Chapter Twenty-One: The Summers of Growth and Gaze
The summer following Sirius's death was a period of intense, almost brutal, solitude for Geralt-Harry. The Dursleys, utterly cowed by the events at the Ministry, treated him like a volatile, dangerous exhibit. They largely ignored him, preferring to communicate through clipped whispers and meaningful glances, a far cry from the open abuse of previous years. This enforced isolation, however, was precisely what Geralt-Harry needed. He mourned Sirius, not with tears, but with a cold, burning resolve, channeling his grief into a fierce dedication to his purpose.
His physical transformation continued, accelerating with an almost unnatural speed. Now standing at approximately five feet nine inches (175.8 cm), Harry was no longer just lean; his frame had filled out, muscle now visibly rippling beneath his skin. His morning rituals had evolved from mere exercises into full-blown, grueling combat training sessions, conducted in the pre-dawn hours within the spacious (and now largely abandoned by the Dursleys) garden. He lifted heavy rocks, moved with a fluid, almost cat-like grace through imagined duels, and practiced complex, rapid sequences of wand movements, blending them with the footwork and dodges of Witcher sword forms. His biceps and triceps were distinctly more defined, his shoulders broader, and his core a rock-hard foundation for his movements. He could feel the power coiling within him, a readiness for the inevitable conflict.
His appearance, too, had undergone a significant shift. The sharp angles of his younger face had fully matured into a striking handsomeness, his jawline stronger, his cheekbones more pronounced. He had, with a rare moment of conscious choice, grown his hair to a medium length, letting it fall naturally around his face, often tying it back into a casual, half-up, half-down style that accentuated his piercing eyes and the subtle scar on his forehead. Now, when he ventured into town for supplies, or later, through the wizarding enclaves, it wasn't just whispers that followed him. Girls, emboldened by his aloofness, would outright approach him. 'Harry, that's a really… nice haircut,' one would stammer, blushing furiously, avoiding his direct gaze. Another might try to engage him in conversation about his Quidditch skills, her eyes lingering on the new breadth of his shoulders. He registered their blushes, their nervous giggles, the way their friends would nudge them forward. He found the overtures baffling, a strange, inefficient form of communication. Such matters were irrelevant. His focus remained singular, fixed on the distant, more pressing contract.
The most significant development of the summer, however, was his foray into advanced potion-making, driven by a Witcher's pragmatic need for enhancement. He didn't follow the precise, traditional recipes from his Potions textbook, which he found needlessly convoluted. Instead, he meticulously researched the properties of various magical ingredients, drawing parallels to components he'd used in his former life. Working in secret in the Dursleys' shed, he experimented with various concoctions, driven by an instinct that transcended simple academic curiosity. He sought to create something akin to a Witcher elixir, a potion to sharpen his senses and enhance his already formidable magical abilities.
After numerous failed attempts, noxious fumes, and minor explosions that singed the shed's walls, he succeeded in brewing a potion with a subtle, pearlescent sheen, the liquid swirling with an internal, ethereal light. He called it 'Cat's Eye Elixir' in his mind, a nod to the feline mutations of some Witchers. The first time he consumed it, a cold fire spread through his veins, quickly replaced by a sharp, almost painful clarity. His hearing became impossibly acute, picking up the frantic scurry of a mouse under the Dursleys' floorboards several rooms away, and the faint, rhythmic pulse of a distant streetlamp. His sense of smell could differentiate between a dozen different magical signatures, even the lingering, resentful aura of the Dursleys' presence in the main house. But the most dramatic effect was on his vision. His emerald green eyes would momentarily take on a terrifying, almost inhuman glow, the pupils dilating enormously, adapting instantly to even the slightest hint of light, transforming pinpricks of distant stars into blazing beacons. He tested it that night, tracking a fox in the garden by its heat signature alone, moving silently in the darkness. When observed by others, the effect was either terrifying, hinting at something primal and dangerous lurking beneath his skin, or strikingly 'cool,' depending on the observer's disposition. This enhanced night vision and hyper-acuity gave him an undeniable advantage, especially in low-light combat or tracking, making him a shadow in the night. It was a tangible manifestation of Geralt's mutated senses, now channeled through Harry's magical body.
The enforced silence from Ron and Hermione, and indeed from Dumbledore and the Order, gnawed at him. He was a weapon, trained and ready, but deliberately kept in the dark. His Witcher instincts screamed frustration at the inefficiency, the wasted time. He needed information, he needed to hunt, not to languish in a gilded cage.
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Half-Blood Prince and the Horcrux Hunt
The return to Hogwarts brought a palpable shift in the school's atmosphere. Fear now mingled with a grim determination. The Ministry had finally acknowledged Voldemort's return, and the war was no longer a whispered secret but a looming reality. His enhanced appearance, particularly his striking eyes and muscular build, did not go unnoticed. Girls, more confidently now, would stop him in the corridors, feigning casual conversation, or outright asking him on dates. He politely but firmly declined, his focus unwavering. He was a Witcher with a contract, not a teenager seeking fleeting romance. His quiet, intense presence, coupled with his formidable reputation from the Ministry battle, only seemed to heighten his allure, creating a mystique that further set him apart.
Potions class, under Horace Slughorn, was a relief from Snape's petty malice. Slughorn, an enthusiastic if somewhat vain Potions Master, was impressed by Harry's natural aptitude. However, it was the annotated textbook, inscribed with the name "Half-Blood Prince," that truly intrigued Geralt-Harry. The marginal notes contained precise, ruthless modifications to standard recipes, cutting through unnecessary steps and enhancing potency. This wasn't just a clever student; this was a mind that understood the essence of potion-making, a mind that echoed Geralt's own pragmatic approach to alchemy. He followed the Prince's instructions meticulously, producing perfectly brewed potions with a chilling efficiency. The Felix Felicis, liquid luck, he eyed with a Witcher's suspicion. Luck was for amateurs; skill was for survival.
Defence Against the Dark Arts, now taught by Snape, remained a constant battle of wills. Snape's disdain was as thick as ever, but Geralt-Harry met it with cold indifference, no longer bothered by the man's veiled insults. Snape's methods, while occasionally effective, were still too reliant on grandstanding and psychological manipulation. He preferred a direct, brutal approach.
Dumbledore's private lessons began, a series of delves into Voldemort's past. The Horcruxes. Geralt-Harry listened, his mind categorizing, analyzing. Splitting one's soul into fragments, binding them to objects. It was a twisted, horrifying form of immortality, a perversion of magic he found utterly repulsive. This isn't just a monster; it's an infestation. Each Horcrux was a piece of the contract. He needed to find them, destroy them. His Witcher instincts, sharpened by the Cat's Eye Elixir, would be paramount in tracking these dark, hidden fragments. He often took a small dose before these lessons, the pupils of his eyes dilating subtly, allowing him to perceive the faint, lingering traces of dark magic within the memories, something Dumbledore might not have even noticed.
He found himself training more intensely with the Sword of Gryffindor. Dumbledore had indeed arranged for its magical enhancement; it felt lighter, perfectly balanced, its gleaming edge humming with a subtle power that resonated with his own growing magical core, almost like a living thing in his hand. It was less a wand and more a true weapon, a seamless extension of his will, capable of deflecting curses and cutting through dark enchantments with surprising ease. He spent hours in the Room of Requirement, a blur of motion, practicing intricate sword forms. His muscles, now visibly larger and denser, bunched and flowed with every pivot and swing, the powerful coil of his core evident in each precise lunge. He'd envision Death Eaters, deflecting imaginary curses with the flat of the blade, then seamlessly transitioning into a powerful Igni from his wand, followed by a swift, slicing strike with the sword. He was forging himself into a truly formidable hybrid of wizard and Witcher, a warrior reborn.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Jealousy, Betrayal, and the Cave
The school year was punctuated by escalating tensions. Draco Malfoy, burdened by his Death Eater duties, became more desperate, his attempts to fulfill Voldemort's command growing increasingly reckless. Geralt-Harry watched him, not with hatred, but with a cold assessment. Malfoy was a pawn, a tool being used by a greater force. He sensed the fear, the desperation, the moral decay within the Slytherin.
Ron's increasingly erratic behavior, fueled by a misguided jealousy and the effects of a love potion, was a minor annoyance. Geralt-Harry, accustomed to the vagaries of human emotion, largely ignored it, finding more utility in Hermione's unwavering intellect. He did, however, notice the subtle ways girls tried to engage him, their blushes and nervous giggles whenever he was near. He maintained his detached politeness, finding the overtures baffling. He had no time for such trivialities.
The biggest revelation came from the Half-Blood Prince's notes. When Harry found the sectumsempra spell, a brutal, flesh-rending curse, he immediately recognized its vicious utility. He had used it against Draco in a moment of desperate anger, only to be horrified by the resulting damage. It was the kind of curse a Witcher might use for a truly monstrous foe, but not against a mere human. Snape's furious reaction, and his immediate healing of Malfoy, confirmed his suspicion: Snape was the Half-Blood Prince. The knowledge about the complex, ancient curse, and the fact that Snape himself could heal it, added another layer to the Potions Master's enigmatic character.
The First Horcrux hunt with Dumbledore was harrowing. The cave was steeped in ancient, malevolent magic, its oppressive aura almost suffocating. Geralt-Harry relied heavily on his Cat's Eye Elixir, his dilated pupils piercing the magical gloom, allowing him to navigate the treacherous currents and identify the subtly enchanted surfaces that Dumbledore, even with his immense power, struggled to perceive. He saw the faint trails of the Inferi, the reanimated corpses, lurking beneath the water before they even stirred. His heightened hearing picked up their subtle moans before they became a collective horror. He kept his wand ready, his movements fluid, the Sword of Gryffindor held tight in his off-hand.
Dumbledore's weakening, his desperation for the potion in the basin, filled Geralt-Harry with a grim resolve. He forced the elder wizard to drink, the horrible visions and agonizing thirst taking their toll. He felt the familiar surge of protective instinct, the need to complete the contract, to protect his only ally in this hunt. When the Inferi swarmed, Geralt-Harry, fueled by the elixir and a cold rage, unleashed a torrent of spells, each one a focused, potent blast. He used a series of powerful Incendio spells, not just small flames, but roaring torrents of fire, like blasts of Igni, incinerating the Inferi with terrifying efficiency. His wand work was precise, his movements economical, each spell finding its target with chilling accuracy. He moved like a true warrior, his lean, muscular body a blur amidst the skeletal horde, the silver wolf of his Patronus blazing fiercely.
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Fall and the Broken Contract
The return to the Astronomy Tower was brutal. The air was thick with the scent of fear, of impending doom. He found Dumbledore, weakened, exposed. And Draco Malfoy, trembling, unable to complete his dark task. Then Snape arrived.
Geralt-Harry watched, helpless, as Snape, with a cold, unforgiving expression, raised his wand and uttered the curse: "Avada Kedavra!"
Dumbledore fell. The loss was a physical blow, a gaping wound in the very fabric of his world. Dumbledore, his mentor, his guide, the one who held the fragile wizarding world together, was gone. The raw grief, the crushing weight of loss, was immediate and overwhelming. It echoed the pain of losing Vesemir, of losing his own family. All his discipline, all his hard-won emotional control, fractured.
He pursued Snape, a primal need for vengeance driving him, his movements a desperate, furious blur. His spells were raw, uncontrolled bursts of power, fueled by unadulterated fury, tearing through the tower. He screamed, casting every curse he knew, every damaging charm, but Snape, cold and calculating, deflected them all with a chilling efficiency, a shimmering wall of defensive magic. He was faster, more agile, a true master of defensive magic. Geralt-Harry felt the burning of the Cat's Eye Elixir in his veins, pushing his senses to their limit, making the world stark and terrifyingly clear, but it couldn't overcome Snape's mastery. His emerald eyes, wide with the potion's effect, seemed to glow with an inner, feral light, his pupils enormously dilated, making his gaze inhumanly intense as he moved. His muscles screamed with exertion, cords standing out on his neck and arms, but he pushed through it, a singular focus on revenge. He even drew the Sword of Gryffindor, its enhanced edge humming, trying to close the distance, but Snape was always just out of reach.
Snape's escape left a gaping void. The world was plunged into a new, terrifying reality. Dumbledore was dead. Snape was a traitor. And Voldemort's power was absolute.
The year ended in despair. The Order of the Phoenix was shattered. Hogwarts was a shadow of its former self. Geralt-Harry, however, felt a grim clarity amidst the chaos. The prophecy was laid bare. The task was his alone. He had seen the true face of Voldemort, the depths of his evil, the devastation he wrought. He had lost his last surrogate father, his only true link to Harry's magical family. But that loss only solidified his resolve.
His body, now fully adapted, was a formidable weapon. He was taller, broader, his muscles clearly defined, a testament to his grueling training. His un-bespectacled eyes, now often taking on that terrifying, cool dilation in moments of intense focus, were windows to a sharpened, predatory mind. The Sword of Gryffindor was now a natural extension of his arm. He was no longer just Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived. He was Harry, the Witcher, honed by suffering, a warrior forged in two worlds, ready to face the ultimate monster, alone. The contract was clear. The hunt had truly begun.
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Departure and the Deliberations
The summer after Dumbledore's death was bleak, a shadow cast over everything. The Dursleys, having glimpsed Voldemort at the Ministry and now fully aware of the sheer, terrifying scale of the war, were barely functional. Their fear had curdled into a mute, pervasive terror that made them almost invisible. Geralt-Harry, now fully seventeen, was finally leaving their desolate existence.
He stood taller still, at approximately six feet one inch (185.42 cm), a height that spoke of years of relentless physical conditioning. His frame was powerfully built, his muscles more prominent and sculpted than ever before, evident in the breadth of his shoulders and the thick corded strength of his arms and legs. He no longer moved with the subtle grace of a cat, but with the quiet, economic power of a predator. Every movement was precise, deliberate, radiating an aura of dangerous competence. His long hair, now falling past his shoulders, was almost always tied back in that familiar half-up, half-down style, accentuating the sharp planes of his face and the piercing intensity of his un-bespectacled emerald eyes. The Cat's Eye Elixir had irrevocably sharpened his vision, his pupils often dilating to inhuman proportions in dim light, giving him that terrifying, cool gaze that unnerved most, but fascinated some.
The girls at the Order's safe house, where he now resided, openly gawked. They didn't just stammer or blush; they would openly comment, "Harry, you've really… grown," their eyes lingering on his physique, their conversations often revolving around his newfound handsomeness and the almost legendary aura that now surrounded him. He was a magnet for attention, the 'Boy-Who-Lived' now a 'Man-Who-Fights,' and his detached, almost clinical dismissal of their admiration only seemed to fuel it. He registered the attention, but it was background noise, a distraction from the true work ahead.
The true work: Horcruxes. Dumbledore's final task. The Order, now fragmented and cautious, was struggling. He saw their fear, their uncertainty. His Witcher instincts screamed for direct action, for a clear plan and swift execution. He felt like a hound on a scent, straining at the leash.
Amidst the grim preparations, there was Ginny. Ron's younger sister, now also a skilled witch, had transformed. She possessed a fiery spirit and a fierce independence that resonated with something deep within him. He found himself drawn to her, not with the superficial fascination of a schoolboy, but with a Witcher's quiet, growing appreciation for strength, wit, and resilience. He caught himself observing her more than was strictly necessary, noting the way her hair caught the light, the determination in her eyes during dueling practice, the sharp, intelligent way she challenged him during discussions.
He tried to suppress it, a familiar, cold discipline rising within him, but the warmth from Ginny's presence was a foreign heat that defied all his Witcher-honed detachment. Geralt of Rivia didn't fall for women in the middle of a contract; it was a weakness, a vulnerability he couldn't afford. Yet, Ginny was persistent, not in asking for dates, but in her unwavering belief in him, in her fierce loyalty that mirrored his own. She met his intense gaze without flinching, a rare quality. Sometimes, in a quiet moment, after a particularly grueling training session, or during a shared watch, their eyes would meet, and a silent, undeniable current would pass between them—a recognition of the burden he carried, a shared spark that bypassed all pretense. He'd find his focus breaking, his thoughts drifting to her laughter, the scent of her magic when she duelled. He knew, with a reluctant admission to himself, that she saw past his hardened exterior, saw the flicker of something softer beneath, something he hadn't known Harry Potter possessed. Ron, ever oblivious, might clear his throat awkwardly, or Hermione would offer him a knowing, sympathetic glance, but only Ginny truly saw the cracks in his carefully constructed detachment, the undeniable pull between them.
The lack of a proper sword for the ultimate hunt gnawed at him. The Sword of Gryffindor was potent, but it was not his. He started spending hours poring over the dusty tomes of Godric Gryffindor's personal library, specifically the sections on ancient wizarding metallurgy and the art of swordcraft. He devoured texts on runes for enhancement, on the properties of different magical metals, and on the rituals of forging. He sought not just to use a sword, but to create one, a blade perfectly attuned to his hybrid nature, a true Witcher blade for this world. He also began a new regimen of physical training: not just general combat, but precise, repetitive sword drills with a heavy practice blade, honing his footwork, his parries, his strikes, feeling the burn in his newly augmented muscles, preparing for the day he would forge his own destiny.
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Hunt Begins and Hidden Feelings
The Horcrux hunt began with a brutal efficiency. The Ministry of Magic had fallen, overrun by Voldemort's forces, and the trio, accompanied by Harry's silent determination, were now fugitives. They moved through the Muggle world like ghosts, relying on their wits, Hermione's knowledge, and Harry's increasingly potent Witcher senses. The Cat's Eye Elixir became a regular part of his regimen, its effects pushing his already formidable abilities to their limits. In the darkened streets of London, he could track Death Eaters by the faint, unsettling magical signature they left behind, a metallic tang on the air that only he could detect. His night vision allowed them to navigate treacherous urban landscapes unseen, his pupils wide and glowing, giving him an unnerving, almost demonic appearance in the shadows.
Their first target, the locket, was a formidable challenge. Its dark magic was insidious, radiating a suffocating despair that tried to crush his resolve. Ron was particularly susceptible, his insecurities magnified by the Horcrux's influence. Geralt-Harry fought through it, his mind a fortress built on years of battling psychological attacks from curses and monsters. He drew on the lessons from his Occlumency training, twisting the invasive despair, turning it back on itself. When he finally destroyed it with the Sword of Gryffindor, the blade hummed with a fierce satisfaction, its power resonating with his triumph. His muscles, now visibly larger and more defined, bore the strain of constant tension and physical exertion, his lean body a testament to the brutal demands of their nomadic existence.
The emotional strain was immense, but it was Ginny who often broke through his hardened exterior. Their communication was often silent, a series of knowing glances or a shared, grim half-smile that spoke volumes. He found himself protecting her instinctively, not just with his spells, but by anticipating her needs, guiding her through dangerous terrain with a hand on her back, placing himself between her and perceived threats. He'd catch her watching him, her own emerald eyes mirroring a fierce understanding, and a warmth he couldn't quite extinguish would spread through his chest.
One night, huddled in a tent in a desolate moor, after a close call with snatchers, Ginny quietly approached him. "You always look so… tired, Harry," she whispered, her voice soft, devoid of pity. "But you never give up." He merely grunted, looking away, trying to maintain his professional distance. "It's a contract. It has to be finished." She laid a hand on his forearm, her touch light but firm. He felt the warmth, the unexpected comfort, through his thick robes. His muscles tensed, not from alarm, but from a strange, unfamiliar longing. Her fingers traced the outline of a new scar on his hand, a testament to a narrow escape from a cursed object. "It's more than that for you, isn't it?" she murmured. He didn't answer, but his gaze, in the dim light, softened almost imperceptibly. He couldn't deny it to her. Not to Ginny.
His research into Godric Gryffindor's books became a constant, almost obsessive pursuit. He'd spend hours poring over the ancient texts, deciphering old diagrams of forging techniques, studying the properties of rare magical alloys. He learned about Gryffindor's personal quest to create a sword that could cleave through both physical and magical barriers, a blade that embodied courage and truth. The idea of forging his own blade, a true Witcher sword for this magical world, became a singular focus, a physical manifestation of his unique identity. He believed that the power of his spirit, his dual nature, could be imbued into such a blade, making it uniquely his. He began collecting rare minerals, researching obscure spells for heat regulation and magical infusion during the forging process. He knew this would be a long, arduous process, but it was an essential part of his preparation.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Forged in Fire and the Final Stand
The hunt intensified, each Horcrux a more perilous undertaking than the last. Hogsmeade, Gringotts, Hogwarts itself—each location a crucible, testing the limits of his growing strength and resilience. The Ministry was now entirely under Voldemort's control, its propaganda machines spewing lies, painting him as Undesirable No. 1.
His combat prowess reached new heights. He moved with the fluid, brutal efficiency of a Witcher, his 185.42 cm (6'1") frame a blur of motion, his enhanced muscles lending bone-crushing force to his physical strikes. When he fought Death Eaters, he didn't just cast spells from a distance; he engaged, closing the gap, using the Sword of Gryffindor to deflect curses and parry blows, transitioning seamlessly into powerful, focused blasts of magic from his wand. His Igni spells were roaring infernos, his Aard blasts sent opponents flying with concussive force. He was a terrifying sight, his Cat's Eye pupils wide and glowing in the chaos, his handsome features grim and utterly ruthless. The females among the Death Eaters, and even some of the older, battle-hardened ones, found themselves momentarily unnerved by his sheer intensity and raw power.
The assault on Gringotts, retrieving the cup from the Lestrange vault, was a testament to his combined abilities. He navigated the treacherous tunnels, his enhanced senses detecting traps and hidden magical wards that would have ensnared lesser wizards. When the Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon emerged, a true beast of immense power, Geralt-Harry didn't hesitate. He took another dose of the Cat's Eye Elixir, his eyes dilating, allowing him to perceive the faint, shimmering magical weaknesses in the dragon's scales. He moved with a speed that belied his size, using the Sword of Gryffindor to deflect its fiery breath, before unleashing a concentrated Confringo at its unprotected underside, followed by a precise Diffindo that severed its chains, freeing it to wreak havoc on the vault. He commanded it with a series of guttural, almost primordial sounds, a hint of his Parseltongue blending with unspoken magic, guiding its rampage as they escaped.
His relationship with Ginny deepened, unspoken but profoundly felt. In moments of quiet between harrowing escapes, she would sometimes lean into him, her head resting on his shoulder. He would subtly shift, his arm instinctively wrapping around her, offering a silent comfort that transcended words. Others noticed, of course. Ron would clear his throat awkwardly. Hermione would smile. But neither commented, understanding the unspoken bond. He still tried to maintain a certain detachment, a Witcher's emotional distance, for her own safety. But with Ginny, the facade was thin, almost translucent. He knew he was falling for her, a dangerous, intoxicating weakness he hadn't anticipated.
His research into Gryffindor's swordcraft culminated in a relentless pursuit of the knowledge to forge his own blade. He understood now that the Sword of Gryffindor, while powerful, was a symbol, tied to a specific lineage. He needed a blade that was a reflection of his own duality, forged with the magic of two worlds, infused with his own Witcher essence. He gathered the necessary rare ingredients, the ancient texts now memorized, ready for the perilous ritual of creation. He sought a hidden, forgotten forge, a place where raw magic could be harnessed. His muscles ached constantly from his sword training, his calloused hands bearing testament to his dedication. He wielded his practice blade with a ferocity that bordered on feral, anticipating the moment he would hold his own, true Witcher sword, a blade that would cut through darkness and stand as a testament to his unique identity.
The final confrontation loomed, a storm gathering on the horizon. The Horcruxes were almost all accounted for. He stood ready, no longer just Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, but Harry, the Witcher-Wizard, forged in the fires of loss and battle, taller, stronger, his handsome face grim with purpose, his eyes burning with a terrifying resolve. He had a contract. And he would see it through, whatever the cost, with or without a new sword, but determined to bring his full, honed power to bear. The hunt would end.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Battle of Hogwarts Begins
The arrival at Hogsmeade was not a triumphant return, but a desperate dash through an insidious magical trap. The air was thick with the suffocating presence of Death Eaters, their chilling laughter echoing through the deserted village. Harry felt the familiar prickle on his scar, a low thrumming that intensified as they moved, a clear sign of Voldemort's growing proximity and power. He had taken another dose of the Cat's Eye Elixir just before Disapparating, and the world around him seemed to sharpen, details becoming impossibly clear, the very texture of the shadows defined, the faint magical signatures of hidden curses visible to his enhanced vision.
They were immediately detected. The sound of shouting, the crack of Apparition, and then the sickening whoosh of spells. Harry moved, no longer just dodging, but anticipating, his muscles coiling and striking with precise, economical force. He used his wand, not just to cast Stunning Spells, but to unleash powerful, focused blasts of magic, the air crackling with his raw power. The Sword of Gryffindor, now almost an extension of his arm, deflected curses with a clang, the blade singing against incoming magical energy. He was a force, a blur of motion, his height and increased mass lending devastating impact to his physical counters.
"This way!" Aberforth Dumbledore, a gruff, familiar presence, pulled them into the Hog's Head, his movements surprisingly swift for an old man. He offered sanctuary, a stark contrast to the betrayal that had often surrounded Harry. The hidden passage behind the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore led them into the Room of Requirement, a bastion of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.
The sight of the gathered students, the members of Dumbledore's Army, filled Harry with a grim sense of purpose. Neville Longbottom, older and more resolute, stood at the forefront, his face etched with defiance. This wasn't just his fight. It was theirs. But he was the spearhead. He saw the admiration, the unwavering loyalty in their eyes, and a flicker of something akin to warmth sparked in his chest. He was a Witcher, a solitary warrior, but he also had kin here.
The first confrontation with Voldemort's forces was brutal and swift. The message from Voldemort, carried by the Carrow siblings, was a chilling ultimatum: surrender Harry Potter, or face total annihilation. Harry didn't hesitate. He stood before the assembled students, his voice clear, calm, and utterly devoid of fear, his Cat's Eye pupils wide and piercing.
"He won't stop with me," Harry stated, his voice resonating with an authority that silenced the Great Hall. "He wants to control you all. To corrupt everything Dumbledore built. This is not about one person. This is about everything." His gaze swept over the worried faces, lingering on Ginny, who met his eyes with a fierce, unwavering determination. A silent understanding passed between them, a promise.
He initiated the evacuation of the younger students, his commands crisp and efficient, like a general directing troops. His enhanced senses detected the subtle shifts in the castle's wards, the first breaches as Voldemort's forces began their assault. He could hear the distant screams, the faint, sickening crack of spells hitting stone, the growing presence of dark magic saturating the very air.
The Battle of Hogwarts began not with a roar, but with a series of muffled explosions, distant shouts, and the ominous tremor that ran through the ancient stone of the castle. Harry, standing on the ramparts, felt the full force of the impending conflict. His body, now fully integrated with Geralt's strength and instinct, felt ready, almost eager. He ran a hand over the Sword of Gryffindor, its enhanced edge humming softly in anticipation. The hunt was on.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Last Horcruxes and the Snape Revelation
The castle became a battlefield, a maze of collapsing walls, screaming spells, and desperate defiance. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved with practiced coordination, a unit honed by years of survival. Harry, powered by the Cat's Eye Elixir, moved with terrifying speed and precision. His heightened senses allowed him to dodge curses by a hair's breadth, to anticipate flanking maneuvers, to perceive the almost invisible magical threads of enemy enchantments. His enhanced vision, cutting through the smoke and magical debris, allowed him to see enemies before they saw him, giving him a crucial advantage in the chaotic melees. His physically larger and more muscular frame now moved with unexpected agility for his size, a testament to years of rigorous training.
He faced Death Eaters with a brutal efficiency. He'd deflect a Killing Curse with the Sword of Gryffindor, the blade clanging as if on solid steel, then unleash a powerful Incendio that incinerated multiple foes, followed by a concussive Aard blast from his wand that sent others flying. He fought with the ferocity of a Witcher, blending precise sword strikes with overwhelming magical force. He was an unstoppable force, a whirlwind of emerald eyes, humming blade, and raw power.
The Room of Requirement. The lost Horcrux. The diadem of Ravenclaw. The room, in its desperation, became a mountain of discarded junk. Harry's enhanced senses, amplified by the elixir, allowed him to discern the subtle, insidious presence of the Horcrux amidst the chaos, a cold knot of dark magic that stood out against the mundane. He fought the maddened fiend-fire created by Crabbe, a monstrous, self-aware inferno that consumed everything in its path. He dispatched it with a powerful, focused Aguamenti that unleashed a torrent of water, followed by a devastating Confringo that collapsed the very structure of the room around the escaping Death Eaters, sealing their fate.
The search for the final Horcrux brought him to the Shrieking Shack. He found Snape, gravely wounded by Voldemort's familiar, Nagini. Snape, his face contorted in pain, urged him to take his memories. Harry, despite his burning hatred for the man, recognized the grim necessity. He collected the silvery strands, his hand trembling slightly, his Witcher instincts screaming danger, but his logical mind overriding the emotional turmoil.
The Pensieve. Snape's memories. The truth unraveled with a sickening clarity. Lily Potter. Snape's lifelong, obsessive love for her. His tortured double-agent role. His unwavering protection of Harry, driven by guilt and a profound, complicated loyalty. The doe Patronus. The Elder Wand. Dumbledore's calculated demise. The prophecy, now fully understood in its terrible implications.
Geralt-Harry watched it all, his handsome features grim, his eyes wide with the Cat's Eye Elixir's effect, taking in every detail. The cold hatred for Snape slowly receded, replaced by a profound, weary understanding. Snape was not a monster in the way Voldemort was. He was a man consumed by love and regret, trapped in a contract of his own making, a tragic figure. The revelations about the Elder Wand, and Voldemort's mistaken belief that Snape was its true master, provided the final, crucial piece of the puzzle. The true ownership lay with him, Harry, through Draco, through Dumbledore. The ultimate weapon was his.
Chapter Thirty: The Forbidden Forest and the Return
The Forbidden Forest. The final walk. Harry was alone now, the burden of the prophecy resting squarely on his shoulders. He had confronted his emotions, had seen the truth of Snape. He knew what he had to do. He swallowed another dose of the Cat's Eye Elixir, the familiar cold fire spreading through his veins, his pupils dilating to black pools that reflected the towering trees and the approaching darkness. His heightened senses screamed danger, but also certainty.
He saw the spectral figures of his parents, of Sirius, of Lupin, emerge from the Resurrection Stone. He spoke to them, not with tears, but with a quiet acceptance, drawing strength from their presence. They were not there to fight for him, but to stand with him. He was no longer afraid of death; he had faced it repeatedly, and now he understood its true nature.
He confronted Voldemort in the clearing. The circle of Death Eaters. The raw, terrifying power emanating from the Dark Lord. Voldemort, believing himself invincible with the Elder Wand, unleashed the Killing Curse. Harry didn't dodge. He stood firm, accepting his fate, sacrificing himself for the greater good, a decision born not of desperation but of the Witcher's cold, pragmatic calculation combined with Harry's inherent selflessness.
The flash of green light. Then, nothing.
He woke in a surreal, ethereal King's Cross, speaking with Dumbledore. The piece of Voldemort's soul, the final Horcrux, was detached, shriveled, and helpless. The choice was clear: return, or move on.
He returned. He woke in the forest, his body whole, his scar no longer burning with the pain of Voldemort's connection, but a faint, almost cool mark. He was the master of death, having faced it and walked away. His muscles, his heightened senses, his Cat's Eye Elixir—all were still there, ready.
Chapter Thirty-One: The End of the Contract
The final battle for Hogwarts raged. Harry, no longer hiding, emerged from the forest, his presence a beacon of defiance. He confronted Voldemort in the Great Hall, the true audience of the war.
Their final duel was not a chaotic exchange of spells, but a brutal, strategic confrontation. Harry, his Cat's Eye pupils wide and glowing, saw every feint, every intent behind Voldemort's movements. He deflected curses not just with Protego, but with the flat of the Sword of Gryffindor, sending them ricocheting back, a blend of magic and martial skill. His own spells were precise, aimed to disarm, to disrupt, to create openings. He used his immense physical strength to his advantage, closing distances, striking with the hilt of his sword when appropriate, a Witcher's brutal efficiency shining through. He was relentless, a force of nature.
"You speak of power you do not comprehend!" Voldemort shrieked, his red eyes blazing with fury. "The Elder Wand is mine!"
"No," Harry stated, his voice calm, resonant with authority. "It is not. It chose me." He explained the complex ownership, the subtle magic of loyalty and conquest. He refused to kill Voldemort, refusing to degrade himself to the monster's level. He refused to use the Killing Curse, instead opting for a powerful Expelliarmus, a disarming charm imbued with all his formidable strength and the raw power of his Cat's Eye Elixir.
The Elder Wand flew, not into Voldemort's hand, but into Harry's. Voldemort, exposed, vulnerable, collapsed. The raw, terrifying power of his magic, now untethered, backfired. He fell, a lifeless, shriveled husk. The connection was severed. The contract was complete.
The silence that followed was deafening, then a roar of triumph erupted from the surviving defenders. Harry stood amidst the cheering, his handsome face grim, his muscles aching, his eyes burning with the residual effects of the elixir, but his heart felt a strange, quiet sense of completion.
He sought out Ginny. She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck, her face streaked with tears and grime. He held her, tightly, letting the Witcher's detachment finally crack. He felt her warmth, her strength, her fierce joy. This was not a weakness. This was what he fought for. This was what made the contract worth taking.
Later, he walked to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He had the Elder Wand, an immense, dangerous power. He snapped it in half, an act of finality. He had the Sword of Gryffindor, a powerful tool. And he knew what he still needed to do.
His mind, now fully integrated with Geralt's knowledge, turned to the hidden forge, to the ancient texts. He would make his own blade. A sword of steel and silver, tempered with magic, infused with his own spirit. A blade for a Witcher of two worlds. The war was over. But the Path… the Path always continued.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Aftermath and the Path to a New Life
The days and weeks immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts were a blur of grief, exhaustion, and a fragile, burgeoning hope. The castle, scarred but defiant, slowly began its healing process. Harry, though hailed as a hero, felt the familiar emptiness that followed the completion of a perilous contract. Voldemort was gone, the Horcruxes destroyed, the immediate threat neutralized. But the Path… the Path always left a void once the monster was slain. He attended funerals, offered quiet condolences, and bore the weight of grateful gazes with his usual stoicism. His towering height and hardened physique, still bearing the fresh scars of battle, made him a figure of formidable presence.
His relationship with Ginny, however, became a quiet anchor in the tumultuous aftermath. In the ruins of the Great Hall, amidst the silent mourning and the tentative plans for rebuilding, their bond deepened. Words were often unnecessary. A shared glance, a subtle shift in her stance when he entered a room, a quiet touch of her hand on his arm amidst the crowd – these spoke volumes. He found himself seeking her out, drawn to her fierce vitality, her unyielding spirit that resonated with his own. She saw past the hardened exterior, past the Witcher's discipline, to the weary soul beneath. Her laughter was a balm, her determination a steadying force.
One crisp autumn evening, months after the dust had settled, Harry knew. The idea, once a foreign concept, now felt as inevitable as the changing seasons. He had found a new contract, one not written in blood and gold, but in shared moments and unspoken promises. He planned it meticulously, with a blend of wizarding tradition and his own pragmatic flair.
He found Ginny near the reconstructed Quidditch pitch, her fiery hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. He was dressed in his finest robes, a deep, midnight blue that subtly shimmered with almost invisible protective charms, a true wizard's costume, just as Ron had worn for his own proposal to Hermione. He had even, for this occasion, let his long hair fall loose around his shoulders, brushing against the collar of his robes. He held not a traditional ring, but a small, intricate pendant he had subtly enchanted himself, its silver gleaming with a faint, Witcher-like hum, a unique blend of their two worlds.
He knelt, not with awkwardness, but with the deliberate grace of a warrior. Ginny's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then something soft and knowing. He didn't recite flowery prose. "Ginny," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble, "this world… it's still full of threats. There will always be monsters. But facing them with you… it's a contract I want to sign. Permanently." He opened the small box, revealing the shimmering pendant. "Will you be my partner on this Path?"
Ginny's laughter, bright and clear, echoed across the pitch, followed by a joyful, tearful "Yes!" She launched herself into his arms, and he held her, tightly, feeling a sense of rightness, of belonging, that surpassed any Witcher's neutrality. The Witcher's cold discipline finally melted, not broken, but softened by a warmth he now understood. Ron and Hermione, who had subtly apparated nearby, cheered, Ron clearing his throat dramatically and Hermione wiping a tear from her eye. Their proposals had been grand affairs, magical spectacles for all to see. Harry's was quieter, more intimate, yet no less profound, a promise forged in the crucible of war and sealed with a Witcher's heart.
Harry, now with a clear purpose beyond mere survival, joined the Ministry of Magic's Auror Department. His unique blend of combat prowess, heightened senses, and ruthless efficiency quickly set him apart. He moved through the ranks with unprecedented speed, becoming the best Auror in the department, a legend in his own right. His methods were often unorthodox – tracking dark wizards by their magical scent trails, disarming them with a perfectly timed Aard blast that sent their wands flying, or using his Cat's Eye Elixir to corner them in pitch-black alleyways. He was the Ministry's ultimate weapon, a monster hunter for a world still reeling from the shadows of Voldemort. Ginny, a formidable witch in her own right, became a celebrated Quidditch player for the Holyhead Harpies, their lives intertwined yet each forging their own legends.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Nineteen Years Later – The End of One Path, the Beginning of Another
The sun beat down on Platform 9 and 3/4, a familiar cacophony of steam, chattering voices, and luggage trolleys. It had been nineteen years since the Battle of Hogwarts, since the end of the greatest contract of his life. Harry stood there, a tall figure at six feet one inch (185.42 cm), his presence still commanding attention, though now it was less about raw power and more about settled authority. His once jet-black hair, still long and often tied back, now held subtle streaks of silver at the temples, a quiet testament to the battles fought and the years passed. His face, still undeniably handsome, was etched with faint lines of experience around his piercing emerald eyes, eyes that no longer needed the elixir to see the subtle currents of the world, though they still held that unnerving, cool depth. His broad shoulders and muscular frame, still honed by daily drills with his personal sword (a magnificent, silver-edged blade he had finally forged himself in a forgotten magical smithy, imbued with both Witcher runes and powerful wizarding enchantments), spoke of a life lived with purpose.
Beside him, Ginny stood, still vibrant and fiery, her hand intertwined with his. Their connection was a deep, quiet river, flowing beneath the surface of everyday life. He still tried to maintain his Witcher's emotional composure in public, but for her, the barriers were long gone, replaced by a profound, unwavering affection that was evident in the way he met her gaze, the gentle squeeze of her hand, the quiet understanding that passed between them.
Their three children stood before them, a testament to the new Path he had chosen.
James Sirius Potter, named for his father and godfather, was a boisterous, energetic boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes, already eager to board the Hogwarts Express.
Lily Molly Potter, their youngest, possessed Ginny's fiery red hair and a curious, intelligent gaze that reminded Harry of Hermione, tempered with a quiet kindness.
And then there was Jaskier Geralt Potter. The name "Jaskier" had been Harry's choice, a quiet, almost secret tribute to the bard he had known in his old life, a man whose wit and unwavering companionship had provided moments of levity amidst the grim realities of the Path. It was a name that only Ginny truly understood the full weight of, a whisper from another existence.
Jaskier, a boy of eleven, stood a little apart from his siblings, his own emerald eyes, identical to Harry's, fixed on the distant train with an unnervingly intense gaze. He was slender, perhaps, but carried himself with an unusual awareness, a subtle tension in his posture. He was quieter than James, more observant, and often seemed to notice things others missed – a faint magical ripple in the air, the distant sound of a magicked vehicle, a particular scent on the wind. When he was born, Harry had felt a familiar, subtle thrum within him, a strange echo that resonated with his own mutated core. He had known then.
Jaskier, unlike his siblings, had not inherited the explicit magical prowess of his parents in the same way. He could wield a wand, yes, but his true inheritance was more primal, more ancient. He had inherited the Witcher senses from Harry. His hearing was unnaturally sharp, his vision piercingly acute, capable of perceiving details and subtle shifts that ordinary humans (and even wizards) could not. His reaction time was a fraction faster, his instincts sharper, and he possessed a natural, almost preternatural awareness of his surroundings. Sometimes, in the right light, Harry would see a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker in Jaskier's eyes, a fleeting dilation of the pupils, reminiscent of the Cat's Eye Elixir's effects. It was a quieter inheritance, a hidden strength. He was a Witcher born anew, not by potion and mutation, but by a soul's enduring legacy.
As the Hogwarts Express whistled, billowing steam, Harry watched his children board. The contract with Voldemort was long finished. His career as an Auror, a constant vigil against lingering darkness, was another form of the Path, one he walked with competence and grim satisfaction. But this… this was different. This was family. This was building, not just destroying. He squeezed Ginny's hand.
The Path, he knew, was endless. It wound through old worlds and new, through battles and quiet moments, through triumphs and losses. And sometimes, it branched, creating new beginnings, new destinies. His own Path, once solitary and grim, was now walked alongside others, and passed on to the next generation. A Witcher, truly at home in two worlds, watched his son step onto the platform, ready for his own journey, unknowingly carrying a piece of an ancient legacy into a new, magical future.