Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Where... is this?

The thin, pitiful, and helpless Harry looked up, surveying his surroundings with anxious unease.

Though his aunt’s cupboard wasn’t pleasant—cramped, narrow, and infested with spiders and insects—at least it was a room that could shelter him from wind and rain.

But now...

Before his eyes stretched wilderness, endless and boundless, a wasteland where sky met the distant horizon.

Though strange things always seemed to happen around him—hair that grew mysteriously and couldn’t be cut by his aunt, flying up to chimneys when chased by Dudley (that fierce, pig-like cousin of his), clothes he disliked shrinking to palm size.

But now, suddenly going from Privet Drive to a place like this was far too strange.

"Is anyone there?" Harry thought for a moment, then shouted loudly.

Maybe this was a ranch? Or some kind of campground?

He thought there must be a caretaker somewhere.

But no human responded to him, only a rustling sound coming from the direction of some bushes.

Harry peered over. Though he was nearsighted, his eyesight wasn’t actually that bad, and he could vaguely make out some creature moving.

Its skin color was rather awful—too pale.

Its general outline resembled a human.

"Excuse me, sir," Harry walked toward it, his voice nervous to the point of cracking, "Sorry, I seem to be a bit lost. Where is this?"

Rustling sounds came from the bushes, and in his eyes, there was still only that patch of grayish-white skin.

Didn’t he hear?

He raised his voice: "Excuse me! I want to—"

Suddenly, the bushes were pushed apart, and that grayish-white creature leaped out swiftly.

Harry was startled.

That wasn’t human.

It was a creature about as short as himself, grinning, somewhat resembling something called an "alien"—a monster from a "PG" rated movie he’d never seen, but had watched Dudley and his friends waving posters around, bragging about how brave they were to watch the entire film alone.

It jumped out and bit Harry’s arm.

Not just one.

Several, maybe a dozen or more, but Harry, buried under these overwhelming "alien" creatures, couldn’t distinguish their numbers at all.

"No!" Harry cried out in anguish.

He could feel these creatures gnawing at his body, piercing his skin, tearing away flesh and blood.

"Help me!"

He hoped desperately.

Just as one monster pressed its teeth against his throat—

Azure light surged around Harry’s body, a massive shockwave erupted, sending those monsters flying.

Some were directly split in half at the waist by this tremendous impact.

But these unfortunate ones were only a few; most were just knocked dizzy, lying prone on the ground, glaring menacingly at their restless prey.

What was happening?

Was something strange occurring with his body again?

Harry tried to lift his head, looking at the monsters that hadn’t decreased in number but seemed to be growing more numerous.

How terrible!

He was beginning to miss his aunt’s cupboard—at least spider bites didn’t hurt this much.

Blood kept flowing from his wounds, and the eleven-year-old, malnourished boy’s vision gradually turned black.

The pack of monsters seemed to notice his breath growing weaker and tentatively approached bit by bit.

Before losing consciousness, he seemed to hear urgent "clip-clop" sounds of hoofbeats in his ears.

Warmth enveloped his body, bringing a comfortable sensation.

Harry opened his eyes, groaning softly. Just as he tried to move his body, piercing bone-deep pain made him gasp and immediately stop.

"Awake?" An unfamiliar, mature, but very reassuring voice reached his ears.

Harry replied: "Mm."

"How does a child from a noble family end up there? Where are your guards?" the person inquired.

Harry was somewhat confused: "Noble?"

"Oh, no, I’m not a noble, just an ordinary person."

The person walked over, placed something on the bedside, raised an eyebrow, and spoke with a questioning tone: "Ordinary person?"

He clearly didn’t believe Harry’s words.

Though somewhat malnourished, the boy had delicate skin, no calluses on his hands or feet, and while there were some scars, those weren’t marks left by hard labor.

"Yes." Harry nodded, "My name is Harry, Harry Potter, and I live at Number Four, Privet Drive."

The person walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

Harry could see his appearance clearly.

He looked like a man in his forties, with long white hair, wearing armor with a wolf head emblem on his chest, and carrying two swords on his back. Most striking were his eyes—golden, amber-colored, with cat-like vertical pupils.

"Number Four, Privet Drive? I’ve never heard of that place name. Perhaps you should be more specific," he said, his voice gentle.

Harry’s heart sank as he nervously added: "It’s in Little Whinging."

The person continued shaking his head: "Sorry, child, could you tell me the name of your city or village?"

Harry continued: "It’s in Surrey, very close to London."

The person frowned thoughtfully: "I’ve traveled through many countries, but I’ve never heard of a village with that name."

"No, it’s not a village." Harry shook his head, "That’s a city, the largest city in all of Britain—London. Have you never heard of it?"

The person shook his head: "Britain? Is that a country?"

"The most prosperous country in all of Europe, sir." Harry realized something, though his eleven-year-old mind found it difficult to accept this reality.

The person clearly realized something too: "It seems something wondrous has happened to you. There’s no country called Britain here, nor any place called Europe."

"Perhaps this is no longer the world you came from."

"Can you tell me about yourself?"

Harry clenched his fists and told his story—from his parents dying in a car accident, to his living conditions on Privet Drive, and the shallow knowledge he’d learned from history and geography.

The person also explained to Harry about the Conjunction of the Spheres and what kind of monsters had attacked him.

By the time they finished talking, it was already dark.

"It seems you’re homeless," the person stood up. "Would you like to come with me? Though being a witcher isn’t exactly a good destination."

Harry fell silent.

He was just an eleven-year-old, homeless child who had suddenly arrived in a strange world without any preparation.

At least this person before him showed him kindness.

"Of course, I’m willing," he answered loudly.

Even though in that person’s description, becoming a witcher was terrible, nothing could be worse than being food for those creatures called nekkers in the wilderness.

"Very good." The person nodded, "Your body is recovering quickly. I need to find a sorceress to examine you."

"In three days, we’ll set out."

He walked toward the door.

Harry called out to him: "Sir, I haven’t asked your name yet."

The person turned back, showing a gentle smile: "How terrible, I forgot to introduce myself."

"Wolf School witcher, Vesemir."

Harry was brought to a place called Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir was very worried he wouldn’t adapt to life here.

This world was terrible. In Harry’s description, the world he came from had no monsters, no wars, no need to worry about food—though it sounded like his aunt and uncle treated him rather harshly.

But Harry loved it here.

No Dudley, and he could have a large room all to himself.

Most importantly, the food was delicious too.

Though his aunt’s cooking wasn’t bad—even Mrs. Figg’s antisocial cat would act coquettishly toward her—that was Britain, and even he knew it was the most culinarily impoverished country in the entire world, bar none.

This place was wonderful.

The only problem was having to train along with the others—running bumpy mountain paths, training swordsmanship, practicing footwork among huge pendulums, and those obscure, difficult-to-understand monster guides.

Very tiring, very hard, but Harry had no complaints about it.

Until he had begun to adapt to this kind of training, Vesemir called him over.

Beside him stood another man with the same white hair and eyes, but tall, robust, and exceptionally handsome.

"Vesemir, is this him?" the man spoke, his voice magnetic.

Vesemir nodded: "Yes, this child is the same as you."

"He’s a Source."

Harry raised his hand to ask: "What’s a Source?"

"People born with magical energy—we call them Sources," Vesemir explained, then turned to look at the white-haired man. "When I found this child, he was being attacked by a pack of nekkers."

"Though there was no magical fluctuation, that kind of wide-range impact isn’t something a child could accomplish."

"You know many sorceress friends—find one to examine him."

The white-haired man nodded: "But before that, we need to ask this little guy’s opinion."

Harry looked at the two of them in confusion.

The white-haired man crouched down, making eye contact with him. The vertical pupils had an uncomfortable strangeness to them, but the soul-piercing sincerity dispelled that uncomfortable feeling.

And what was this strange flutter in his heart? Why was it appearing?

Like a warm current.

How long had it been since he’d heard words like these?

"Let’s ask this little guy’s opinion."

Even as just a little guy, could he voice his own opinion?

And after speaking up, he wouldn’t be scolded or punished by his aunt, wouldn’t be bullied by Dudley.

"Though you’re a visitor from another world," the white-haired man’s voice was gentle and slow, "we hope you can have a better life."

"You might be a Source, which means you could learn to become a sorceress, master powerful magic, and enjoy a more affluent life."

"Are you willing to go?"

Harry asked him: "Can I study here?"

"I don’t think so," the white-haired man answered. "We’re witchers. Though we can use some crude magic, we’re far inferior to sorceresses."

Harry met his gaze, not afraid of those eyes at all.

"A sorceress’s life would be very good," the white-haired man continued. "You could become an honored guest of kingdoms, enjoy aristocratic life, even become nobility yourself."

"A witcher’s life is quite terrible."

"You’d need to undergo painful trials, life-or-death genetic mutations, then live a life of sleeping rough."

Harry looked at Vesemir: "Grandpa Vesemir just said you’re also a Source."

"Yes," he nodded.

Harry spoke urgently: "Then why did you become a witcher instead of a sorceress?"

"Because of the Law of Surprise," the man smiled. "A law that’s become customary among us. My mother abandoned me at Kaer Morhen, and as payment, I could only become a witcher."

Harry clenched his fists: "What if you could choose like me?"

"I would choose to become a sorceress," the man answered decisively.

Harry looked at him.

The sincerity conveyed through his eyes swirled in his chest.

And that inexplicable flutter sprouted within his body.

"Would sorceresses also be as gentle as you?" Harry asked after a long silence.

Vesemir burst into laughter: "Oh, gentle! Good heavens, I never thought that word would apply to people like us."

"I think it would be difficult," the white-haired man recalled, shaking his head hesitantly. "But perhaps the early days wouldn’t be pleasant, yet on this land, comfort has never been anything important."

"Vesemir mentioned you came from a comfortable world."

"Though your life might not have been very comfortable."

"But I can guarantee you that studying at a sorceress academy would at most be like your life at your aunt’s house."

Harry didn’t speak; he lowered his head.

Life at his aunt’s house...

That was quite awful, but thinking of the nekkers that swarmed toward him, tearing and biting at his body...

Seemed somehow not acceptable either?

The small bed under the stair cupboard was cramped but warm enough. He was always ordered around by his aunt, sometimes even going hungry for days, but most of the time he could still eat his fill.

He didn’t want to leave this place called Kaer Morhen.

But Grandpa Vesemir and the white-haired uncle both recommended he become a sorceress.

Thinking, thinking...

Suddenly, Harry raised his head, staring into the man’s eyes: "But have you never regretted it?"

"What?" The white-haired man was stunned, not quite understanding his meaning.

Harry took a deep breath, gathering courage: "I mean, have you never regretted becoming a witcher, never regretted staying here?"

The white-haired man nodded: "Of course not. This is my home."

Home.

"Home."

This word was often mentioned by the Dursley family, but he had never possessed it. Oh, ten years ago, before his parents died in the car accident, he might have had it, but he was too small then and remembered nothing.

Harry said firmly: "No, I don’t want to become a sorceress."

"I want to stay here. I want to become a witcher."

Though it was brief, only a week’s time, Harry was certain he had fallen in love with this place.

Vesemir was very serious during training, but at other times he was always kind and pleasant.

And there was this man he’d just met.

He was respecting him!

Not dismissing his existence as a "person" because he was only eleven years old, not because he was an orphan from another world.

Home.

Yes, this place could be home.

"Stay?" The white-haired man looked somewhat surprised, crouching beside him, leaning forward slightly. "Have you really thought this through?"

"Being a witcher isn’t a good profession."

"Except for Children of Surprise resulting from the Law of Surprise, almost no one actively chooses to become a witcher."

"In the outside world, we don’t get any respect either. People always call us freaks, bastards..."

Harry shrugged: "I’m used to it. My aunt, Dudley, and his gang of friends always call me that too."

"And I’m also a Child of Surprise, aren’t I?"

"A person who accidentally came to this world."

He took a deep breath.

Besides, he wasn’t choosing between "sorceress" and "witcher"—he was choosing "home."

Longing!

Harry desperately longed to become family with Vesemir, to become family with this white-haired man.

"An unexpected choice, little guy." Vesemir smiled; he could see what Harry had based his decision on.

The white-haired man stood up: "Well, if you put it that way."

"The Wolf School hasn’t had a new apprentice in a very long time."

"Vesemir?"

Vesemir shook his head quickly: "No, I’ve been a mentor for a very long time. Perhaps I can assist you, but now you should try being a proper mentor yourself."

The white-haired man nodded, agreeing quickly: "Oh, alright, you’re right."

He straightened his back and extended his hand to Harry: "Little guy, then I’ll be your mentor from now on."

"Wolf School, Geralt of Rivia."

Harry also extended his hand: "Hello, mentor. I’m Harry Potter."

Large hand and small hand clasped tightly together.