A troublemaker who could transform.
This reminded Harry of Dopplers, a humanoid species that could mimic anyone's appearance, even copying their thoughts, voices, and expertise.
Gryffindor seemed intriguing indeed.
Harry didn't dwell on it too much and instead asked, "So, Hagrid, do you know any blacksmiths?"
"I'm afraid not, Harry," Hagrid replied, looking a bit sheepish. Embarrassed by his inability to help, he quickly added, "But Professor Flitwick—he'll be your Charms teacher—has some goblin heritage. He might know a master blacksmith."
Harry nodded.
"Why do you want a sword anyway?" Hagrid asked after a while, hesitantly breaking the silence.
Harry replied blankly, "When I was buying clothes, Madam Malkin mentioned that Gryffindor was a wizard who carried a longsword. I thought I could become that kind of wizard too."
Hagrid brightened immediately. "Oh, absolutely!"
"Harry, you truly are a born Gryffindor!"
"Your parents were both Gryffindors, I'm a Gryffindor, and so is Headmaster Dumbledore!"
He went on, passionately describing Hogwarts.
Harry thought he might have been a bit biased.
In Hagrid's view, Slytherins were a bunch of scheming scoundrels, Hufflepuffs were dull and invisible, and Ravenclaws were nothing but bookish bores.
Harry added mentally that maybe, from other Houses' perspectives, Gryffindors were just a bunch of troublemaking show-offs.
It seemed…
Hogwarts might not be the calmest of places.
Over the next month, Harry stayed with the Dursleys. He had wanted to find a different place to stay, as the Dursleys didn't like him.
But being eleven made things tricky, so he reluctantly remained.
Aside from eating and exercising, Harry rarely left his new room. Aunt Petunia had tidied it up for him before he returned from Diagon Alley.
He named his owl "Hedwig" after a figure he read about in A History of Magic—a great witch who protected young wizards during the dark witch-hunting times, teaching them to prevent them from becoming Obscurials.
Magic in this world seemed ever-present.
The moment he named her, a faint aura connected him to Hedwig, creating a bond between them.
It wasn't a contract in words or law.
Rather, it was a passive, magical bloodline connection.
How interesting…
Harry's fascination with this world's magic grew, and he eagerly dove into his books.
Wizards' magic bore many similarities to the Signs used by witchers: spells, gestures, and strong conviction.
And after reading The Development of Modern Magic and Important Magical Events of the Twentieth Century, Harry finally had a general understanding of the wizarding world.
The lifespan of wizards was rather short, typically around a hundred years, with the oldest wizard, Nicolas Flamel, reaching over six hundred by taking something called the "Elixir of Life."
In the witcher's world, both sorcerers and witchers had very long lifespans.
Master Vesemir had lived close to three centuries, looking no older than a middle-aged man, at least younger than Uncle Vernon.
But magic here was powerful.
The first Dark Lord, Grindelwald, had unleashed Fiendfyre that burned half of Paris. In the witcher's world, such destructive magic would take the combined effort of several sorcerers.
And then there were Animagi.
Transfiguration experts could take on the form of an animal, with the only drawback being that the animal type was random.
But this wasn't really a flaw.
What intrigued Harry the most was Potions—a skilled witcher's abilities depended on swordsmanship, Signs, and potions.
Every witcher was a skilled herbalist and potion-maker, and Harry was no exception.
In the magical world, potions felt more like "medicine."
They could extend life, reveal the truth, or enhance intelligence…
Most importantly, they were almost entirely non-toxic.
Witcher potions were too toxic for ordinary people, the powerful toxins capable of destroying them instantly. Even witchers, immune to most poisons, couldn't take multiple potions within a short period.
But wizarding potions had no such restrictions.
This new, fascinating field of potions immediately captivated Harry.
If there was any drawback…
As Harry had expected, the herbs from the two worlds had almost no overlap. Even those with the same name, like "mandrake," were vastly different.
The Dursleys spent this time in a state of near-constant anxiety.
They often saw…
Harry waving a little stick, making furniture float or cutting and reassembling magazines.
Or huddled in the attic, brewing strange concoctions as steam bubbled around him.
Then, the day before school started…
At the dinner table.
"My dear uncle, I'll need a ride to King's Cross Station tomorrow," Harry said after finishing a large steak.
Thank heavens!
The menace was finally leaving!
Vernon's only thought was that, though his tone remained hard. "Riding a train to a wizard school—ridiculous. Don't they have enough blankets to patch up their broomsticks?"
"With better transportation available, why wouldn't they use it?" Harry replied matter-of-factly.
If cars, trains, or planes existed in the witcher's world, sorcerers and witchers alike would celebrate. Truthfully, traveling by portal was unpleasant. If it wasn't urgent, Harry, like other witchers, would rather travel on horseback.
"What platform?" Vernon asked.
"Nine and three-quarters," Harry answered.
Vernon sneered, his chubby face and belly jiggling. "There's no such platform! I told you, they're all lunatics…"
Harry raised a hand.
Vernon flinched as if expecting an attack.
Nothing happened; Harry merely picked up his milk glass. "Wizards have their own spells. If they can hide themselves from Muggles, it makes sense they'd hide their platform within a normal station."
He downed the milk.
Returning to his room, he packed everything, including three potions he'd brewed over the month—two Forgetfulness Potions and one Invigoration Draught.
The Next Day
They left at 7:30, arriving at King's Cross after three hours of jostling.
The station was bustling, travelers coming and going in waves.
"Well, boy, here you are," Vernon grumbled, helping Harry with his luggage as if eager to rid himself of a burden. "Platform Nine, Platform Ten—this is where you need to be."
"Now go use your wizard tricks to find your train!"
"Goodbye!" he called, slamming the car door as he placed Hedwig's cage on the luggage cart before speeding off.
Harry took a deep breath and heightened his senses.
The muddled scents of humanity were unimportant.
The faint, rotten stench of ghouls—it seemed there had once been many of them here.
And most important, the trace of magic.
Pushing his cart, he followed the magical aura to a wall between Platforms Nine and Ten.
This was the entrance.
He reached out, feeling the solid wall—not an illusion.
It seemed there was a special way to pass through.
There were no signs of wand marks on the wall, but on the ground, he saw obvious footprints and wheel tracks leading straight through to the other side.
Long strides, firm, and urgent.
Harry examined the marks, following them from about three meters away.
So…
The way through was to take a running start?
Harry took note, then backed up to where the marks began. With a brisk run, he pushed forward—passing through the wall, a cool magic washing over him.
On the other side was another platform, with a sign reading "Platform 9¾."
Many people wore ordinary clothes, while others were dressed in wizarding robes.
After a quick check-in, Harry boarded the train.
He levitated his luggage with his wand, navigating through the crowd until he found an empty compartment at the end of the train. He didn't enjoy forcing himself into others' social circles.
Just after he sat down, there was a knock at the compartment door, which slid open to reveal a redhead poking his head in. "Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but all the other compartments are full. Can I sit here?"
Harry nodded. "Of course."
The redhead sighed in relief. "Thanks a lot."
He opened the door fully and struggled to lift his luggage inside.
Harry took out his wand and gave it a flick, sending the luggage neatly into the corner.
"Oh… are you a senior student?" The redhead sat down, seeming shy. "I thought you were a first-year like me."
Harry chuckled and shook his head. "No, I'm a first-year too."
"But… how do you already know magic?" The redhead's eyes widened in surprise. "I asked my brothers to teach me, but I couldn't learn it."
"I taught myself from books," Harry said simply.
The redhead rubbed his messy hair. "Then you must be a Ravenclaw."
"Anyway, I'm Ron. Ron Weasley."
"I'm sure we'll be good friends! My brothers are all really smart, and I could use some help with my homework."
Harry introduced himself, "Hello, I'm Harry Potter."
Ron jumped up, eyes wide. "Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?"
He glanced at Harry's forehead.
Harry lifted his hair, revealing his scar. "Yes, that Harry Potter."
In the witcher's world, he hadn't yet earned a title
like "The Butcher of Blaviken" as Geralt had.
But it seemed his name was already famous here.