"Harry, Harry!"

"Wake up, the Wild Hunt is coming!"

Geralt's half-dead voice echoed in his ears.

Harry's eyes flew open, and he struggled up from the bed, only to smash his head with a dull thud—on a step?

Steps?

Dazed, he clutched his throbbing forehead and cautiously surveyed his surroundings.

A narrow, cramped space, dimly lit, with stairs overhead, leading up step by step. The faint, rustling sounds of spiders scurrying added an eerie touch.

And most unsettling, his own frail, skinny body—a body that felt like a gust from a griffin's wing could blow it away.

Memories long buried came flooding back.

This is...

His aunt's house, back on Earth.

Harry carefully sat up and pushed open the cupboard door, peeking his head out. The familiar surroundings started to align with the hazy memories long locked away in his mind.

I'm back?

But how…

Was it all a dream? A vivid, disturbingly real dream? It was hard not to doubt. For whatever reason he'd returned from that world, his body seemed to have regressed as well, back to when he was ten—maybe eleven.

Yet he was sure that the experiences he'd gone through weren't just a dream.

He could feel the magic within himself—a magic that was distinctly different from that of sorcerers or witchers. He could sense the changes in his body, the tangible effects of those experiences.

Sharper senses, a ravenous hunger.

And…

"Igni." Harry whispered, uttering the rune. With a flick of his fingers, a small flame flared up, then vanished in an instant. He still retained the power of the Signs.

"Was it Ciri?"

The girl with Elder Blood, capable of controlling time and space. As implausible as it seemed, if she'd sent him back to this age, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

Harry rubbed his head.

This really wasn't good news.

If he ever got a chance to see his old mentor, the White Wolf, he hoped Geralt would sit down and explain the reason behind all this.

Thump, thump, thump—

Footsteps echoed hurriedly from not far away, not heavy but clearly impatient.

"Get up!" came a sharp female voice, preparing to shout for the household's "troublesome brat" to get up as usual. But upon seeing Harry sitting on the stairs, the voice stopped abruptly.

What an astonishing sight.

Petunia's tongue twisted in her mouth, "You're already up? Well, at least today you look halfway decent. Go, wash up, get the mail, and breakfast will be ready."

Harry nodded, following his memories. After washing, he walked to the front door.

Petunia watched Harry's back with a furrowed brow.

Today's Harry…

Something was different.

But what, exactly?

There were only three letters on the doormat.

The thickest one was addressed to him—"Mr. Harry Potter, Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

Who would be sending him mail?

Memories of his childhood felt distant, almost foreign, but the pain they held had only grown sharper over time. Thanks to his aunt and her family, both socially and at school, he'd been someone no one liked, friendless and isolated.

He took the letter back to the kitchen, placed the other two on the table, and prepared to open his own.

Suddenly, an ambush!

Harry ducked, rolling off his chair, squinting up at the reaching hand—Uncle Vernon.

"What's that in your hand, boy!" When Harry didn't immediately hand it over, the troll-sized man pounded the table with his fist and snarled.

"A letter," Harry answered simply. "My letter."

Uncle Vernon sneered, "Who'd be writing to you?"

"Give it here! Let me see!"

Ignoring him, Harry tore open the letter, unfolded the paper, and scanned it. His eyebrow lifted slightly. "It's from a school called Hogwarts—a magic school. They're inviting me to study there."

He looked up.

Uncle Vernon's eyes widened, his face filled with terror as it drained of color.

In the kitchen, a pan clattered as Aunt Petunia dropped it in shock. She dashed forward, reaching out to snatch the letter from Harry.

Harry sidestepped her casually. "So, you do know about Hogwarts? Care to explain?"

"You brat, give me that letter!" Uncle Vernon roared, rolling up his sleeves as he advanced on him, "Or you'll regret it!"

"Aard!" Harry raised his hand, casting the Sign.

With a burst of telekinetic force, Vernon flew back, crashing into the dining table, leaving a mess of splinters and debris.

Petunia shrieked, her voice sharp and piercing.

Harry waved the letter lightly in his hand. "Now, perhaps we can talk."

"No, how… how can you do that?" Petunia stammered, staring at him in disbelief. "You haven't even started school; how can you already use magic?"

"Magic." Harry repeated the word, his tone contemplative. "So, this letter is real?"

Back when Vesemir—the oldest master of the Wolf School—had found him, he'd been lying next to a group of wraith corpses. It resembled the kind of magical surge that happened when a source was in danger, and he was assumed to be a source mage.

But when Yennefer had checked him over, she found that although he had a source of power, it was different from the magic used by sorcerers.

That hadn't stopped him from becoming a witcher.

In fact…it might have made him the first witcher capable of wielding powerful magic, not just the simple Signs.

Harry had always assumed that magic had come to him as a strange gift when he was dropped into a foreign world.

But now… it seemed the truth wasn't what he'd thought.

This power, which strengthened his Signs with just a bit of practice, had always been his.

"Your eyes!" Petunia suddenly gasped, realizing what made her nephew look so unsettling. "Your eyes, what happened to them?"

He wasn't wearing glasses as usual, and his eyes…

Harry remained unfazed.

He knew what Aunt Petunia was referring to.

Witchers were a mutated breed, creatures with human appearances but different on the inside. And their eyes were the most obvious difference.

Amber-colored, with vertical pupils—cat-like, or perhaps serpent-like.

"That doesn't matter. Now, tell me about Hogwarts." Harry motioned to the chairs, pulled one over, and sat down. "I can tell there are things you've been hiding from me."

Petunia stood frozen, her expression distant and conflicted.

Uncle Vernon lay slumped, exhausted, amidst the splinters of the broken table.

"Oh, all right. If they've sent the letter, and if you really don't know why you can use magic…" After a long pause, Petunia sighed and sat down. "If you want to know, I'll tell you."

"Your parents… they were actually wizards."

"Wizards…" Harry's eyebrow quirked up, unable to resist interrupting. "So, my mother was a witch, too?"

Petunia nodded. "Yes."

"You were her sister. Doesn't that make you a witch?" Harry pressed.

Petunia's face froze.

It brought back memories of a letter she'd once sent, with soft, hopeful words that had been met with a cold, rejection-laden reply.

The pain felt like a fresh stab to her heart.