"Harry, Harry!"
"Wake up, the Wild Hunt is coming!"
Geralt's half-dead voice echoed in his ears.
Harry opened his eyes abruptly, struggling to get up from the bed, and *thump*—his head smashed hard against the steps.
Steps?
Dazed, he clutched his forehead and cautiously looked around his surroundings.
A narrow, cramped, pitch-dark space. Above his head were stairs, step by step, and he could even hear the faint, rustling sound of spiders crawling.
Most crucial of all was this frail, skinny body of his—one that a griffin could blow away with a single flap of its wings.
Distant memories surged up from his mind.
This is...
His aunt's house back on Earth.
He sat up carefully, pushed open the cupboard door, and poked his head out—the scene in the house gradually aligning with those long-dusty memories.
He was back?
But how could...
Was it a dream, an unusually vivid dream?
It was hard for him not to harbor such doubts—whatever the reason that made him return from that world, his body had also reverted to being ten or eleven years old.
Yet he could be certain that experience was no dream.
He could feel the magic within his body—a magic entirely different from that of sorcerers and Witchers—and he could also feel the substantive effects that undergoing mutations had left on his physique.
Sharper senses, a hungrier body.
And...
"Igni," Harry muttered, reciting the Sign rune and rubbing his fingers together. A small puff of flame flared up, only to be extinguished the next instant. He still commanded the power of the Signs.
"Was it Ciri?"
That girl possessed of the Elder Blood, capable of manipulating time and space—incredible though it was, sending him back to this age wasn't entirely impossible for her.
Harry rubbed his head.
This truly was not good news.
If he ever got the chance to see his master the White Wolf again in the future, he hoped the man would give him a chance to sit down and properly explain his reasons.
*Tap, tap, tap*—
Sluggish footsteps hurried over from not far away, not very heavy, carrying an anxious mood.
"Get up—" A shrill female voice rang out, preparing to yell at the family's freeloader to get up as usual, but the moment her gaze fell upon Harry sitting on the stairs, the sound cut off abruptly.
What a bizarre thing.
Petunia's tongue tied itself in knots: "You're already up? Good, you finally look somewhat human today. Go wash up, get the mail, it's time to eat."
Harry nodded. Doing as memory dictated, he washed up and walked to the front door.
Petunia stared at Harry's back, furrowing her brows in confusion.
Harry today...
Seemed a little different.
But where, exactly?
There were only three letters on the doormat.
The thickest one among them was addressed to him—"Mr. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."
Who would send him a letter?
Memories of his early childhood felt quite distant to him now, but pain does not fade with time; it only etches itself more sharply.
Thanks to his aunt's family, whether in society or at school, he was an unlikable person with no friends.
He walked back to the kitchen with the letter, placed the other two on the table, and prepared to open this one.
An ambush!
Harry ducked his head, rolling off the stool, and narrowed his eyes as Uncle Vernon reached a hand out toward him.
"Boy, what's that in your hand!" Seeing that he hadn't brought the item over, the man, whose build rivaled an ogre's, slammed his fist heavily onto the table and bared his teeth in interrogation.
"A letter," Harry answered concisely. "My letter."
Uncle Vernon sneered: "Who'd be writing to you?"
"Hand it over, let me see!"
Ignoring him, Harry tore open the letter, unfolded the parchment, and glanced over it, his eyebrows involuntarily rising: "It's a magic school called Hogwarts. They're inviting me to attend."
He raised his head.
Uncle Vernon's eyes bulged in absolute terror, his complexion turning pale in an instant.
In the kitchen, with a loud *clatter*, Petunia dropped the pot she was holding and lunged forward like an arrow, rushing at Harry to snatch the letter from his hand.
Harry casually sidestepped her: "It seems you do know about Hogwarts. Care to tell me about it?"
"You little brat, give me that letter!" Uncle Vernon stood up, strode across the room, and rolled up his sleeves. "You don't want to suffer any extra hardship, do you!"
"Aard!" Harry raised his hand and cast a Sign.
With a telekinetic blast, Vernon was sent flying backward, crashing heavily onto the dining table amidst a chaotic mess.
Petunia let out a shrill, ear-piercing scream!
Harry shook the letter in his hand: "Now we should be able to talk civilly."
"No, how is this possible!" Petunia stared at Harry in astonishment. "You haven't even started school yet, how can you use magic?"
"Magic," Harry repeated the word. "So this letter is real, then?"
When Vesemir—the oldest grandmaster of the Wolf School of Witchers—had found him, he had been lying amidst the corpses of a group of nekkers. It closely resembled the magical outburst of a Source when in danger, and he had naturally been regarded as a Source.
Yet Yennefer had examined him and found that while a power did exist within his body, it differed from the magic used by sorcerers.
That hadn't stopped him from becoming a Witcher, though.
And it might even... perhaps make him the first grandmaster Witcher capable of wielding powerful magic rather than just a few basic Signs.
Harry had never felt that that magic was a power inherently his own—he had simply regarded it as a gift for inexplicably arriving in an unfamiliar world.
Now it seemed the truth... was somewhat different from what he had imagined.
This power, which he had been able to strengthen his Signs with through simple exploration, belonged to him all along.
"Your eyes!" Petunia finally discovered the source of the unfamiliarity in her nephew.
"Why have your eyes become like that?"
He wasn't wearing glasses as he usually did, and his eyes...
Harry remained unfazed.
He knew what Aunt Petunia was talking about.
Witchers were mutated monsters wearing human skin, and their eyes were the biggest difference between them and normal humans.
Amber-colored, with vertical slit pupils—like a cat, and like a snake.
"That doesn't matter. Now you need to explain Hogwarts to me properly." Harry waved a hand at them, pulled over a chair, and sat down. "I can tell you're hiding a lot of things from me."
Petunia stood in a daze, her expression trancelike and complex.
Vernon collapsed powerlessly onto the shattered, ruined dining table.
"Oh, fine, since they've already written and you somehow know how to use magic anyway." After a long silence, Petunia sighed, pulled over a chair, and sat down. "If you want to know, I'll tell you."
"Your parents... they were actually wizards."
"Wizards..." Harry raised an eyebrow, unable to keep from interrupting, "My mother was a witch too?"
Petunia nodded: "Yes."
"You're her sister, aren't you a witch?" Harry pressed on.
Petunia's expression stiffened.
It reminded her of the letter she had sent in her youth, and the polite yet coldly rejecting words that had shattered her fantasies.
*Stab.*
Her heart had been pierced by a vicious blow.