what my dear son traded for me," the voice did not come from the tall, slender man himself but from the crown upon his head.
"Are you ready?"
The tall, thin man nodded nervously, his entire body trembling. "Master, I am ready."
"Then, take out your wand," the voice from the crown commanded.
The man reached into his robes and pulled out his wand.
A wand crafted by Gregorovitch, made of silver lime, protected by a handle of red marble. At the base, it was inlaid with a purple gemstone. It was an exquisite wand, though it showed signs of long neglect—dusty, grimy, and covered in fingerprints.
"I permit you to cast one spell," the crown instructed.
The man's voice was hoarse as he raised his wand.
"Bone of the world, cast out as anchor."
A golden light shot from the tip of the wand—radiant and blinding—falling into the vial and intertwining with the White Frost.
The man shivered.
"Source of magic, feed the lure."
A silver light then emitted from the wand, delicate and refined, winding around the golden light, similarly fusing with the White Frost.
The White Frost particles seemed to respond, swarming towards the silver magic as if drawn by an invisible force.
The man's expression grew pained, his voice weakening.
"Embodied will, sign the contract."
Another golden light appeared—but this time, it did not come from the man. It poured from the crown itself, sinking into the vial and blending with the White Frost.
As a purely magical phenomenon, both the research conducted by the Aen Elle elves and Voldemort's recent studies had confirmed that the White Frost possessed a sort of natural consciousness—yet not a self-aware one. This consciousness was akin to how a tree reaches for sunlight or water—a primitive instinct rather than conscious thought.
And it reacted intensely to energy.
Just as it endlessly pursued the Aen Elle elves, magic was another form of energy it craved.
Aware, but not self-aware—it was like someone with a brain but lacking true intelligence.
Voldemort, skilled in manipulation, had developed this particular incantation.
The man grew visibly weaker, his magic continuously siphoned.
Inside the vial, the White Frost multiplied, birthing more of itself without end.
The voice within the crown sounded pleased. "Such a miraculous power."
Suddenly, the man stopped struggling.
Voldemort had taken control of his body. The man neither resisted nor could he resist.
"Inferno of Hell," he chanted, casting Fiendfyre.
Magic surged forth.
A murky gray flame shot from his wand, hitting the ground. But unlike typical Fiendfyre, it did not burn with heat. Instead, it consumed warmth, spreading frost and icy crystals across the surface.
He waved his wand again.
The flames vanished instantly, and the little cavern's temperature returned to normal.
Voldemort seemed about to say more when a crystal ball on the table began to glow.
He waved his wand, concealing everything on the table except a small vial of White Frost meant for demonstration.
The magic that had shrouded the crystal ball dissipated.
"Just as you predicted," Eredin's face appeared within the sphere, blunt and direct. "Harry returned to Ciri's world."
"Did he?" Voldemort nodded, his expression delighted.
"Are you ready?" Eredin pressed, his tone regal, as if addressing a subordinate.
The man's face, still under control, remained expressionless, while Voldemort's voice stayed calm. "Of course, of course. This plan was mine to begin with."
"Now, we just need the right opportunity."
"But, my dear Eredin, Potter is very perceptive. Are you prepared to make the sacrifice?"
Eredin's expression remained unchanged. "Imlerith is our greatest warrior. He will make the ultimate contribution for our success."
"Rest assured, I won't have any issues either."
Imlerith—a master warrior among the Aen Elle elves and a key commander of the Wild Hunt. His status even surpassed Caranthir's.
He was the chief in charge of hunting Ciri, the one most deeply involved with the world of the Witcher.
Eredin paused for a moment, his gaze shifting to the vial on the table. "How goes the research on the White Frost?"
"Still no breakthrough?"
Voldemort shook his head. "Of course not."
"I can now manipulate the White Frost for brief periods using magic."
He waved his wand.
The sample vial opened, and the White Frost flowed out, condensing in the air, though he restrained it from spreading.
Eredin's eyes lit up with interest.
Voldemort waved his wand again.
The White Frost morphed into a bird, then a giant serpent, then a dragon made of ice, before finally retreating back into the vial, sealed by its cork.
"Like that," Voldemort murmured. "But this is just brute force—simply suppressing the White Frost with magic. It's far from true mastery."
He did not mention that he had already signed a pact with the White Frost and nearly perfected his control over it.
What Voldemort had just shown was enough to satisfy Eredin.
This was something that the Aen Elle elves, despite centuries of research, had never achieved.
Magic in this world was indeed wondrous.
"Will is power."
"That's already quite impressive," Eredin admitted, his voice carrying a hint of excitement. "Voldemort, you've done well. You will be remembered in Aen Elle history as our most respected and greatest friend."
"And you will be the most respected and greatest friend among the Death Eaters," Voldemort replied calmly.
Eredin smiled slightly. "When Harry finds Imlerith, I will inform you, my dear friend."
Voldemort nodded.
As the glow in the crystal ball dimmed, he waved his wand, casting protective charms back on it. Even if Eredin attempted to spy, all he would see were magical illusions conjured by Voldemort.
"The White Frost," Voldemort whispered, manipulating the man's body to walk back to the table.
"With this power, I should be able to stand against Dumbledore."
"No..."
"Not yet. It's still not enough."
He muttered to himself, moving towards the entrance of the cave. Outside, the snow and ice had melted. It seemed spring had finally arrived.
At Hogwarts...
Dumbledore frowned, standing beside him were McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and the only one standing straight was Professor Flitwick—who, even standing, was about the same height as Uma.
They studied the cursed creature, using their combined knowledge to analyze its condition.
Yennefer sat nearby, a book in her hands, watching them coldly.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates