So, Petunia, you're not a witch?

"Harry, Harry!"

"Wake up, the Wild Hunt is coming!"

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

Harry snapped his eyes open and struggled to sit up from his bed, only to thud—his head slammed hard against the stairs.

The stairs?

He looked around in a daze, clutching his forehead as he cautiously surveyed his surroundings.

A narrow, cramped space, dim and lightless, with stairs overhead—step by step—and he could even hear the faint, rustling movements of spiders crawling about.

Most importantly, there was his own frail, thin body, one that a griffin could blow away with a single flap of its wings.

Distant memories flooded his mind.

This is...

His aunt's house back on Earth.

He sat up gingerly, pushed open the cupboard door, and poked his head out—the scene in the house gradually aligned with those long-buried memories.

Back?

But how could it be...

Was it a dream, an exceptionally realistic dream?

He found it hard not to harbor such suspicions—regardless of the reason that brought him back from that world, his body had also returned to being ten, or perhaps eleven years old.

But he could be certain that the experience was no dream.

He could feel the magic within him—a magic distinct from that of sorcerers or witchers—and he could also feel the tangible effects those mutations had left on his body.

Sharper senses, a hungrier body.

And...

"Igni." Harry spoke, chanting the sign's rune and rubbing his fingers together; a small flame flared up, only to vanish in the blink of an eye. He still possessed the power of the signs.

"Was it Hiri?"

That girl with the Elder Blood, capable of manipulating time and space—though it seemed incredible, it was not impossible that she had sent him back to this age.

Harry rubbed his head.

This was truly not good news.

If he ever had the chance to see his mentor, the White Wolf, he hoped he would be given the chance to sit down and have the reasons explained properly.

Tap, tap, tap—

Shuffling footsteps approached rapidly from not far away, not heavy, but hurried.

"Get up—" A sharp female voice rang out, prepared to shout at the family's burden to wake up as usual, but upon seeing Harry sitting on the stairs, the voice cut off abruptly.

What an incredible thing.

Petunia's tongue tied in knots: "Already up? Good, you've finally got a shred of decency today. Go, wash up, get the mail, and it's time to eat."

Harry nodded and, just as his memory dictated, washed up and walked to the front door.

Petunia stared at Harry's back, frowning in confusion.

Harry today...

He was a bit different.

But where exactly?

There were only three letters on the doormat.

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

Who would be sending him a letter?

The memories of his childhood were long ago to him, but the pain had not faded with time; it had only been etched more clearly.

Thanks to his aunt's family, whether in society or at school, he was an unlikable person without friends.

He walked back to the kitchen with the letter, placed the other two on the table, and prepared to open this one.

Ambush!

Harry ducked, rolled off the chair, and narrowed his eyes, watching Uncle Vernon reach out.

"Boy, what is that in your hand!" Seeing that he hadn't handed it over, the man, whose build rivaled a troll's, slammed his fist onto the table and bared his teeth in interrogation.

"A letter," Harry replied concisely. "My letter."

Uncle Vernon sneered: "Who would be writing to you?"

"Give it here, let me see!"

Harry ignored him, tore open the envelope, shook out the parchment, and scanned it, his eyebrows arching involuntarily: "It's a magic school called Hogwarts. They're inviting me to attend."

He looked up.

Uncle Vernon's eyes widened in terror, his face turning pale in an instant.

In the kitchen, there was a loud crash as Petunia dropped a pot, then she lunged out, rushing toward Harry to snatch the letter from his hand.

Harry dodged her with effortless ease. "It seems you know about Hogwarts. Why don't you tell me about it?"

"You brat, give me that letter!" Uncle Vernon stood up and strode over, rolling up his sleeves. "You don't want to suffer, do you?"

"Aard!" Harry raised his hand and cast the sign.

With a blast of telekinetic force, Vernon was sent flying backward, crashing heavily onto the dining table amidst a scene of utter chaos.

Peggy let out a sharp, piercing shriek!

Harry shook the letter in his hand. "Now, I think we can have a proper conversation."

"No, how could you!" 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 he was first found by Vesemir—the oldest master of the School of the Wolf—he had been lying amidst a pile of necrophage corpses. It looked exactly like the magical outburst of a Source in danger, so it was naturally assumed he was one.

But Yennefer had examined him, and while there was a power within him, it was different from the magic used by sorcerers.

That hadn't stopped him from becoming a witcher.

In fact... it might even make him the first witcher master capable of wielding powerful magic, rather than just a few simple signs.

Harry had never felt that this magic was a power he originally possessed—he had simply treated it as a gift for inexplicably arriving in a strange world.

Now, it seemed the truth... was not quite what he had imagined.

This power, which he could use to enhance his signs through simple experimentation, had belonged to him all along.

"Your eyes!" Petunia finally realized the source of the strangeness in her nephew. "How did your eyes become like that?"

He wasn't wearing his glasses as he usually did, and his eyes...

Harry remained unmoved.

He knew exactly what Aunt Petunia was talking about.

Witchers were mutants, monsters wearing human skin, and their eyes were the greatest difference between them and normal humans.

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

"That is not important. Now, tell me about Hogwarts." Harry waved a hand at them, pulled up a chair, and sat down. "I can tell you have been keeping many things from me."

Petunia stood there blankly, dazed, her expression complex.

Vernon lay slumped and powerless over the shattered, ruined dining table.

"Oh, very well. Since they have already sent the letter, and you have somehow mastered magic," Petunia sighed after a long silence, pulling up a chair to sit down. "If you want to know, I will tell you."

"Your parents, they were actually wizards."

"Wizards..." Harry raised an eyebrow, unable to stop himself from interrupting. "My mother was a witch, too?"

Petunia nodded. "Yes."

"You are her sister. Are you not a witch yourself?" Harry pressed.

Petunia's face stiffened.

It reminded her of the letter she had sent in her youth, the gentle tone of the reply, and the cold, rejecting words that had shattered her fantasies.

Stab.

It felt as if a knife had been driven deep into her heart.