So, Petunia, You're Not a Witch?

"Harry, Harry!"

"Wake up! The Wild Hunt is coming!"

Geralt's barely alive voice echoed in his ears.

Harry jerked his eyes open and struggled up from the bed, only to go thump—smashing his head hard against the stairs.

Stairs?

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

A narrow, cramped space, dim and lightless. The staircase was right above his head, step after step, and he could even hear the faint rustling of spiders crawling.

Most importantly, this body of his was frail and small, so slight that a Griffin could blow him away with a flap of its wings.

Distant memories flooded back into his mind.

This was...

His aunt's house back on Earth.

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

He was back?

But how could that be...

Had it all been a dream, an extraordinarily vivid one?

It was hard not to suspect as much. Whatever the reason for his return from that world, his body had gone back to when he was ten, or perhaps eleven.

But he was certain that experience hadn't been a dream.

He could feel the magic within him—the magic that was completely different from a sorcerer's or a Witcher's—and he could also feel the tangible changes the mutations had wrought on his body.

Sharper senses, a hungrier body.

And...

"Igni." Harry spoke the Sign's incantation and rubbed his fingers together. A small flame sprang to life, then vanished in the blink of an eye. He still had the power of the Signs.

"Was it Ciri?"

The girl with Elder Blood could manipulate time and space. It was incredible, but sending him back to this age wasn't entirely impossible for her.

Harry rubbed his head.

This really wasn't good news.

If he ever got the chance to see his White Wolf mentor again, he hoped Geralt would give him a chance to sit down and explain himself properly.

Tap, tap, tap—

Hurried, shuffling footsteps approached from nearby. They weren't heavy, but the person walking sounded anxious.

"Get up—" A woman's shrill voice began, ready to yell at the family's usual freeloader to get out of bed. But then she saw Harry sitting on the stairs, and her voice abruptly stopped.

How unbelievable.

Petunia's tongue tied itself in knots. "You're already up? Good. You finally look like a proper person today. Go wash up, get the mail, and come eat."

Harry nodded and, following his memories, washed up before walking to the front door.

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

Harry seemed...

A little different today.

But how?

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 write to him?

His childhood memories were distant by now, but pain didn't fade with time. It only grew more deeply etched into his mind.

Thanks to his aunt's family, he'd been unpopular and friendless, both in society and at school.

He took the letter back to the kitchen, put the other two on the table, and prepared to open it.

Someone was ambushing him!

Harry ducked, rolled off his chair, and narrowed his eyes at Uncle Vernon, who was reaching for him.

"Boy, what have you got there?" When he failed to snatch it, the man, whose build rivaled a troll's, slammed his fist on the table and demanded an answer.

"A letter," Harry replied tersely. "Mine."

Uncle Vernon scoffed. "Who would write to you?"

"Hand it over. Let me see!"

Harry ignored him, opened the letter, unfolded the parchment, and scanned it. His eyebrows rose. "It's from a school called Hogwarts. They've invited me to attend."

He looked up.

Uncle Vernon's eyes widened. His face filled with terror, turning deathly pale in an instant.

In the kitchen, something clattered to the floor as Petunia dropped the pot in her hands. She rushed out and lunged at Harry, trying to snatch the letter from him.

Harry dodged her with ease. "Looks like you know about Hogwarts. Why don't you tell me about it?"

"Brat, give me that letter!" Uncle Vernon got to his feet and strode over, rolling up his sleeves. "You don't want to make this any harder for yourself!"

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

The force of the telekinetic blast sent Vernon flying backward, crashing hard into the dining table and leaving it in shambles.

Peggy let out a shrill, piercing scream!

Harry waved the letter in his hand. "Now can we have a proper talk?"

"No, how could you—" Petunia stared at Harry in shock. "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 and most experienced master of the Wolf School—had found him beside a pile of dead ghouls, it had looked like a source sorcerer's magical outburst in the face of danger. Naturally, everyone had assumed he was a source.

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

That hadn't stopped him from becoming a Witcher.

In fact... perhaps it would even make him the first Witcher master capable of wielding powerful magic, rather than just a few Signs.

Harry had never thought that magic was something he'd originally possessed. He'd assumed it was simply a gift he'd received for inexplicably arriving in a strange world.

Now it seemed the truth... wasn't quite what he'd imagined.

This power, which he'd discovered through simple experimentation could strengthen his Signs, had belonged to him all along.

"Your eyes!" Petunia finally realized what it was about her nephew that seemed so unfamiliar. "What happened to your eyes?"

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

Harry remained unmoved.

He knew what Aunt Petunia meant.

Witchers were mutants, monsters wearing human skin. Their eyes were the greatest difference between them and ordinary people.

Amber, with vertical pupils—like a cat's, and like a snake's.

"That doesn't matter. Now you can tell me about Hogwarts." Harry gestured for them to speak, pulled over a chair, and sat down. "I can tell you're hiding a lot from me."

Petunia stood there blankly, dazed and conflicted.

Vernon slumped helplessly atop the shattered, ruined dining table.

"Oh, all right. Since they've already written to you, and you somehow know how to use magic..." After a long while, Petunia sighed, pulled over a chair, and sat down. "If you want to know, I'll tell you."

"Your parents were wizards."

"Wizards..." Harry raised an eyebrow and couldn't help interrupting. "Was my mother a witch, too?"

Petunia nodded. "Yes."

"You're her sister. Aren't you a witch?" Harry pressed.

Petunia's face stiffened.

It reminded her of the letter she'd sent when she was young, and of the words in that gentle letter—coldly refusing her and shattering her dreams.

A sharp pain struck.

It felt as if a knife had plunged straight into her heart.