Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World

Ciri?

The only person capable of traversing worlds and time must be her. But why would she be called the Lady of the Lake?

"I see," Harry murmured, deep in thought. "Did Sir Gawain or any of the other knights ever meet this White Wolf? Do you know his name?"

Godric shook his head. "No one ever saw the White Wolf."

"No one knew his name. But the Lady of the Lake's name has been passed down through history."

Harry waited patiently. Godric spoke the name carefully, almost reverently:

"Lady Ciri."

The moment the name left his lips, Harry's heart sank.

It was her.

But why had Ciri traveled back more than a thousand years, to a time even older than Hogwarts itself? Why hadn't she come to his time?

Godric continued his tale, his voice enthusiastic and talkative, much like the Sorting Hat.

"In the few surviving legends, Lady Ciri was a sorceress wielding strange magic and a master of swordsmanship."

"Yet many believed Ciri wasn't her true name. Can you guess why?"

Harry shook his head. "No guesses."

"You don't want to know?" Godric seemed taken aback, coughing awkwardly.

Harry nodded. "Let's move on to the official trial."

"At least let me finish!" Godric sighed, clearly disappointed. "It's been so long since I've had anyone to talk to."

Harry made a sweeping gesture with his hand, signaling him to continue.

Godric perked up.

"According to legend, there's another world beyond ours. It's called the Land of Youth, but it has another name as well."

"Aen Seidhe."

Harry pondered the name, shaking his head. "That's quite different. Even the spelling doesn't match."

Godric shrugged. "Legends evolve, often losing accuracy. Five hundred years ago, I heard a student say there was a rumor in the castle that Salazar Slytherin and I were mortal enemies."

Harry interrupted, tone deadpan. "You probably were mortal enemies."

Godric blinked, stunned.

"Remember what I said earlier? About the basilisk wreaking havoc in the castle during my second year?"

Godric nodded slowly. "Life at Hogwarts sounds very… exciting these days."

"That basilisk was Salazar's doing," Harry said bluntly.

Godric's expression turned blank with confusion. "What do you mean, Salazar Slytherin? Salazar was Slytherin."

"Both," Harry clarified.

Godric grew more puzzled.

The Sorting Hat sighed. "Salazar left a basilisk hidden in the castle. His trial was a twisted counterpart to yours. Instead of testing courage, his heir was meant to unleash the basilisk and purge the school of all Muggle-born students."

"He dared do such a thing?" Godric's shocked exclamation echoed through the chamber. "How could he?"

Harry clapped his hands together with a shrug.

See? I told you so.

The Sorting Hat poked Harry with its pointed tip in exasperation.

After a long silence, Godric finally composed himself. "Were there casualties?"

"One student died fifty years ago," Harry said succinctly. "Last year, a professor died. That would be the one I mentioned earlier — Lockhart."

"I see," Godric murmured softly, his tone distant as if lost in thought.

Harry shifted the conversation. "Shall we begin the official trial?"

"Of course." Godric moved the portrait aside.

Halfway through shifting it, he paused.

"Wait, there's something else I forgot to mention."

Harry frowned. "What is it?"

"Though no one ever saw the White Wolf," Godric began slowly, "Lady Ciri once said she buried both the White Wolf and his wife on Avalon — the fabled resting place of heroes."

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

The White Wolf? Buried?

Those words hit him like a hammer. His eyelid twitched uncontrollably.

"Avalon," Harry repeated, the name rolling off his tongue.

Godric nodded, finally sliding the portrait aside to reveal a hidden layer behind it.

It was another painting — this one of a serene landscape. A narrow country path wound through a dense forest, marked by scattered footprints, hoofprints, and traces of wildlife.

"Go on," Godric said gently. "Enter the painting. Inside, you'll find a memory of mine. Rowena and Helga helped me add a few surprises. All you have to do is overcome the challenges within and retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor. Then my legacy will be yours."

Harry nodded and stepped forward.

As he reached the painting, he paused again.

"By the way, did you build this garden back in the day?"

The Sorting Hat piped up indignantly, "Come on, admit it! Was it for secret rendezvous with some witch? I didn't even know this garden existed!"

Godric shook his head with a chuckle. "No, I didn't build it. In fact, it's been in the Forbidden Forest for as long as anyone can remember."

"In the depths of such a dangerous forest, someone built a beautiful garden?" Harry mused aloud, his expression blank. "Perhaps they believed that anyone brave enough to make it through the forest would see this garden and think it was a reward from the heavens."

Godric's eyes widened slightly.

Harry continued, his voice steady. "Delighted by the discovery, they wouldn't think twice about sitting under the pavilion to rest — never suspecting the danger."

Godric averted his gaze, looking a little guilty.

"My dear Mr. Gryffindor wouldn't have done something like that, would he?" Harry's tone was flat, but the words dripped with sarcasm.

Godric said nothing.

The Sorting Hat interjected loudly, "No, Harry, he's Gryffindor! Don't be so suspicious."

"Why do you assume it was a 'she' who built this place?" Godric quickly tried to divert the topic. "It could have been a man."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "If you saw a beautiful flower, would you or Lady Ravenclaw be more likely to wear it in your hair?"

"Me, of course," Godric answered proudly. "A handsome man deserves the best flowers. Isn't that obvious?"

"And Rowena wouldn't bother with such 'useless' decorations. Her jewelry was always enchanted for practical purposes."

Harry opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss for words.

The Sorting Hat poked him gently. "Ah, Harry, don't forget — a thousand years ago, even Gryffindors wore tight pants."

Harry clicked his tongue in distaste.

Godric, noticing the reaction, looked confused. "Is there something wrong with dressing properly?"

"Mr. Gryffindor," Harry deadpanned, "in our time, flowers are generally considered feminine accessories."

Godric blinked in understanding. "Ah, no wonder you don't wear any. I thought it was because you were like Helga — preferring simplicity."

"I do prefer simplicity," Harry confirmed with a nod.

"You seem particularly interested in this garden," Godric observed.

Harry nodded again.

"There are a few items left behind in the garden," Godric said with a sly grin. "I've placed them with my legacy. If you want them, you'll have to pass this final trial."

"Since you've kept me company for so long, I'll give you a hint."

"Inside the trial, you may find something of great interest to you."

Something of interest?

Relics from the garden? Something related to Ciri?

Did she foresee something and leave it here for him to find through Godric?

Harry dearly hoped that was the case.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the painting.

Magic enveloped him like a mist as he walked into the scene.

Dim light surrounded him, and he found himself in a dark tunnel.

Raising his wand, he cast a soft glow to illuminate his surroundings.

The path looked more like a long hallway than a cave. There were no walls, only an eerie silence that pressed in from all sides.

"Want me to sing a song?" the Sorting Hat asked cheerfully.

Before Harry could reply, a sudden bright light blinded him.

Instinctively, he cast Quen for protection and summoned parchment from the Sorting Hat, transforming them into enchanted owls to pull him through the light.

When the glare faded, he found himself standing on the countryside path depicted in the painting.

There was no immediate danger.

The owls released him, and he landed softly on the ground.

Harry tapped his robes with his wand, transforming them into a scabbard for his sword. He adjusted his appearance by conjuring a modest beard.

At sixty-five inches tall, his shorter stature would make him seem less threatening — and less likely to attract danger.

Looking down, he followed the fresh hoofprints and footprints toward the edge of the forest.

Soon, he emerged into a small village.

The sight of rough thatched huts, children playing in the street, and a large windmill turning slowly in the breeze reminded him briefly of Velen.

But this was different.

This was Britain, in Godric Gryffindor's time.

As Harry walked into the village, the men noticed him immediately.

They watched him warily, eyeing his armor and sword with suspicion.

When Harry lingered near the village's entrance, the men grabbed pitchforks and confronted him.

"Stranger," one of them said gruffly, "what are you doing, wandering around our village?"

Harry calmly replied, "I'm a knight looking for a place to rest and drink."

"A knight?" The men didn't lower their weapons. "Where's your horse?"

"In the woods. It was attacked by a beast," Harry said, observing their expressions closely.

The brief flicker of fear on their faces didn't escape his notice.

He paused before continuing, "I wounded it, but I didn't kill it. It fled."

The men's fear deepened.

They know something about that beast.

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Powerstones?

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