Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

The tavern was unlike any Hermione had ever seen.

There were very few barrels.

Even the rundown Hog's Head back in Hogsmeade had far more stock.

Decrepit-looking food hung from the walls, alongside strange decorations whose purpose she couldn't guess.

She craned her neck, peering around curiously.

There was a certain innocent clarity to her actions, something that would be glaringly obvious to anyone from this era as a sign of naïveté.

Those born in times of peace were a world apart from those born in times of turmoil.

A few men sitting in the corner exchanged glances.

A young Witcher—clean and unscarred, with only a small mark on his face that looked more like a scrape than a real scar.

Witchers were dangerous opponents.

But this one was alone.

And he was young.

In Velen, "young" wasn't a good thing. It meant inexperienced. It meant easy to deal with.

And he didn't seem to have any weapons.

His back was bare—where the two swords a Witcher was supposed to carry were rumored to hang.

As for the woman beside him...

At first, they assumed she was a sorceress.

After all, the only women who traveled with Witchers were usually those kinds of people.

But... she didn't look like one.

They'd heard rumors about sorceresses—ruthless, calculating, and unapproachable. But this woman seemed far too innocent, with eyes so clear and untainted that even the noblewomen of Novigrad or Oxenfurt couldn't compare.

A noble's daughter, perhaps?

Caught up in some trouble and forced to hire a Witcher for protection. Those freaks might be hideous, but they were undeniably good at dealing with problems—for a price.

Not the Bloody Baron's daughter, though.

They'd seen that girl before—pretty enough for Velen, but nowhere near this level.

This one looked like she belonged in a noble court.

They silently confirmed each other's thoughts.

A couple of them staggered to their feet.

This was Velen, after all—a place where law and order were just pretty words that never really existed.

A young, weaponless Witcher and a defenseless noblewoman with no guards... who just casually pulled out a piece of gold.

Perfect prey.

"Hey, brother, where are you from?" one of them asked, his breath reeking of ale as he staggered forward.

Harry glanced up.

He was a rare sight—a fat man, standing nearly six feet tall, quite a giant by Velen's standards. He wore leather armor, with a longsword strapped to his waist.

"I don't have time for you," Harry replied with a quick look, shaking his head and returning his gaze to the map.

"Hey, what's the lady's name?" another man whistled. "What's a beautiful girl like you doing with a freak?"

"Wouldn't you rather be with a real man?"

They burst into laughter.

"I heard Witchers can't have kids. Maybe he just can't get it up," another one cackled, emboldened by Harry's lack of reaction. "Hey, miss, why don't you come and—"

Harry knocked on the table sharply, cutting him off. "Hermione."

Hermione pulled out her wand.

She remembered Harry's words from before.

"This place is like the Middle Ages—abandon any notions of laws and rules."

There was no room for mercy.

And these scumbags had insulted Harry.

"Shut your mouths!" Hermione snapped, her voice sharp.

They only laughed harder. "What's that little stick? Your weapon? It's as tiny as you, lady."

Scourgify!

Hermione flicked her wand.

The loudest one suddenly gagged, mouth frothing with soap bubbles as he struggled to speak.

"A sorceress!" one of them cried out.

"Witch! You filthy witch!" Without hesitation, they drew their weapons, the mocking tone replaced with murderous intent. "Undo your magic, now!"

Hermione flicked her wand again.

Expelliarmus!

A flash of red light struck one of the men, sending him flying back. His sword shot from his hand, embedding itself deep into the wall.

The tavern fell silent.

Then, suddenly, it erupted into chaos—people screamed and scrambled for the door, fleeing in all directions.

The bartender, clearly experienced with this kind of trouble, ducked behind the counter, covering his head.

Two of the men charged at Hermione, swords raised.

The third one did not follow.

He rushed straight at Harry.

A Witcher without weapons—how dangerous could he possibly be?

He charged forward, sword high above his head.

Harry glanced back, raised his hand, and made a gesture.

Axii!

The air rippled, sending the man hurtling backward.

Harry snapped his fingers, and the empty mug on the table twisted, reshaping itself into a sharp knife. With a soft whoosh, it flew forward, slicing through the air and embedding itself in the man's throat just as he was thrown back.

A sickening squelch—blood spurted out.

Then a loud clang, as the knife pinned his body to the wall, quivering slightly, still humming with momentum.

In the blink of an eye, he was dead.

The remaining three, and even Hermione, stared blankly at the body.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice was unsure.

Wasn't that a bit too... decisive?

"Leaving them alive would only cause more trouble," Harry replied bluntly. "If they thought we were soft, they would never stop coming after us. At best, they'd harass us. At worst, they'd try to kill us."

Hermione understood.

A different world meant different rules.

If she put herself in the shoes of a bandit, of course, she'd target soft prey.

Rich? That means good loot.

Soft-hearted? That means little risk.

If she failed, the worst she would get is a beating.

If she succeeded, she'd walk away with riches.

Hermione raised her wand.

Transfiguration.

The table twisted and stretched into vines, snaking out to bind the other three.

Killing people was usually a mark of Dark Magic.

But...

White Magic wasn't incapable of causing harm.

Hermione raised her wand, her hand trembling slightly. Like Harry had done, she transfigured the remaining three mugs on the table into knives. They hovered in the air, aimed directly at the men's throats.

With a deep breath, she flicked her wrist, sending the knives hurtling forward.

Her aim was a bit off.

It took several stabs before the three finally stopped moving.

Harry did not intervene.

Thud!

She released the spell, and the three bodies slumped to the floor.

"Are you alright?" Harry waved his hand, summoning another mug of ale from behind the bar and handed it to Hermione.

Her face was pale as she accepted it, hands still trembling. She took a large gulp, but shook her head firmly. "No... I'm alright. It's just... I wasn't used to it. It's like the first time I saw a Dementor—I just need a minute to catch my breath."

Something sparked in her mind.

She raised her wand, cast Expecto Patronum, and a silver lioness bounded out, circling her feet.

Visibly, she began to regain her color and composure.

Four bodies lay strewn across the tavern floor.

It was only their first day in this world, and the first people they'd encountered.

"Do you think you can still travel tonight?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded, her grip tightening on her wand. "Of course. I'm not hurt."

She clenched her fists.

She wasn't that fragile.

She had prepared for this—she had known what this world might demand.

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Powerstones?

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