WHAT IF - Multiverse

Chapter One: A Soul in a Scrawny Body

The dust motes danced in the anemic afternoon light filtering through the grimy window of the cupboard under the stairs. Harry Potter, or rather, the soul currently trapped within his bony eleven-year-old frame, scowled. This wasn't the stench of monster guts or stale ale from a roadside tavern. This was the cloying aroma of boiled cabbage and the lingering scent of fear. A fear he'd grown accustomed to in this… situation. The confines were suffocating, a stark contrast to the open road or the vast, untamed wilderness he was used to traversing. Every creak of the stairs above, every booming laugh from the adjacent living room, grated on his heightened senses, even in this weakened state.

"Boy! Get out here and tend to the garden, before I tan your hide!" Vernon Dursley's bellow shook the flimsy door, rattling the cheap lock. The voice was a thunderous, gravelly noise, filled with an unwarranted sense of authority that Geralt found deeply irritating.

The being formerly known as Geralt of Rivia sighed, a sound far too reedy for his liking. He was in a child's body, weak and ill-fed. The muscles he'd cultivated over decades of monster hunting, the quick reflexes honed by countless battles, the heightened senses that could detect a beast's scent from miles away or hear a whisper across a crowded room – all dulled, muted, and frustratingly inefficient. He could still feel the vibrations of the floorboards as the fat man stomped past, a faint echo of the precise tracking he was capable of, but the clarity and precision were gone. It was like trying to track a garkain in a blizzard, blindfolded and with a head cold. The raw physical power he once commanded was replaced by a disconcerting fragility; he felt like a freshly molted crab.

He emerged, blinking, into the aggressively ordinary hallway. The air hung thick with the stale scent of disinfectant and something sickly sweet, perhaps overcooked pudding. The woman, Petunia, was primping in a distorting mirror, her horse-like face twisted into a permanent sneer that spoke of deep-seated bitterness. The blob, Dudley, was glued to a flickering box that made strange, nonsensical noises and emitted a jarring, rhythmic flashing. Humans. He'd dealt with worse monsters – fiends, elementals, even a particularly obnoxious succubus. But these ones… they were tedious. Their cruelty was petty, their fears unfounded, and their routine was a monotonous cycle of eating, complaining, and ignoring him. He had seen more complex behavioral patterns in a flock of drowner.

His real body, he knew, was somewhere else. Fighting griffins, perhaps. Or haggling over a particularly thorny contract with a superstitious lord. He'd woken up here a week ago, after a searing headache that had momentarily blinded him, followed by a flash of blinding white light that felt less like magic and more like a cosmic hammer blow. One moment, he was tracking a ghoul near Velen, the stench of decay thick in the air, the next, he was in a child's bed, surrounded by luridly floral wallpaper that threatened to induce a seizure, and the incessant hum of something called a 'television'. His medallion hadn't vibrated, but his instincts screamed translocation.

He still carried the faint phantom ache of old scars – the wound from the striga, the gash from the royal griffin, the countless lesser nicks and bites – and the familiar weight of his silver sword, a comforting presence that wasn't there. The warmth of Igni, the protective shimmer of Quen, the subtle influence of Axii in his palms – all absent. But here, in this… Harry Potter… body, there was nothing but a dull, irritating thrum beneath his skin, like a low-grade tremor. Magic, perhaps? It wasn't Chaos, not exactly. It felt… different. Untamed. Less about raw power, more about… intention. It was a language he was only just beginning to decipher, one he currently spoke with a stammer.

The garden. Vernon wanted the weeds pulled. Geralt-Harry walked out into the meticulously manicured lawn, the scent of fresh-cut grass and chemical fertilizer assaulting his sensitive nose. He eyed the offending dandelions. A simple job. He knelt, testing the soil with a dirt-stained finger. Soft. He could probably just pull them out. No Signs needed. Good. He was still figuring out how to cast even a rudimentary Axii from this form; the physical effort required was disproportionate to the subtle effects. It was like trying to crack open a nut with a siege hammer.

As he worked, methodically eradicating the unwanted flora, a large, clumsy hand clamped down on his shoulder. Dudley. The boy smelled of cheap sweets and unwashed laundry. "Freak! What are you doing? Ruining the grass?" Dudley's voice was a whiny sneer, echoing his mother's unpleasant timbre. Geralt-Harry turned slowly, his young face unreadable, his green eyes betraying none of the internal calculations. "I am weeding." He spoke with the quiet, deliberate cadence of a Witcher accustomed to dealing with volatile situations. Dudley snorted, a pig-like sound. "Don't get smart, Potter! Or I'll punch you!" He raised a pudgy fist, thick as a ham, clearly intending to strike.

Geralt-Harry didn't flinch. His eyes, now a startlingly bright green, narrowed. He considered his options. In his own body, a simple counter-punch would send the boy sprawling, likely with a broken nose. Here… the boy was twice his size, a surprisingly heavy mass. But slower. Predictable. His movements were wide, uncoordinated, and telegraphed.

He saw the attack coming. A wide, sloppy swing, fueled by anger and years of unchallenged bullying. Geralt-Harry shifted, a subtle duck that belied the child's supposed clumsiness. Dudley's fist sailed harmlessly over his head, disturbing only a stray dandelion. Without a conscious thought, Geralt-Harry's foot swept out, catching Dudley's ankle. It was a simple trip, taught to new recruits in Kaer Morhen for disarming larger, less agile opponents, a fundamental lesson in using an enemy's own momentum against them. Dudley, top-heavy and off-balance, tumbled with a surprised yelp, landing with a soft thud on the pristine lawn, his breath knocked out of him.

Vernon Dursley's outraged roar from the kitchen window was immediate, shattering the afternoon calm. "POTTER! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Geralt-Harry merely stood, brushing dirt from his knees with a methodical hand. He looked at the fallen Dudley, then at the livid face of Vernon Dursley, and finally, up at the clear blue sky. This was going to be a long contract. A very long, irritating, and surprisingly mundane contract. He wondered if there was a clause for hazard pay related to excessive suburban normalcy.

Chapter Two: A Very Un-Harry Arrival

The owl was unprecedented. Geralt-Harry recognized the species – a common barn owl, if unusually large and pristine – though this one seemed remarkably plump and well-groomed for a common hunting owl. It sailed through the open kitchen window, a silent, feathered missile, and dropped a thick, cream-colored envelope, sealed with a familiar, yet somehow unsettling, wax crest, onto Dudley's head at breakfast. The sticky residue of marmalade and bacon grease clung to the parchment. The owl then ruffled its feathers indignantly, hooting softly, as if offended by the state of its delivery point.

"A letter for me?" Dudley blubbered, wiping jam from his face with a sleeve, his eyes wide with uncharacteristic surprise. Vernon, ever vigilant for anything that threatened his carefully constructed normalcy, snatched it from Dudley's grasp. His eyes scanned the precise, elegant script. "This is addressed to… Mr. H. Potter. The Cupboard Under the Stairs." His face, already a mottled purple from years of suppressed rage, deepened to a furious beet-red. "Nonsense! There's no such thing! This is some sort of prank!" He brandished the letter as if it were a venomous snake, his jowls quivering.

Geralt-Harry felt the faint magical thrum under his skin intensify, a low hum that resonated with the parchment. Ah, the magic has a source. He watched the Dursleys' escalating panic with detached interest. These weren't creatures of the Elder Speech, nor were they any known species from the Continent's bestiaries, but they were certainly behaving like a particularly agitated flock of dodos on the verge of collective hysteria. Their fear was palpable, almost a scent in the air, but it was a fear of the unknown, of anything that deviated from their rigidly structured lives.

More owls arrived. Dozens. Hundreds. They descended like a feathered plague, tapping urgently at windows, swooping down chimneys, and even bursting through the mail slot. Letters stuffed through every crack, rattling the windows with their sheer volume, exploding from the fireplace in a deluge of parchment and soot. The Dursleys, utterly overwhelmed by this relentless magical assault, fled their sanctuary in Privet Drive as if a particularly virulent plague had been unleashed. Geralt-Harry found himself bundled into a car, amidst Vernon's increasingly high-pitched squeals, then onto a small, isolated, sea-battered island. It was almost peaceful, save for Vernon's continuous, high-pitched whining, which was rapidly grating on Geralt's already frayed nerves.

Then came the boom.

The front door of the sea-battered shack splintered inward with the force of a battering ram, revealing a giant. No, not a giant. A half-giant. Geralt had seen creatures of similar lineage before, usually in mountainous regions or among the more isolated Skellige clans. This one wore a kindly, if imposing, face and carried a peculiar pink umbrella that looked far too dainty for his massive hands. He smelled of fresh air, damp earth, and something vaguely alcoholic.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey," the half-giant rumbled, his voice a deep, resonant bass that vibrated through the floorboards. He stepped over the shattered doorframe as if it were a mere pebble. "Rough night, that one. Harry, a very happy birthday to yeh." His eyes, like black beetles, twinkled with a surprising warmth.

Geralt-Harry stared up at the man, Rubeus Hagrid, as he called himself. Hagrid pulled out a squashed cake from an inner pocket, still vaguely recognizable as a birthday confection despite its ordeal, and presented it with a proud flourish.

"I'm not Harry," Geralt-Harry stated flatly, his voice still high-pitched and childish, but the delivery was pure Witcher – blunt, direct, and utterly devoid of expected childlike wonder.

Hagrid blinked, confused, a slow dawning of incomprehension spreading across his broad face. "O' course yer Harry, lad. Who else would yeh be?" His brow furrowed in genuine concern.

"My name is Geralt. Geralt of Rivia." He waited for a reaction, for recognition, for anything. Nothing.

Hagrid stared for another moment, then chuckled, a sound like grinding stones, dismissing Geralt's claim as childish fancy. "Don't yeh worry, Harry, yer a wizard. And a thumping good one, I'd wager." He ignored Geralt's protests, which were mostly internal grunts of exasperation, and produced a thick, official-looking letter from his coat. "Yer acceptance to Hogwarts. A school o' witchcraft and wizardry."

Geralt-Harry took the parchment. Magic school. Not the kind of magic he knew – no Curses or Bombs or Potions brewed in little vials, no raw, untamed elements bent to a Witcher's will. But… spells. Incantations. Hand gestures. Signs by another name. He studied the letter, the intricate calligraphy, the list of required books and equipment. A flicker of something akin to interest sparked in his jade-green eyes. A new contract. A strange one. But a contract nonetheless. And if there was magic involved, there was potential for understanding what had happened to him.

Hagrid then proceeded to explain about Voldemort, the lightning bolt scar, and Harry's supposed fame in the wizarding world. Geralt-Harry listened, patiently piecing together the convoluted story. A powerful dark wizard, a child's impossible survival, a forgotten prophecy. It was all so… unnecessarily dramatic. It sounded like a badly written ballad, full of flowery language and lacking in practical details.

"So, the goal is to kill this Voldemort?" Geralt-Harry asked, cutting through Hagrid's sentimental explanation of Lily Potter's sacrifice and the power of love. He was focused on the objective.

Hagrid spluttered, nearly dropping his half-eaten sausage. "Kill 'im? Bless yer heart, Harry, he's gone! Vanished! Though some say he ain't gone forever…" He looked nervous, as if speaking the name itself might summon trouble.

Geralt-Harry simply grunted. Nothing ever truly vanishes. It merely changes form, or finds a new hiding place. He'd seen enough apparitions, wraiths, and higher vampires to know that death was often just another stage in a creature's existence. If this 'Voldemort' was truly gone, why the unease? Why the lingering scar? Why the pervasive sense of a job half-finished?

Chapter Three: The Cauldron and the Serpent

Diagon Alley was an assault on the senses. The sounds were a cacophony of chattering voices, cawing owls, the ringing of bells, and the occasional burst of magical energy. The smells were a bewildering mix of fresh parchment, exotic spices, the sweet scent of sugary confections, and something vaguely metallic from Gringotts. The vibrant colours of enchanted shop signs, flowing robes, and shimmering potions bottles created a swirling, dizzying kaleidoscope. Geralt-Harry, dwarfed by the bustling crowd, observed it all with the keen, almost detached gaze of a Witcher sizing up a new environment, noting potential threats and resources. Magical instruments hummed with an internal energy, potions bubbled in iridescent vats, and strange creatures – some familiar from bestiaries, others utterly alien – were advertised in cages with colourful, misleading labels. It was chaotic, inefficient, and utterly fascinating in its raw, untamed magic.

His "wand" chose him, or rather, refused to choose him easily. Ollivander, a strangely enthusiastic old man with eyes like pale, milky moons, presented him with wand after wand. Each produced a fizzle, a shower of sparks that singed the air, or a plume of acrid smoke that stung his nostrils. Geralt-Harry felt the faint hum of magic trying to connect, trying to mold itself to his will, but his core, his very soul, was resistant to this… domesticated magic. It preferred the raw, primal force of Signs, the instinctive channeling of his mutated essence. This wand business felt too polite, too refined.

Finally, a wand of holly and phoenix feather. It thrummed in his hand, a surge of warmth that was almost familiar, then a sharp, almost painful jolt, like static electricity mixed with pure energy. It wasn't the sensation of a true Igni, but a faint echo. "Curious," Ollivander whispered, his milky eyes widening, "very curious indeed… The phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather… only one other. It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar." He regarded Geralt-Harry with an intensity that bordered on unsettling.

Geralt-Harry just nodded, absorbing the information. He could feel the connection now, a strange, humming conduit for this new kind of magic. It felt… small. Contained. But effective. He could work with that. Every tool had its uses.

He got his books, thick tomes filled with Latin phrases and strange diagrams, his robes, which felt absurdly voluminous and impractical, and a rather intelligent-looking snowy owl, Hedwig, whom he permitted to perch on his arm after she nipped him playfully. He even let Hagrid buy him an ice cream, though the sweetness was almost sickening after a lifetime of monster parts, strong alcohol, and the gritty, unadulterated taste of survival.

Hogwarts. The journey by train was oddly pleasant, though the sight of so many unmonitored children was a minor source of anxiety. The Sorting Hat was a headache. It sat on his head, a ragged, sentient piece of cloth that began to speak inside his mind, its voice a dusty murmur.

"Ah, a complex mind… so much bravery, yes, Gryffindor for sure… a willingness to face danger head-on, a disregard for rules when the stakes are high. But a deep cynicism too, a weariness beyond your years. A thirst for knowledge, yes, but not for its own sake – for application, for utility. And a desire to protect those you deem family, a fierce loyalty… Slytherin? No… too blunt for true cunning, too honest for deception. Ravenclaw? You appreciate strategy, logic, problem-solving. Hufflepuff? Loyalty, yes, but not to just anyone. You value truth, even when it's ugly, even when it costs you. You are… a survivor."

Geralt-Harry thought back to the dozens of monsters he'd faced, the moral ambiguities of his former life on the Path, the constant weighing of lesser evils. He didn't care about houses, only about efficacy, about the most direct route to the task at hand. "Put me where I can get this Voldemort problem dealt with efficiently," he thought back, his mental voice a low growl, utterly devoid of childish apprehension.

The Hat remained silent for a long moment, as if genuinely stumped, processing the sheer pragmatism of the soul beneath it. "A pragmatist… a survivor… a monster hunter… Very well. GRYFFINDOR!" The last word echoed loudly in the Great Hall.

The table roared with applause, a wave of cheering students in scarlet and gold. Geralt-Harry walked towards the Gryffindor table, his small frame moving with an uncharacteristic purposeful stride, already assessing his new companions with a Witcher's practiced observation. A red-headed boy, Ron Weasley, looked friendly but a bit overwhelmed by the sheer volume of his family and the grandeur of the hall. A bushy-haired girl, Hermione Granger, was already scrutinizing him with an intense, almost accusatory gaze, as if he'd broken an unspoken rule simply by existing.

Classes were… enlightening, if occasionally infuriating. Potions with Snape was a particular trial. Snape, a sneering man with greasy black hair that reminded Geralt of a particularly ill-groomed drowner, clearly disliked him on sight, an immediate and visceral aversion that Geralt had grown accustomed to from mages and fearful villagers alike.

"Potter! What is the ingredient needed for a Draught of Living Death?" Snape's voice was a silky, dangerous whisper, laced with barely contained malice. He hovered over Geralt-Harry's cauldron like a hungry leshen.

Geralt-Harry recalled the vague, imprecise instructions in the textbook, which felt like a poor recipe for poison. "Asphodel. And wormwood." He added, with a slight tilt of his head, his green eyes meeting Snape's dark ones without flinching, "But the quantity and precise preparation are far more important than the simple ingredients. If it's a sleep potion, the concentration of active compounds would need careful measurement, specific heat, and precise stirring patterns, not just a haphazard toss and boil as this textbook implies."

Snape's face contorted in a sneer, a vein throbbing in his temple. "Are you attempting to lecture me, Potter? Five points from Gryffindor for impertinence!"

"Just stating facts," Geralt-Harry replied, shrugging his small shoulders, completely unfazed by the deduction. He'd faced worse temper tantrums from angry mages who were actually dangerous. This one just seemed… petty.

Charms class, led by a tiny man named Professor Flitwick who stood on a stack of books, was marginally better. The "Wingardium Leviosa" spell was simple enough, a basic telekinetic Sign by another name, a minor Aard. He learned to articulate the Latin with precise, practiced movements, a strange echo of his own hand gestures for Aard or Yrden, finding an unexpected rhythm in the precise flick-and-swish. Hermione was annoyed by his lack of theoretical interest, preferring to skip the detailed explanations and jump straight to practical application, but grudgingly impressed by his quick mastery of the simple spell.

He even tolerated Quidditch. The idea of flying on a broomstick was ludicrous, inefficient, and frankly, dangerous without proper protective gear or a reliable potion of resilience. But the physicality of the game, the precise movements required to maneuver the broom, the thrill of speed as he chased the Golden Snitch – it held a strange, almost primal appeal. He found himself surprisingly good at it, his Witcher reflexes translating into a natural aptitude for seeking, his eyes tracking the glint of the snitch with the same focused intensity he used to track a stray beast.

The rumours about a certain "Philosopher's Stone" and its guardian, a three-headed dog named Fluffy, began to circulate through the castle. Geralt-Harry listened, his internal alarm bells ringing. A powerful magical artifact, an incompetent guardian, and strange occurrences around the castle. It smelled of a contract. A dangerous one. And the constant vague warnings from Dumbledore only solidified his suspicion that something was being deliberately concealed.

He began his own investigations. He'd followed Snape, observed Quirrell with the cold, assessing eye of a hunter, and pieced together the puzzle with the detached efficiency of a monster hunter tracking its prey. He noted Quirrell's strange aversion to light, his nervous stutter, and the peculiar smell of dark magic clinging to him, faint but detectable. The Mirror of Erised, which supposedly showed one's deepest desire, was particularly intriguing. Dumbledore warned against it, seeing it as a temptation, but Geralt-Harry saw only a tool, a strange form of scrying. When he looked into it, he saw… Ciri, older and stronger, Yennefer, her violet eyes soft with amusement, and even Jaskier, strumming his lute, all alive and well, sharing a meal around a campfire, free from the burdens of the Path, free from war. A pang, sharp and unexpected, twisted in his chest, a yearning he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge in years. Sentiment. Dangerous. A weakness. He turned away, his expression hardening.

The night he knew the stone was in danger, he didn't hesitate. Ron and Hermione, despite their protests about breaking rules and the sheer recklessness of the endeavor, were determined to help. "This isn't a monster hunt, Geralt," Hermione insisted, clutching her book on ancient runes like a shield. "This is a serious breach of school regulations!"

"Every problem is a monster if you look hard enough," Geralt-Harry grunted, his hand already on the still-sleeping Fluffy's ear, having recalled Hagrid's off-hand comment about music. He pushed past the massive, drooling heads, already assessing the Devil's Snare, recognizing its need for warmth and light, a basic botanical weakness easily overcome by the simple Ignis spell Hermione managed.

The challenges in the vaults were puzzles, not tests of strength. The flying keys were handled with a surprising burst of speed from his small body, a natural agility that belied his age, allowing him to snatch the correct key in mid-air. The chess game, a brutal battle of wits, was solved with a cold, calculated strategy that unnerved Ron, who had never seen such a ruthless disregard for knight and bishop alike. When they finally faced Quirrell, possessed by Voldemort, Geralt-Harry felt a familiar surge of adrenaline, a primal readiness for combat. This was it. The real fight. The true monster.

Voldemort's spectral face, emerging from the back of Quirrell's head like a grotesque tumor, hissed, "You cannot stop me, boy! I am Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard of all time!"

"You're a parasite," Geralt-Harry stated, his voice flat, his green eyes burning with a cold fury. "And you have a serious anger problem. Also, you lack a physical body, which is a significant tactical disadvantage."

Voldemort shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, sending a blast of green light – the Killing Curse – towards him. Geralt-Harry, moving with an unexpected agility, rolled to the side, then lunged forward, not with a wand, but with his bare hands. He grabbed Quirrell's face, forcing the contact. The pain of the touch, the blistering agony as Voldemort's lingering essence recoiled, was immense, searing his flesh, but Geralt-Harry ignored it, gritting his teeth. He focused the raw, unrefined magic within him, not a spell, but a pure, desperate push of his Witcher essence, the chaotic energy of his mutations amplified by the foreign, untamed magic of this world. He'd seen the effects of love, of sacrifice, of protective instincts, back in his own world. He channeled the protective surge he felt towards the naive children beside him, the instinct to protect the innocent from such a vile abomination. He poured every ounce of his will into that touch.

Quirrell screamed, a raw, tormented sound, as his body disintegrated into dust before Geralt-Harry's eyes. Voldemort's spectral form shrieked, a high-pitched wail of pure hatred and frustration, peeling away into the shadows, leaving only a residue of dark, acrid magic and the stench of decay. Geralt-Harry stood panting, his small face grim, his scar throbbing with a familiar, searing pain that felt almost like a brand. He felt drained, as if he'd just taken on a higher vampire without his elixirs.

Dumbledore arrived moments later, his eyes twinkling, though a flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face as he surveyed the dust pile, the unconscious Quirrell, and the resolute, weary child standing amidst the wreckage.

"Harry, my boy, you faced him, didn't you?" Dumbledore's voice was gentle, filled with a profound understanding.

Geralt-Harry looked up at the old wizard, his green eyes surprisingly old and world-weary. "He was a weak, pathetic excuse for a monster. Overconfident, and reliant on a borrowed body. And he had a contract out on his soul, though he didn't know it." He paused, a glint entering his eyes. "Now, about the payment. A Witcher's services aren't free."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, and a faint smile touched his lips, recognizing the unusual pragmatism. "Ah, yes. The payment. Perhaps a quiet summer, free from… intrusions and meddling relatives, and a chance to truly recuperate?"

Geralt-Harry considered it. "And a new sword. This thing," he held up his wand, "is too fragile. Not suited for proper monster hunting."

Dumbledore chuckled, a sound like rustling parchment, a genuine warmth in his gaze. "I believe we can arrange that, Harry. A very different kind of summer, indeed. Perhaps a custom-made one, forged with a touch of magic, suitable for a… unique talent."

The wizarding world, for the first time, had a Witcher, albeit one in a child's body. And the Witcher had a new, utterly baffling, contract. And perhaps, just perhaps, a sense of something akin to belonging, however temporary.

Chapter Four: The Elf and the Enraged Muggles

The summer that followed was anything but quiet. Geralt-Harry, still trapped in the scrawny body, found himself back in the suffocating normalcy of Privet Drive, a place he now understood was a self-imposed prison built on the Dursleys' petty fears. His new "sword"—the holly and phoenix feather wand—lay hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the cupboard, its magic a faint, irritating hum compared to the potent, raw power he remembered from his own world. He practiced the few Signs he knew, trying to mold the clumsy wand magic to his will, a frustrating endeavor. Even a basic Igni felt like striking flint with a wet sponge.

One sweltering afternoon, a small, gaunt creature with large, green, tennis-ball eyes and long, pointed ears appeared in his bedroom. It wore a filthy tea towel and looked utterly terrified. It introduced itself as Dobby, a house-elf.

"Harry Potter sir must not go back to Hogwarts!" Dobby squeaked, wringing its bony hands. "Terrible things are to happen!"

Geralt-Harry watched the creature with the detached curiosity of a Witcher encountering a new species. "Explain yourself. What things? What kind of threat?" His voice was still a child's, but his tone was flat, demanding detail. He'd seen fae creatures before, and this one radiated a peculiar, subservient magic mixed with genuine fear.

Dobby, however, was prone to emotional outbursts, banging its head against the wall, wailing about secrecy and loyalty. "Dobby must punish Dobby for speaking ill of his family!"

"Stop that," Geralt-Harry commanded, a sharp tone that momentarily froze the elf. "Self-flagellation is inefficient. If you have information, deliver it. If not, cease this disruptive behavior."

The elf looked bewildered by this pragmatic approach. It seemed to understand only the concepts of service and punishment. Dobby then revealed its desperate attempts to stop Harry from returning to Hogwarts, including intercepting letters from his friends and, more disturbingly, interfering with the Dursleys' dinner party.

Vernon Dursley's face, already puce, turned a terrifying shade of purple when the pudding Dobby had enchanted splattered over their guest. The ensuing chaos was typical Dursley: loud, overblown, and utterly lacking in any real danger, save for the threat of Vernon's apoplexy. Geralt-Harry watched, a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes, as Vernon, driven to hysterics, barred his window with thick iron grating and installed a cat flap on his door, effectively turning his room into a small, temporary dungeon.

"They're not very good jailers," Geralt-Harry observed dryly to Hedwig, who hooted in agreement from her cage. "Their security measures are laughably easy to bypass. Amateur work."

The true escape came in the form of a Ford Anglia, a Muggle contraption that roared through the night sky, driven by the red-headed Ron Weasley and his older twin brothers, Fred and George. The car, surprisingly enchanted, was a chaotic marvel. Geralt-Harry, used to riding Roach or navigating treacherous mountain paths, found the sensation of a flying automobile both exhilarating and deeply unsettling.

"Ron, your navigational skills are… imprecise," Geralt-Harry noted, as the car swerved wildly past a startled group of clouds.

"It's the best car in the world, Harry!" Ron retorted, grinning widely.

Geralt-Harry merely grunted. Needs better suspension. And possibly a more stable aetherial drive. But he conceded the point: it was effective. And the Dursleys were left behind, sputtering in their mundane prison, utterly powerless against even the simplest display of magic. He felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction, a small victory in a contract he hadn't formally taken.

Chapter Five: The Blight of Lockhart and Whispers in the Walls

Hogwarts. The familiar stone walls and bustling corridors were a welcome change from Privet Drive. Geralt-Harry found himself back in the rhythm of classes, though his patience for certain subjects, particularly History of Magic, remained minimal. Professor Binns, a ghost, was as uninteresting as a verbose ghoul.

The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, was a particular blight. From their first encounter in Diagon Alley, Geralt-Harry had assessed Lockhart as a charlatan, a verbose bard without a shred of genuine skill or courage. His smile was too wide, his clothes too flamboyant, and his stories too embellished. He radiated the faint scent of fear and a powerful aura of self-deception.

"Lockhart," Geralt-Harry stated bluntly after one particularly boastful lesson about battling a werewolf. "Your account lacks the granular detail of genuine experience. A full-grown werewolf would have torn apart an unprepared wizard. Your escape sounds… convenient."

Lockhart merely laughed, preening. "Ah, Harry, my boy, you wound me! Perhaps I simply possess a certain… flair for efficiency! A touch of magic that leaves others speechless!"

Geralt-Harry rolled his eyes. Speechless with boredom, perhaps. He spent his time in class observing Lockhart, learning nothing of value about Dark Arts, but much about human vanity and incompetence.

The true problem began with the petrifications. First, Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was found stiff as a board. Then Colin Creevey, a Muggle-born first-year. And then, horrifyingly, a Gryffindor Quidditch player. Each time, the victims were found near unsettling messages scrawled on the wall: "THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE."

Geralt-Harry's Witcher senses immediately honed in. This wasn't a curse cast by a student. This was a monster. The lingering magical signature felt ancient, powerful, and distinctly non-human. He tried to track its scent, its vibrations, but the old stone of Hogwarts seemed to absorb and distort them.

"It's a creature," Geralt-Harry stated to Ron and Hermione, who were poring over books on ancient curses. "The petrification isn't a spell, it's a physiological effect. Something in its gaze, or perhaps its venom. And it moves through the walls. I can feel the faint reverberations, too weak for any human, but it's there."

Hermione, despite her intellectual skepticism, listened to his unusual deductions. "But what kind of creature can do that, Harry? And how does it move unseen?"

"Something large. And it's not a common beast," Geralt-Harry replied, already thinking of anti-monster oils and elixirs. He went to the library, not for ancient curses, but for texts on magical zoology, bestiaries, and forgotten lore, searching for descriptions of creatures that petrified. He found a passing mention of a Basilisk, a giant serpent whose gaze was deadly. The pieces began to click.

The Dueling Club, organized by Lockhart, was another farce, until Snape demonstrated a bone-breaking charm. Then, Harry found himself facing Draco Malfoy, and his scar throbbed. When Malfoy summoned a snake, Geralt-Harry reacted instinctively, his mind reaching for the primordial sounds of ancient tongues, the guttural whispers of creatures. He hissed, a strange, rasping sound, and the snake froze. The hall fell silent. Whispers spread like wildfire: "He's a Parselmouth! He can talk to snakes!"

The accusation that he was Slytherin's Heir, responsible for the attacks, grew louder. Even Ron looked at him with a flicker of doubt. Hermione, however, remained resolute. "You wouldn't, Harry," she whispered. "You're too good."

Geralt-Harry simply grunted. "Good has nothing to do with it. But a contract with a creature like this? Unprofessional. And the fee would be exorbitant." His detachment, however, was cracking. The attacks were escalating, and soon, Hermione herself was petrified, found with a mirror and a book on Basilisks next to her. The monster was real. And it was getting closer.

Chapter Six: Shadows in the Forest and the Secret Revealed

Hermione's petrification snapped Geralt-Harry's remaining patience. He had tolerated the inept Ministry, the bumbling Lockhart, and the prejudiced whispers. But this was a direct assault on someone under his… protection. He remembered the feeling of responsibility he felt for Ciri, for Yennefer. Hermione was equally invaluable, though in a distinctly different way.

He and Ron, armed with Hermione's cryptic note, sought Hagrid, but found him being arrested by the Ministry. Before he was taken, Hagrid gave a cryptic clue: "If anyone wanted to find out, all they'd have to do was follow the spiders."

"Spiders," Geralt-Harry muttered, his lips thinning. He hated spiders. But a Witcher did not shy from a contract. He led Ron into the Forbidden Forest, following the grotesque, skittering trails. The forest itself hummed with a different kind of magic, wilder, more primal than Hogwarts. He felt more at home here than in the castle.

They found Aragog, a monstrous, sentient spider, king of the Acromantulas. The creature was enormous, its many eyes reflecting the lamp light. Geralt-Harry felt a familiar prickle of warning, the sense of facing a powerful, ancient beast.

"You speak the Common Tongue," Geralt-Harry observed, his hand unconsciously drifting towards where his silver sword would normally hang. "And you harbor a nest of abominations."

Aragog was not interested in pleasantries. He revealed he was not the monster of the Chamber, but a friend of Hagrid. He then, with chilling indifference, offered them to his ravenous children. Geralt-Harry cursed under his breath. This wasn't the kind of beast you reasoned with. This was a hunt.

He and Ron fought their way out, barely escaping on the enchanted Ford Anglia, which burst from the undergrowth like a mechanical deus ex machina. They had their answer: not Aragog, but something else, something only a Basilisk could be. Hermione's note confirmed it: the monster moved through pipes, its direct gaze lethal, its indirect gaze petrifying.

The target was Ginny Weasley, Ron's sister, taken into the Chamber. And Lockhart, coward that he was, was forced to accompany them by Ron's wand.

The entrance to the Chamber was in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, a detail Geralt-Harry found surprisingly fitting for a hidden, ancient lair. Myrtle, a ghost, was full of unnecessary drama but pointed the way: a secret entrance in the sinks. Harry, inexplicably, spoke to the sink in Parseltongue, the guttural, sibilant language flowing from his lips with terrifying ease. It was the same language he'd used in the Dueling Club.

"You speak the serpent's tongue," Geralt-Harry noted to himself, a grim understanding dawning. This connection to snakes, to Slytherin, was deeper than he'd thought. It confirmed his suspicion that his scar was more than just a mark; it was a conduit, a twisted link to Voldemort's essence.

Lockhart, attempting a memory charm, backfired it onto himself with Ron's broken wand, losing his own memories. Good riddance. Geralt-Harry left him there. One less nuisance. He and Ron descended into the Chamber, a vast, echoing cavern, its walls adorned with serpent motifs.

There stood a boy, translucent and arrogant, holding Ginny. Tom Riddle. The name registered immediately: the younger form of Voldemort, a fragment of his soul. Geralt-Harry's medallion should have vibrated itself to dust at the presence of such dark, unnatural magic.

"I am Tom Riddle," the projection announced, a smirk on his spectral face. "And I am the true heir of Slytherin. I will restore this school to its former glory. And you, Harry Potter, will die."

"You are a remnant," Geralt-Harry countered, his voice steady. "A ghost. A parasitic echo. And you brought a monster." His eyes scanned the vast chamber, already searching for weaknesses, for the Basilisk.

With Riddle's command, the colossal Basilisk emerged from the statue of Salazar Slytherin, its scales shimmering in the dim light, its eyes glowing with a deadly, emerald luminescence. This was no common beast. This was a relic, a powerful, ancient monster, far more dangerous than any fiend or griffin.

Geralt-Harry didn't hesitate. "Ron, look away! Close your eyes!" he yelled, even as he himself turned his head slightly, relying on his peripheral vision and the thrumming sensation of the beast's approach. He needed to avoid its direct gaze. His young body felt agonizingly slow, but his Witcher instincts took over. This was a hunt, a contract.

Suddenly, Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, swooped down, blinding the Basilisk with its talons. The creature shrieked, no longer able to petrify. Good. One less problem. Now it was a matter of pure combat.

Fawkes then dropped the Sorting Hat at Geralt-Harry's feet. He reached inside. Not a sword, but the Sword of Gryffindor, gleaming dully in the torchlight. A suitable tool, after all.

Geralt-Harry gripped the sword, the familiar weight a comfort. He moved, not with the full, fluid grace of his true form, but with the desperate, precise movements of a child channeling decades of ingrained combat knowledge. He dodged the Basilisk's massive head, the crushing coils, the lashing tail. He lunged, driving the sword deep into the roof of the Basilisk's mouth, feeling the cold, ancient blood gush over his hand.

The Basilisk thrashed, its dying convulsions shaking the Chamber. One of its venomous fangs pierced his arm, a searing, agonizing pain that coursed through his small body, cold fire burning through his veins. He gasped, collapsing as the Basilisk hit the ground with a final, earth-shaking shudder.

Riddle, enraged, watched him. "You fool! You're dying! The venom of the Basilisk will kill you, and I will still live! I am immortal!"

Geralt-Harry coughed, the venom burning, but his green eyes, though glazed, held a grim satisfaction. "Nothing is immortal, you arrogant child. Just… inconvenient to kill." He ripped the fang from his arm. "And sometimes, a monster has a weakness that even a fragment of a soul can't comprehend."

He stumbled towards Riddle's diary, a surge of adrenaline pushing him forward. He plunged the Basilisk fang into the diary. The spectral Riddle shrieked, contorted, and began to dissipate, dissolving into nothingness. The diary bled black ink.

Fawkes, the phoenix, landed beside him, its beautiful eyes shining. It wept, and its tears, hot and potent, fell onto his venomous wound. The burning sensation vanished. The skin stitched itself back together.

"Phoenix tears," Geralt-Harry murmured, his voice hoarse, examining his healed arm. "Potent. A useful alchemical component."

Dumbledore was there quickly, as always, his eyes twinkling. "Harry, you've done it again."

Geralt-Harry merely grunted, leaning heavily on the Sword of Gryffindor. "Another monster dealt with. And another piece of Voldemort removed. The contract continues." He looked at Ginny, pale but alive. "The girl is safe. The cost… was acceptable."

Later, in Dumbledore's office, Geralt-Harry accepted the House points and the praise with his usual indifference. When Dumbledore mentioned Dobby, the elf, who had been punished severely by his masters for trying to warn Harry, Geralt-Harry had an idea.

"Dobby's master is an incompetent fool," Geralt-Harry stated to Dumbledore. "The elf tried to uphold his end of a… loose agreement. He deserves proper compensation."

Dumbledore nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "Indeed, Harry. A house-elf can only be freed if its master presents it with clothes."

Geralt-Harry considered this. He retrieved the ruined diary, now just a charred leather book. He then pulled off one of his socks, a rather worn and holey garment, and shoved the diary inside. "Here," he said, handing the bundle to Lucius Malfoy, who had arrived demanding answers about his daughter's possession. "Your property. You might want to take better care of it."

Malfoy, sneering, snatched the diary. "You insolent brat! What makes you think you can tell me—" He reached into the book, pulled out the sock, and flung it at Dobby. "Here, elf! Take your blasted sock!"

Dobby, eyes wide, caught the sock. A moment of stunned silence, then a joyful, ear-splitting shriek. "Dobby is free! Dobby is a free elf!" He looked at Geralt-Harry with boundless adoration. "Harry Potter freed Dobby!"

Lucius Malfoy snarled, raising his wand. "You'll pay for that, Potter!"

"No," Geralt-Harry said, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly lethal, the green of his eyes hardening. "You will not touch him. Or anyone else." He had a sword now, and the wand, and a growing understanding of this world's magic. And a debt to an elf he had not formally hired, but whose actions had proven useful. "Consider this a new clause in my contract. Interference will be met with extreme prejudice."

Malfoy, startled by the unexpected venom in the child's voice, hesitated, then lowered his wand, his face a mask of furious confusion. He apparated away.

Geralt-Harry looked at the free Dobby, then at Dumbledore. "The wizarding world has more monsters than it realizes. And not all of them wear fangs."

Dumbledore merely smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Indeed, Harry. Indeed."

Chapter Seven: The Convict and the Call of Freedom

The summer following the Chamber of Secrets was marginally better than the previous one, though "better" for Geralt-Harry simply meant a different kind of tedious. The Dursleys, still reeling from the Dobby incident and Lucius Malfoy's humiliation, treated him with a bizarre, almost fearful politeness. The constant threat of magic, however subtle, now hung over their perfectly ordinary lives like a cloud of invisible venom. Vernon Dursley, after a particularly vehement whispered threat from Geralt-Harry about the consequences of further interference, had reluctantly agreed to some semblance of normal meals. It wasn't the hearty stew or dried meat he was used to, but it was better than the meager rations of last summer.

His "sword"—the holly and phoenix feather wand—still felt like a toy, but he was slowly learning to wield it. Each morning, before the Dursleys stirred, he would creep into the garden, trying to master rudimentary charms. Lumos was simple enough, a small, controlled burst of Igni. But more complex spells, like Reparo, often resulted in minor explosions or objects melting slightly. His body, still small and lacking the formidable musculature of his true form, remained a frustrating limitation. He'd tried basic combat training, shadowboxing in his tiny room, but the lack of strength and stamina was stark. It was like fighting a fiend with a dulled butter knife. Still, the movements, the muscle memory, were there, deeply ingrained. He just needed to learn to compensate with this new form of magic.

The news broke like a thunderclap on the Muggle evening news: Sirius Black, a mass murderer, had escaped Azkaban, the wizarding prison. The accompanying picture of a gaunt, wild-eyed man caused Geralt-Harry's internal alarm bells to ring. This wasn't a common criminal. This was a powerful wizard, driven to madness, or perhaps something worse. He read the newspaper clipping Ron sent him with detached interest, noting the description of Black's supposedly impossible escape. Only a truly dangerous "beast," magical or otherwise, could break out of a place like that.

His instincts screamed contract. A dangerous man, clearly unstable, with a history of violence and a direct connection to his adoptive parents. This wasn't just a wizarding problem; it was a personal problem.

The journey on the Hogwarts Express began ordinarily enough, filled with the usual cacophony of children's voices and the clatter of sweets trolleys. He found Ron and Hermione, who immediately launched into excited chatter about their summers. Hermione, ever the diligent one, had acquired a monstrous cat named Crookshanks, who promptly began tormenting Ron's rat, Scabbers. Geralt-Harry observed the cat with a flicker of recognition: a creature of unusual intelligence and tenacity.

Then came the cold. A chilling, unnatural cold that seeped into the bones, far deeper than any winter chill. The lights in the compartment flickered, then died. A presence, a palpable drain on the atmosphere, descended. Geralt-Harry felt a peculiar sensation, like a dull ache in his chest, a vacuum sucking at something he rarely acknowledged.

A Dementor. He'd never encountered anything like it. It was a cloaked figure, gliding effortlessly, its face hidden, its presence radiating an emptiness that was profoundly unsettling. It wasn't the physical threat of a griffin, nor the cunning malice of a vampire. It fed on something else entirely: happiness. Geralt, having lived a life largely devoid of profound joy, found himself less susceptible to the overwhelming despair that gripped Ron and Hermione. He felt a faint flicker of annoyance, a sense of having a non-essential resource being pilfered. Still, the cold was bone-deep, and Harry's body shuddered uncontrollably.

Suddenly, a new presence. Professor Lupin, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, stepped forward, a weary but resolute figure. He raised his wand. "None of you are to die," he said, his voice firm. A flash of light, and the Dementor retreated. Lupin then offered them chocolate.

"Eat this," Lupin instructed, his eyes assessing Geralt-Harry with an odd intensity. "It helps."

Geralt-Harry took the chocolate, its sweetness a strange, almost foreign sensation. He observed Lupin, noting the man's tired eyes, the faint scars on his face, the subtle tremor in his hand. Not an ordinary wizard. The smell of old magic and something else, something wild and untamed, clung to him.

Arrival at Hogwarts was met with heightened security. Dementors patrolled the grounds, their chilling presence a constant reminder of the threat. The student body was abuzz with fear and rumors of Black's deadly intentions towards Harry. Geralt-Harry simply grunted. Let them fear. Fear makes people do stupid things. And it makes monsters stronger. He knew he was the target, and he preferred facing the threat head-on, rather than waiting for it to strike.

Chapter Eight: New Lessons and Old Scars

Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Lupin quickly became Geralt-Harry's most tolerable class. Lupin's approach to Dark creatures was pragmatic, focusing on understanding their weaknesses and effective countermeasures. He taught them about Boggarts, shapeshifting entities that fed on fear.

"To defeat a Boggart," Lupin explained, "you must think of something funny, something that will make it ridiculous."

Geralt-Harry watched the other students struggle, their worst fears manifesting. When it was his turn, the Boggart swirled, trying to find his deepest fear. It flickered through images: Vernon Dursley (briefly, then it shuddered as if encountering something truly unpleasant), then Lord Voldemort (a fleeting outline, then it seemed to recoil). Finally, it settled on… an empty contract scroll, endlessly unfurling, with the words "NO PAYMENT" written across it in bold, crimson letters.

He stared at it, then raised his wand. "Riddikulus," he said, his voice flat, but with a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of a smile. The scroll transformed into a flimsy piece of parchment covered in ludicrously intricate, over-the-top legal jargon, impossible to read or understand, then crumpled into a ball and vanished.

Lupin looked at him, a strange, knowing expression on his face. "A fear of unpaid labor, Harry? An interesting choice."

Geralt-Harry merely shrugged. A Witcher's work is his life. And his livelihood.

His Witcher senses, though dulled in this body, immediately picked up on Lupin's true nature. The scent of wolfsbane, the faint tremor of suppressed power, the weary resignation in his eyes. Lupin was a lycanthrope. A werewolf. This was not a monster he needed to hunt, but a cursed human, a complex and often tragic part of his own world. He kept his observations to himself, recognizing the man's competence and the control he exerted over his condition.

Divination, however, was a different matter. Professor Trelawney, a flighty woman draped in scarves and emitting a cloying scent of sherry, was a charlatan of the highest order. Her "prophecies" were vague, unreliable, and utterly useless. "I see a dark shadow around you, dear boy! The Grim!" she wailed, pointing a trembling finger at him.

Geralt-Harry simply folded his arms. "I see nothing but poor eyesight and an overactive imagination. Prophecies are like badly brewed potions: too many unverified ingredients, and a tendency to explode in your face." He much preferred actual tracking and deduction.

Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid was generally better, though the incident with Buckbeak was a test of his patience. A magnificent Hippogriff, proud and sensitive. Draco Malfoy, of course, chose to provoke it, ignoring Hagrid's clear instructions. When Buckbeak lashed out, Geralt-Harry had already assessed the situation, noting Malfoy's deliberate taunt and the Hippogriff's natural reaction.

"He provoked it," Geralt-Harry stated to the furious Malfoy, who was nursing a bleeding arm. "The creature reacted to aggression. Your fault."

Malfoy, naturally, escalated the matter, demanding Buckbeak's execution. The wizarding legal system, with its labyrinthine rules and obvious biases, proved itself as inefficient and illogical as any human court Geralt had encountered. The whole thing was a farce. A magnificent creature, condemned for the idiocy of an arrogant boy.

Meanwhile, Black's presence haunted the castle. Geralt-Harry used his keen observations, attempting to apply his tracking skills. He noticed faint scuff marks on the castle floors that others missed, detected subtle shifts in the air currents near secret passages, and observed the heightened tension in the castle's magical aura. He even managed to pick up a faint, acrid scent of ozone and fear in certain corridors, a scent only a Witcher would notice. His suspicion about Snape's true nature, and his connection to Black, grew. Snape's hatred was too personal, too intense, for a simple rivalry. There was history there, a complicated contract waiting to be revealed.

Chapter Nine: The Map, the Shrieking Shack, and the Lycanthrope

The Marauder's Map. A piece of parchment given to him by the Weasley twins, revealing every secret passage and, more importantly, every person's location within Hogwarts. Geralt-Harry immediately recognized its utility. "This," he stated, studying the animated ink figures with a rare flicker of admiration, "is a masterwork of information gathering. The creators possessed remarkable cunning." It was a tool far more precise than any tracking spell he'd encountered in this world.

He continued his Quidditch matches, the adrenaline a welcome distraction. The Dementors, however, remained a persistent annoyance. Their presence on the pitch was a constant, draining cold, making his scar throb with a strange, dull ache. He had to learn to focus, to channel his resilience, to push past the emotional void they created. His Witcher reflexes were paramount, allowing him to weave through the blurs of the game, eyes fixed on the Golden Snitch, even as the world around him seemed to dim.

Hogsmeade trips, now permitted for third years, offered a glimpse into a wizarding village. During one such trip, while Ron and Hermione were preoccupied with sweets, Geralt-Harry noticed a faint tremor in the ground, a subtle vibration that hinted at something moving beneath the village. He discreetly investigated, finding nothing immediately, but the anomaly registered in his mind. He was learning that this world, despite its overt magic, still held hidden complexities, just like his own.

The true revelation came during the night he found himself, alongside Ron and Hermione, following a panicked Scabbers into the Shrieking Shack. The rat, they discovered, was not a rat at all, but an Animagus: Peter Pettigrew, believed dead for twelve years.

Then came the confrontation. Sirius Black, gaunt and wild, emerged from the shadows. And Lupin. The full story unfolded in a flurry of shouted accusations and denials. Geralt-Harry listened, piecing together the events of that fateful Halloween night, the betrayal, the framing. He saw a man, Sirius, who had been wronged, imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. And he saw a rat, Pettigrew, who was the true monster.

"You speak of justice," Geralt-Harry said, his voice quiet, drawing everyone's attention. "Yet this one," he gestured to Pettigrew, who whimpered, "is the one who sold your kin to Voldemort. This is the betrayal. Not Black."

The werewolf transformation, however, threw a wrench into the fragile alliance. The moon, full and unforgiving, rose. Lupin, his eyes glazed with pain, began to shift. Geralt-Harry felt a familiar surge of recognition. This was a true lycanthrope, not a lesser beast.

"Ron, Hermione! Get back!" Geralt-Harry yelled, pushing them behind him. He raised his wand, not to attack Lupin, but to create a diversion. "Igni!" A burst of flame, hotter and more controlled than usual, flared, startling the transforming Lupin, giving them precious seconds.

He understood the code: monsters were hunted. But this was Lupin, a good man afflicted by a curse. His Witcher instincts warred with his newfound understanding of human complexity. He had seen the horrors of true monsters in his old life, and he had seen the nuanced evil of men. Pettigrew was the greater threat here, a human who chose malice.

They fled the Shrieking Shack, Lupin, now a full werewolf, howling behind them. Geralt-Harry, despite the danger, felt a strange sense of clarity. The greatest monsters often wore human skin.

Chapter Ten: Time and a New Contract

The chase through the Forbidden Forest was a blur of primal instinct and desperate magic. Dementors descended, drawn by the raw emotions emanating from the scene. Geralt-Harry felt the familiar drain, the cold, the unpleasant tickle of despair. He remembered what Lupin had taught him about the Patronus Charm. It required a powerful, happy memory.

Happiness. It was a difficult well to draw from. His life as Geralt of Rivia was filled with grim choices, bitter victories, and profound loss. He thought of Ciri's laugh, of Yennefer's sharp wit, of the rare, quiet moments around a campfire with Jaskier. He focused on the surge of protective instinct he felt for Ron, for Hermione, for the wronged Sirius Black. He focused on the grim satisfaction of knowing he was protecting them, that he was doing what was necessary.

"Expecto Patronum!" he bellowed, the words rough but filled with fierce intent. A silver form erupted from his wand, not a stag as it should have been, but a fierce, agile silver wolf, its eyes glowing, its form shimmering as it charged the Dementors, driving them back with a silent snarl. It was a projection of his true self, his soul, manifesting through Harry's magic. The effort left him weak, but the relief was immediate.

The time-turner. Hermione had it. A complex magical artifact, capable of manipulating linear time. Geralt-Harry, ever the pragmatist, saw its potential. Not for frivolous changes, but for precise, calculated interventions. "We go back," he stated, his voice firm, "and we save them. The Hippogriff. Black."

They traveled back, the world spinning in a dizzying vortex of light and sound. They saved Buckbeak, allowing Sirius to escape on its back. Geralt-Harry watched him go, the grizzled man looking back with a strange mix of gratitude and wonder. There was a mutual understanding, a silent recognition between two individuals who had endured impossible circumstances.

"The wizarding world has more complexities than I initially estimated," Geralt-Harry mused to Hermione later, back in the present. "The lines between human and monster are more blurred here. And the magic… it's different, but adaptable."

At the end of the year, Dumbledore, with his ever-twinkling eyes, gave his customary praise. "Harry, you have once again demonstrated courage beyond your years."

Geralt-Harry merely grunted, a familiar sound. "The monster was dealt with. The innocent were protected. It was a contract." He still viewed his situation through the lens of a Witcher: a long, difficult contract he hadn't chosen, but one he was bound to see through.

His body, though still young, was slowly adapting. The latent magical power within Harry was merging, subtly, with Geralt's mutated essence. He found himself thinking faster in combat, his movements a fraction more fluid, his wand spells possessing a touch more force. He was less "Harry Potter" and more "Geralt, currently inhabiting a minor wizard," but the distinction was beginning to blur. He knew his "contract" in this world was far from over. Voldemort was still out there, a fragmented evil waiting to be dealt with. And the wizarding world, he was rapidly learning, was full of its own peculiar brand of monsters, some far more insidious than any griffin or ghoul. He had much more to learn, and many more beasts—human and otherwise—to contend with.

Chapter Eleven: The World Cup and the Dark Mark

The summer of Harry's fourth year was marked by an oppressive silence from the Dursleys, a result of the lingering fear from Dobby's intervention and the chilling, unspoken threat Harry had subtly conveyed. He no longer occupied the cupboard, but a spare bedroom, a small victory that offered slightly more space for his morning 'exercises'. He continued his rudimentary combat training, though his body still felt frustratingly insufficient. Yet, he noticed subtle changes: a fraction more endurance when running, a slightly sharper edge to his senses, the emerald green of his eyes seeming to deepen with an almost unnatural intensity in certain lights. His wand work, too, was improving. Reparo spells no longer exploded; Lumos felt less like a sputtering candle and more like a focused beam. The magic of this world, though fundamentally different, was slowly yielding to the disciplined force of his Witcher core.

The highlight of the summer was the Quidditch World Cup, an event of overwhelming scale and chaotic energy. Thousands of wizards, a dizzying array of foreign magic, and a pervasive scent of excitement and alcohol. Geralt-Harry moved through the bustling campsite with Ron and Hermione, his head on a constant swivel, taking in the sights, cataloging the various magical signatures. He noted the subtle differences in magical robes, the varied wand techniques, and the distinct dialects of other wizarding communities. It was like visiting a new, larger contract zone, filled with potential dangers and useful knowledge.

The match itself was a spectacle of speed and aerial acrobatics, a grand display of wizarding athleticism. Geralt-Harry, sitting with the Weasleys, watched with the analytical eye of a seasoned fighter, appreciating the precision and danger involved. He saw the gaps in the Irish Seeker's defense, the Bulgarian Beater's raw power. His own seeking instincts, honed in Hogwarts, resonated with the thrill of the chase.

But the night quickly turned. A chilling, guttural roar erupted from the distant woods, followed by screams. Fire. Chaos. Geralt-Harry felt a familiar prickle of warning, the sense of approaching doom that often preceded a true monster. This wasn't accidental magic. This was malice. Death Eaters. He observed their movements, their dark cloaks swirling like smoke, their terrifying masks. They were less skilled than he expected, more focused on intimidation and destruction than efficient combat, but their numbers made them a force.

Then, the Dark Mark. A colossal skull, with a serpent protruding from its mouth, blazed emerald green against the night sky. The magical signature was undeniable: Voldemort. A chilling, familiar aura of power, malice, and corruption. Geralt-Harry's scar, usually a dull ache, suddenly burned with a searing, fiery pain, a pain more intense than he had ever felt, momentarily bringing him to his knees. It was a tangible connection, a clear signal.

"He's closer," Geralt-Harry rasped, pushing through the pain. "Much closer than Dumbledore thinks." His voice, though still Harry's, was edged with a grim, knowing finality. The scent of dark magic, like burnt metal and stale blood, was strong in the air. This wasn't just a symbol; it was a promise. And a renewed contract.

Chapter Twelve: The Goblet of Fire and the Tasks

Hogwarts felt different that year, filled with an air of anticipation and the lingering tension of the World Cup aftermath. The Triwizard Tournament. A relic of a bygone era, bringing students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Geralt-Harry observed the foreign students with keen interest, assessing their fighting styles in casual duels, their magical theories, their overall demeanor. Krum, the Durmstrang champion, was a formidable presence, stoic and clearly powerful. Fleur Delacour, from Beauxbatons, exuded a unique, almost intoxicating magical aura.

The Goblet of Fire ceremony. Dumbledore's age line was a crude but effective magical barrier. The drama of the champions being chosen, Krum, Fleur, and then Cedric Diggory. All seemed in order. Then, the Goblet flared again.

His name. Harry Potter.

"Nonsense," Geralt-Harry muttered, even as the magic of the Goblet pulsed, undeniable. He walked forward, not with the typical shock or confusion, but with a weary resignation. Another unwelcome complication. Another unwanted contract. He could feel the eyes of the entire school on him, and the shift in the magical atmosphere from excited anticipation to suspicion and resentment was palpable. Even Ron's face reflected a flicker of doubt.

The first task: Dragons. Geralt-Harry's eyes widened fractionally. Finally, a proper monster. This wasn't a half-giant's pet or a spectral illusion. This was a living, breathing, fire-breathing beast. He listened to the other champions, their nervous chatter, their plans. Cedric planned a Transfiguration. Fleur, a charm. Krum, a Confounding Spell. All seemed… inefficient.

He spent days in the library, not on basic spellcraft, but on dragon lore. Their weaknesses, their habits. He learned that dragons, despite their fearsome nature, had soft underbellies, sensitive eyes, and a primal territorial instinct. He didn't just want to "get past" the dragon; he wanted to control it, to use its own nature against it. He worked on refining his wand's Accio charm, not just to summon objects, but to exert a more forceful, precise pull.

During the task, facing the Hungarian Horntail, Geralt-Harry moved with a deliberate calmness that shocked the spectators. The Horntail was a magnificent, terrifying beast, its scales like obsidian, its breath a searing inferno. He didn't waste time on defensive spells. Instead, he observed its movements, its patterns, its blind spots. When the dragon coiled to strike, he unleashed a powerful Accio on his broomstick, pulling it to his hand with a speed that defied logic. He then used his wand to create a series of sharp, stinging sparks—not an Igni, but an aggressive, focused Incendio—aimed precisely at the dragon's vulnerable eyes.

The dragon roared, recoiling in pain, momentarily blinded. This wasn't just a flash; it was a focused, almost blinding assault that spoke of controlled aggression. Then, with a burst of speed and agility that had never been possible in his first two years, Geralt-Harry seized his chance. He flew, not just to get the egg, but to exploit the dragon's pain, harrying it, feinting, and finally snatching the golden egg with a movement so fluid and precise it drew gasps from the crowd. His control over the broom was absolute, his aerial maneuvers displaying a blend of learned skill and innate, almost predatory grace. His strength wasn't just about raw power; it was about focused intent and ruthless efficiency.

The second task: The Black Lake. Merpeople. Grindylows. And something taken from him. He deciphered the egg's mournful wail with Hermione's help, understanding the need for prolonged underwater breathing. Dobby, the free elf, provided Gillyweed.

Underwater, Geralt-Harry moved with a newfound, almost feral grace. His small body, enhanced by the Gillyweed, felt agile, almost amphibian. He felt the cold of the lake, the pressure, but his senses adapted. He saw the Merpeople, their spears, their ancient, possessive magic. He didn't try to reason. He moved past them, a silent, green-eyed blur. He found Ron, who was chained to a rock with the other "treasures." Krum and Fleur were still struggling. He didn't wait. He used a powerful, concussive Reducto charm—not a precise cutting spell, but a blunt force, like a focused Aard Sign—to shatter Ron's bonds. The spell vibrated through the water, a testament to its raw force, and even the merpeople flinched back. He then used a sharp, precise Diffindo to cut Fleur's bonds, a calculated risk. His movements were swift, efficient, and utterly devoid of hesitation. He left the other champions to their own methods, his focus entirely on his own "contract." He returned to the surface, Ron in tow, with seconds to spare, his physical endurance surprising even himself.

Chapter Thirteen: The Ball and the Betrayal

The Yule Ball was a tedious affair. Geralt-Harry, accustomed to the gritty, practical celebrations of taverns and monster-hunting camps, found the formal dances and polite conversation utterly insipid. He went with Parvati Patil, out of obligation, but spent most of the night observing the social dynamics, the hidden currents of jealousy and unspoken desires. Ron's sulking was tiresome, and Hermione, radiant with Krum, was a source of minor amusement. His social grace, never his strong suit even in his own body, was non-existent. He merely tolerated the experience, eyes constantly scanning, assessing.

His mind, however, was elsewhere. He noticed strange things. Barty Crouch Sr., a rigid Ministry official, was acting increasingly erratically. He saw Crouch Jr.'s name on the Marauder's Map, a chilling detail he couldn't reconcile with the official story of his death. The map was a powerful tool, revealing secrets, and the implications of Crouch Jr.'s presence were deeply unsettling. Another monster hiding in plain sight.

He began to subtly observe Mad-Eye Moody, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Moody was a formidable wizard, paranoid and sharp. Too sharp, sometimes. His constant vigilance, his unusual habits, the way he seemed to know things he shouldn't. Geralt-Harry's Witcher senses, now noticeably stronger in this body, picked up faint, discordant magical signatures around Moody, a subtle tremor that indicated something was off. The real Moody, he suspected, would have a more consistent magical aura. This one had fluctuating echoes, like a mimic.

The third task: The Maze. A labyrinth teeming with magical creatures and traps. Geralt-Harry entered with a sense of grim determination. This was a hunt. He moved through the maze with a tactical precision, not just reacting to threats, but anticipating them. He used a more powerful, sustained Lumos to illuminate the path, a light that cut through the magical darkness with surprising force. He met a Blast-Ended Skrewt—a disgusting, unnatural creature—and dispatched it with a combination of a forceful Confringo (a blasting curse, more potent than a simple Reducto) and a swift, almost practiced thrust of his wand into its vulnerable underbelly. The creature exploded, a testament to his increased magical and physical power.

He encountered various obstacles: a Boggart (which again manifested as the "NO PAYMENT" contract, swiftly dispelled by a cold Riddikulus), a Sphinx (its riddle answered with pragmatic logic), and a web of thick, sticky mist. He didn't rely on luck. He relied on observation, deduction, and his increasingly refined magical capabilities.

He met Cedric Diggory near the center, and together they found the Triwizard Cup. It was a Portkey. Geralt-Harry felt the familiar, unpleasant pull of dark magic, a distinct thrum in his scar, almost like a low-frequency hum. This wasn't just a trophy. It was a trap.

"It's a Portkey," he stated, his voice flat. "And it smells of dark magic." He looked at Cedric, then at the Cup. "Do you still want to take it together?" His grim expression conveyed the implied danger. Cedric, noble and trusting, nodded, and they touched the Cup.

Chapter Fourteen: The Graveyard and the Rebirth

The shift was instantaneous and jarring. The familiar scent of damp earth and blooming flowers of the maze was replaced by the cloying smell of graveyard soil, death, and something far fouler. The air was cold, oppressive, heavy with dark magic. Geralt-Harry felt a sickening lurch as he landed, the energy of the Portkey leaving him momentarily disoriented. He immediately assessed the surroundings: a desolate graveyard, overgrown and forgotten. And figures. Pettigrew. And a bundle of robes.

Then, the true horror. Pettigrew, his hand severed by Sirius years ago, produced a strange, grotesque bundle. He spoke in hushed, reverent tones, performing a ritual of immense, dark power. He cut Harry's arm, spilling his blood into a cauldron, a searing, excruciating pain that was worse than any monster's bite. The bone of the father, the flesh of the servant, and the blood of the enemy.

And then, Voldemort.

The transformation was horrific. Not the spectral, parasitic form from the Chamber of Secrets, but a complete, resurrected being. Gaunt, snake-like, with glowing red eyes that burned with absolute malice. The magical signature was immense, overwhelming, utterly terrifying. Geralt-Harry's scar exploded with pain, a thousand knives twisting in his forehead, momentarily blinding him. His Witcher senses screamed a deafening warning: Ultimate Monster. Unnatural. Danger.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, his voice silken, yet radiating raw power. "The boy who lived. Who still lives. Not for long."

Cedric. Voldemort ordered Pettigrew to kill him. "Avada Kedavra!" A flash of green light. Cedric fell, lifeless. Geralt-Harry watched, a cold fury settling in his chest. An innocent, caught in a contract not his own. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about vengeance.

Voldemort began to taunt him, to summon his Death Eaters. Geralt-Harry listened, his mind racing. His small body felt fragile, utterly outmatched. But his Witcher instincts, honed by decades of fighting overwhelming odds, took over. He was a survivor. He would fight.

Voldemort fired curses. Geralt-Harry dodged, rolled, his small body moving with a speed that startled even the Dark Lord. He didn't use the simple Protego shields that easily crumbled. Instead, he channeled raw magical energy, focusing it into a concussive burst, a powerful Aard-like force that pushed Voldemort's curses slightly off course, or subtly disrupted their trajectory. It wasn't elegant, but it was effective, a crude but potent blending of his old magic with this new one.

Then, their wands connected. Priori Incantatem. A shimmering golden dome enveloped them, and the echoes of Voldemort's past victims emerged: Cedric, his parents, the old Muggle caretaker, Frank Bryce. Each one a desperate plea, a distraction.

Geralt-Harry didn't falter. He pushed, pouring all his energy, all his raw, Witcher-mutated will, into the connection. He could feel the resistance, the pure, unadulterated evil of Voldemort's soul. He focused on his true purpose, his contract: to end this monster. He pushed harder, his eyes blazing emerald green, his scar throbbing with an almost unbearable pressure. He saw the spectral forms of his parents, fleeting but real. He absorbed their love, their sacrifice, not as a weakness, but as a source of grim determination.

He forced the connection to break, sensing the fleeting chance. With a violent wrench, he severed the magical link, then snatched the Portkey. He yelled at the specters to "take Cedric's body," a desperate, final plea. He gripped the Cup, focusing on the return, pulling Cedric's lifeless body with him. He would not leave the dead.

Chapter Fifteen: Aftermath and Acceptance

They reappeared in the middle of the Quidditch pitch. The roar of the crowd, the lights, the confusion. Geralt-Harry lay beside Cedric's dead body, panting, the scar on his forehead burning with a searing, agonizing fire. His small body trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes were clear, cold, and utterly resolute. He looked at the chaos, the disbelief on Dumbledore's face.

"He's back," Geralt-Harry stated, his voice hoarse, raw with exertion and a chilling certainty. "Voldemort. He's returned."

The wizarding world, initially skeptical, was forced to confront the impossible. Fudge, the Minister, refused to believe him, dismissing it as a child's delusion. But Dumbledore believed. And the Order of the Phoenix began to re-form.

Geralt-Harry found himself once again at the center of attention, but this time, it was different. He didn't just survive; he had fought. He had engaged Voldemort, a fully resurrected Dark Lord, and returned. His strength, though still constrained by Harry's young body, had been undeniable, visible to those who cared to look. The controlled burst of magic, the unwavering focus, the tactical combat—these were not the actions of a mere child.

In the aftermath, his interactions became sharper, less naive. He spoke more bluntly, cut through rhetorical nonsense with brutal efficiency. He began to learn more about the wizarding world's politics, its factions, its flaws. He understood that this contract was far more complex than just killing a beast. It involved manipulating events, building alliances, and navigating a labyrinth of human failings.

His "Patronus," the silver wolf, became a common sight in his mind, a constant reminder of his true self. He found that summoning it was easier now, the raw emotion of protection a stronger well to draw from than fleeting happiness. The wolf embodied his core, his purpose.

His body continued to adapt. He felt stronger, faster, the aches and pains from battles receding more quickly. His vision seemed sharper, his hearing more acute. He wasn't the brute force of his Witcher form, but he was becoming something else: a nimble, cunning fighter, capable of blending wizarding magic with Witcher instinct. He was no longer just Geralt's soul in Harry's body; he was becoming a synthesis, a new entity.

The knowledge that Voldemort was back, fully corporeal, solidified his resolve. This was the true contract. And he, Geralt-Harry, was the only one capable of completing it. The game had changed. And he was ready for it.

Chapter Sixteen: The Long Summer and the Order's Shadow

The summer following Voldemort's return was an oppressive, suffocating silence. Privet Drive remained as aggressively ordinary as ever, but the air around number four hummed with a different kind of tension. The Dursleys, having witnessed the sheer, terrifying reality of their nephew's world, were now less overtly abusive and more profoundly, unsettlingly fearful. Vernon still blustered, Petunia still sniffed, but their eyes held a new, wary respect, born of terror, for the boy who now inhabited the spare bedroom, not the cupboard under the stairs. It wasn't exactly freedom, but it was a more tolerable prison.

Geralt-Harry, now almost fifteen, felt the subtle but undeniable shifts in his body. He was no longer the scrawny, perpetually undersized child. Standing at around five feet eight inches (173 cm), he had experienced a growth spurt that seemed to stretch his limbs and broaden his shoulders. The sharp angles of his younger face had softened, and a lean, athletic build was slowly emerging. Regular, rigorous training sessions, conducted in the dead of night in the Dursleys' manicured garden, had begun to yield visible results. His arms, though not truly bulky, showed defined bicep and tricep muscles. His core was tightly coiled, and his legs, accustomed to running and dodging, had developed a springiness he hadn't known in this form. The incessant, low-level physical exertion he'd put himself through since facing the Basilisk, intensified after the graveyard, had started to pay dividends.

He no longer needed the glasses. The gradual sharpening of his Witcher senses over the past few years, a slow but steady improvement in his vision and acuity that surpassed mere human norms, had rendered them obsolete. His emerald green eyes, no longer magnified behind lenses, now held a piercing, almost predatory intensity, especially when focused. They seemed to catch and reflect light in an unusual way, lending him a striking, almost otherworldly appearance. He was aware, peripherally, of the occasional lingering glance from girls in the few excursions to town, a new kind of attention that he found more confusing than flattering. Such matters were irrelevant; he had a contract.

His morning exercises were a ritual. He didn't just jog. He practiced complex, flowing movements, a blend of Witcher sword forms adapted for his lighter frame and wand motions, turning and lunging, his body a blur in the pre-dawn gloom. He worked on his stamina, pushing past the burning in his lungs, imagining the weight of his old steel blade, the hum of silver. He practiced his spells, not just with power, but with precision. A Lumos now glowed with a steady, unwavering intensity, capable of cutting through shadow. His Protego shields felt denser, more capable of deflecting serious force. The magic of this world, once alien, was slowly intertwining with his core, becoming a natural extension of his will.

The most frustrating aspect of the summer was the silence. No letters from Ron or Hermione, save for the occasional, vague postcard. No news from Dumbledore, or the Ministry. He was locked away, sidelined, unable to track the escalating threat he knew was out there. His Witcher instincts screamed frustration. He needed information, he needed to hunt, not fester in suburban boredom.

Then, the sudden, jarring arrival. Mundungus Fletcher, a shifty, odorous wizard, appeared with a warning, only to be swiftly followed by a contingent of wizards: Mad-Eye Moody, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt. They moved with a purpose he recognized, the scent of genuine magic and combat experience clinging to them. They were professionals, or close to it.

Their eyes, however, lingered on him. Lupin's gaze, usually weary, held a flicker of surprise, assessing his new physique. Moody's magical eye whirled, undoubtedly taking in every detail of his physical development. "Potter," Moody grunted, his voice a gravelly rumble. "You've… filled out. Good. Need every ounce of muscle in what's coming." Geralt-Harry simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He had been training. Not for them, but for the monster.

Chapter Seventeen: Grimmauld Place and the Inquisitor

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The moment they stepped through the magical barrier, Geralt-Harry's senses were assaulted. The scent of old, stagnant magic, of dark secrets and lingering despair, clung to the very dust motes. The house was a monument to bitterness, infused with generations of prejudice. He immediately sensed the raw, unadulterated hatred emanating from the portrait of Walburga Black, a shrieking, demented old woman who reminded him of a particularly loud banshee. This place was a lair, not a home.

The Order of the Phoenix. A collection of witches and wizards, ostensibly fighting a war, yet shrouded in secrecy and internal bickering. Geralt-Harry observed them all with his characteristic cynicism. He respected Lupin and Moody, seeing their pragmatic approach to combat. He found Molly Weasley's constant mothering stifling, yet recognized the underlying fierce loyalty. He tolerated Mundungus Fletcher, a clear archetype of a petty criminal, useful for information but utterly untrustworthy.

His uncle, Sirius Black, now free but confined to Grimmauld Place, was a caged lion. Geralt-Harry felt a kinship with him, a shared understanding of unjust imprisonment and the burning desire for freedom. He spent hours with Sirius, not in idle chatter, but in quiet observation, learning about the intricacies of the wizarding world's dark history, the nuances of magical families, the whispers of ancient bloodlines. Sirius saw the change in Harry too, the hardened gaze, the quiet intensity. "You've got Lily's eyes, Harry," Sirius would say, "but something else, too. Something… older."

The Ministry of Magic's denial of Voldemort's return was a source of endless frustration. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister, was an imbecile, driven by fear and pride, actively suppressing the truth. Geralt-Harry had dealt with incompetent rulers before, but never one so utterly blind to clear and present danger. His disdain for politics and bureaucracy, already deeply ingrained from his Witcher life, only solidified. "Bureaucracy," he muttered to Sirius one evening, "is a greater monster than any fiend. It feeds on inaction and creates chaos from petty rules."

The new school year began under a dark cloud. The Hogwarts Express was patrolled by Dementors, their presence still chilling, but Geralt-Harry felt their effects less keenly now. The silver wolf of his Patronus now burst forth with a palpable sense of focused power, a defensive shield of pure, unyielding will, rather than just a desperate evocation. He still felt the cold, but his core remained untouched.

Hogwarts itself felt different. The air was thick with whispers, distrust, and an oppressive aura of control. The Ministry's interference was a tangible presence, and its manifestation arrived in the form of Dolores Umbridge. Geralt-Harry's immediate assessment was swift and brutal: a monster, cloaked in sickly sweet pink, radiating an insidious cruelty far more dangerous than any snarling beast. Her cloying perfume, her fake smiles, and her saccharine voice hid a core of malicious intent. She was a political predator, and he had no patience for her kind. He felt an immediate, primal aversion to her, a sense of having encountered her insidious nature before, in corrupt officials and power-hungry mages.

Chapter Eighteen: D.A. and the Occlumency Lessons

Umbridge's ascent to power was a slow, agonizing suffocation of Hogwarts. Her educational decrees, nailed to the walls with increasing frequency, chipped away at the school's autonomy. Her Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were a farce, devoid of practical application, focused on theory that was utterly useless against real threats. Geralt-Harry would sit in the back, his emerald eyes narrowed, observing her every calculated move, his mind dismissively cataloging her methods as utterly inefficient and dangerously naive. He often stifled grunts of exasperation when she lectured on "safe, Ministry-approved defensive spells" while the real world outside was teeming with threats.

The formation of Dumbledore's Army was inevitable. He joined, not out of naive hope, but out of grim necessity. Hermione's intellect and Ron's loyalty were useful, but leadership was needed. He became the instructor, less a teacher and more a mentor, focusing on practical application, cutting through the flowery language of spell books to the core of their effectiveness. His teaching style was concise, demanding, and utterly ruthless in its focus on results.

"Don't just wave your wand, feel the magic, focus your intent," he would tell them, demonstrating with his own body. His spells in the Room of Requirement were noticeably stronger, more precise. His Disarming Charms snapped wands from hands with concussive force. His Shield Charms held firm against multiple attacks, a palpable wall of force. When he demonstrated a Stunning Spell, it hit the dummy with a thud that resonated through the room, the dummy actually reeling from the impact. Other students, particularly the girls, noticed not just the newfound power and precision of his magic, but the quiet, intense focus, the lean strength in his movements, and the striking intensity of his now un-bespectacled eyes. They saw a confidence that bordered on dangerous, and a quiet competence that drew admiration.

Occlumency lessons with Snape were a direct assault. The Potions Master, whose animosity had only intensified, sought to invade his mind, to root out any connection to Voldemort. Geralt-Harry's natural mental fortitude, honed by decades of resisting magical compulsion and psychological attacks in his Witcher life, initially held firm. He built walls, layered defenses, creating a labyrinth of thoughts and memories that Snape struggled to penetrate. But Snape's Legilimency was a foreign intrusion, unlike anything he'd faced, insidious and relentless. The pain of memories, particularly Harry's childhood traumas, became a weakness. Snape exploited these, not with malice, but with a cold, almost surgical precision, dredging up images of the Dursleys, of Lily's death, of Cedric. It was in these moments that the synthesis of Harry and Geralt struggled; Harry's deeply buried emotional vulnerability was a weakness Geralt usually suppressed with an almost inhuman discipline. The pain of those memories, magnified by Snape's probing, was almost unbearable, making him lash out, momentarily losing control.

He found solace, oddly, in the focused silence of the training sessions, pushing himself physically, mastering the movements, honing the spells. The subtle glances from Cho Chang and other girls were noted, but dismissed. Such distractions were a weakness, a deviation from the contract. He had a war to prepare for.

Chapter Nineteen: Prophecies and the Ministry Battle

The visions started again, more vivid, more disturbing. The connection through his scar to Voldemort's mind was becoming a dangerous two-way street. He saw through the Dark Lord's eyes, felt his rage, his cold ambition. He saw Arthur Weasley attacked by Nagini. The raw terror, the cold bloodlust. Geralt-Harry viewed these visions not as a curse, but as a painful source of information, however fragmented. He could glean strategic details, understand his enemy's movements. He was a tracker, and Voldemort was the ultimate prey.

The frustration of being sidelined by Dumbledore and the Order boiled over. They were talking, deliberating, waiting. His instincts screamed for action, for direct confrontation. He felt like a coiled spring, ready to unleash himself, but held back by the cautious machinations of others.

Then, the ultimate deception. A vision of Sirius, tortured in the Department of Mysteries. A clear, desperate plea. Geralt-Harry didn't hesitate. This wasn't a choice; it was an imperative. His adoptive father, his kin, was in danger. He gathered his companions, his voice clipped, resolute. He wouldn't wait for permission.

The journey to the Ministry was fraught with desperation. The Floo Network, the telephone booth, the lift—each step a calculated risk. They moved with a silent, grim purpose, his own heightened senses alert to every shadow, every sound.

The Department of Mysteries. A labyrinth of arcane knowledge and unsettling power. The Hall of Prophecies, its shelves stretching into the darkness, each orb a stored destiny. And then, the Death Eaters. Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and others, their masked faces radiating malice.

The battle erupted. Geralt-Harry was no longer just dodging and defending. He moved with a brutal, almost predatory efficiency, a terrifying blend of magical power and honed combat tactics. He was faster than they expected, his body a blur of motion, his wand a deadly extension of his will. He didn't just cast Stunning Spells; he layered them with concussive force, sending Death Eaters sprawling. His Protego shields held firm against multiple curses, shimmering with an unyielding resilience. He used subtle, almost imperceptible hand gestures to release bursts of force, a more refined Aard Sign, disorienting opponents, creating openings for Ron and Hermione. He would use a powerful Incendio that erupted in a focused blast, like an intensified Igni, forcing enemies to recoil.

"That's Potter?" Lucius Malfoy sneered, struggling to regain his footing after a particularly strong spell from Harry. "He's grown… stronger. And wilder." Bellatrix Lestrange, her eyes glinting with madness, cackled. "The little half-blood thinks he can fight! How delightful!"

Geralt-Harry didn't respond to their taunts. He was a weapon, focused on the task, moving with a fluid, almost dance-like precision through the chaos, dispatching threats with ruthless efficiency. His movements were direct, economical; no wasted effort, every spell, every dodge, every subtle shift of weight calculated for maximum impact. He felt the familiar thrill of the fight, the cold satisfaction of combat, a sensation that had been muted for too long in this body. His green eyes burned with an inner fire, seeing the weaknesses, anticipating the next attack.

Chapter Twenty: Dumbledore's Revelation and the Path Forward

Then, the unmitigated horror. Sirius. Bellatrix Lestrange. The veil.

Sirius's death was a punch to the gut, a tearing sensation in his chest far worse than any physical wound. Geralt-Harry felt a raw, uncontrolled fury surge through him, an almost feral roar escaping his throat. All his Witcher discipline, his carefully cultivated detachment, shattered in that moment. The instinct to avenge was overwhelming. He chased Bellatrix, his spells uncontrolled bursts of raw power, fueled by grief and rage. He lashed out, seeking only to destroy, to obliterate the monster who had taken his kin. But she was too swift, too elusive, a dark, cackling blur, disappearing through the Floo Network.

Dumbledore arrived moments later, his duel with Voldemort a display of unimaginable power. Geralt-Harry watched, still trembling with grief and residual rage, absorbing the sheer force and control of the Headmaster's magic. It was a lesson in true power, a glimpse of what magic could be when wielded by a master.

Voldemort's brief appearance to the Ministry officials, a spectral, terrifying presence, shattered Fudge's delusion. The Minister, humiliated and exposed, finally witnessed the undeniable truth. The war, the real war, had finally begun.

Back in Dumbledore's office, the revelation about the prophecy hit him with the force of a physical blow. "Neither can live while the other survives." His contract. The grim destiny. Geralt-Harry listened, his cynicism now laced with a sense of fatalistic acceptance. There was no escape. This was his path. He absorbed the full scope of his mission: to kill Voldemort, not just to save himself, but to save this entire, baffling, often infuriating world.

The year ended, leaving him with a profound sense of loss, but also of undeniable growth. His body, now taller, leaner, and noticeably stronger, was no longer a hindrance but a tool. He could feel the definition of his muscles, the increased endurance. His un-bespectacled green eyes, sharper and more perceptive, missed nothing. The attention from girls at Hogwarts, while still mostly ignored, was a testament to his outward transformation.

He was no longer just Geralt's soul in Harry's body; he was a true synthesis. The Witcher's resolve to see the contract through, no matter the cost, was now fully blended with Harry's inherent bravery, fierce loyalty, and surprising capacity for love. His physical prowess was a honed weapon, his magical abilities were potent tools, and his Witcher mind was the strategist. The glasses were gone, his muscles were defined, his eyes were sharper, and his presence exuded a quiet, almost dangerous competence. He was ready for the war. And he would see it through to its bloody, inevitable end.