Summary: An sorceress contracts a witcher to capture a djinn, and everyone who has read The Last Wish collectively cringes at my lack of originality.
THE LAST WISH
I
It was near midnight when the witcher arrived, and Oxenfurt's bells screamed bloody murder.
When he crossed Guildenstern bridge, Harry expected an armed contingent to greet him, but was surprised to find the gate thrown wide open and no one guarding it. The bells, the unguarded gate, something significant must have been happening, but the black-haired witcher wouldn't sniff at the opportunity. Redanians were quite finicky about letting people into towns after dusk, so Harry thanked his good luck, shrugged the pack over his shoulder higher, and stole inside the city.
To his right, it appeared some commotion was going on at the gates to Oxenfurt University, and so, he traveled in the opposite direction. Whatever it was, the likelihood of a monster inside the university grounds seemed entirely unlikely; where there were no monsters, there was no gold, so the witcher couldn't particularly bring himself to care.
As he traveled down a long, sloped street toward the town centre, he passed a few rushing townsfolk, on their way to gawk at whatever was going on at the University, no doubt.
"Sir," Harry called out to one of the townsfolk, a thin man with mousy brown hair. "Can you point me to The Alchemy Inn?"
The man slowed only for a second to shout: "Down the street, on your right!"
With that, he sped back up and made for the university, not even waiting for a thank-you. Harry sighed, and supposed it couldn't be helped: most commonfolk thrived on the scandals that rocked whatever town they were in; travelers like him were often more concerned with having a roof to sleep under for the night. So, he turned away from the growing throng, and made his way to The Alchemy inn, a small, but cozy-looking tavern not but a brisk walk from the river's edge. Harry nodded; this was the place.
Inside, the savoury aroma of goat stew filled the witcher's nostrils and his stomach let out a rare grumble. He passed through a barren entryway, and into a stone-and-wood lounging area filled with empty tables, and opposite them, a bar where a homely woman sat and clipped her nails.
"Excuse me," Harry said to the woman, "are you the proprietor here?"
"Aye," she replied.
"How much for a room?"
"Three crowns a night for a room, four if you want board as well," the woman said without looking up from her nails. "Shall I prepare a room for you, then?"
"Fine. Four crowns it is," Harry said, and walked to the bar, where he laid out four coins on the serving table. The hag snatched up the nuggets of gold and gave the witcher a searching once over:
"I'm of accepting folk, because a mutant once saved my dear boy Pietr, so I'll tolerate you underneath my roof, but if you start a fight, I shall have you thrown out. Is that clear?"
"Clear as water."
"Good," the proprietor said, and leaned back, "this is an establishment for fine folk; I've a sorceress renting a room, you know."
"Erm... okay," said Harry, not entirely sure if this was a warning or a sales pitch.
"And being a witcher, you know how changeable fine folk are."
"All-too-well," replied the witcher tersely.
"So, if any of those fine-folk have a problem with you, tell me. I'll give them a bollocking for you, so that you won't take an insult to drawn blades. Understand? Ey?"
"Mhm. I understand."
"Good, now sit your arse down and have some stew while I prepare your room."
Harry smiled, but complied, as the innkeep puttered over to a pot of goat stew cooking over the fireplace, and ladled out a generous portion for the witcher. She came back over to Harry and set the bowl down on his table, before bustling off to prepare his room.
For a time, Harry was left alone in the room, dining on the stew of potatoes, carrots, and goat. To most, it would be a simple meal, even a meager one, were it not for the meat, but this was a veritable feast for a man always on the road, hunting for food between towns. So, he endeavoured to enjoy it, until the door at the front of The inn banged open, and voices floated through the entry hall:
"This is him, I can feel it," a feminine voice carried, "and we must stop him before he says his last wish."
"But, Madam, no von has seen him here. I do not think this iz related," another voice said, male heavily accented, favouring the south of the continent. If Harry had to guess, the man hailed from Maecht or Etolia.
"Stop this! I'm going to the University tomorrow, and that's final," the woman said in a tone that brooked no argument; the man grumbled softly, but otherwise remained silent.
Two figures slid into the tavern hall, and stopped dead at the sight of the witcher. Harry paid them little mind and continued eating his meal, waiting for them to come to him. The man seemed ready to retire for the night, but the woman lollygagged. From the sudden pick-up in her heart rate, and the slight increase in breath, it seemed as though her interest had been piqued by the solitary monster slayer:
"Master Witcher," a sweet voice called out, like a songbird heralding the first coming of spring.
Harry looked up, and was taken aback. She had a pale face, like a porcelain carving of some elven queen before the Conjunction, and chestnut-brown hair that fell in lazy curls across feminine shoulders, as well as amber eyes so close to gold that could not have been a natural colour, but rather enhanced by magic.
So this is her, thought Harry.
Elves were, as a rule, quite beautiful, elven sorceresses, doubly so. Though her beauty may have been enhanced by magic, it was very hard to keep that in mind as the witcher stared dumbly at that particular sorceress.
"You are a witcher, are you not?" she asked, slightly jerking Harry from his reverie.
Feeling a fool, he withdrew into the usual stoic, silent facade most witchers put up, and nodded curtly.
"Of what school, may I ask?" the elf asked, smiling reassuringly.
Harry fished for his bear medallion, and held it out for her to inspect. "Bear School," he answered shortly, making to return it against his chest, but the elf reached out and grasped his hand. Harry stopped, and the sorceress scooped up the roaring bear medallion in one gloved hand. While she inspected the trinket, Harry further inspected her. For a sorceress, she didn't much dress like one. She wore a pearl-adorned, black velvet jacket over a red blouse that was tucked into doeskin breeches, and was completed with high-heeled riding boots.
"You're a Skelliger, then?" the sorceress asked, gaze moving from medallion to witcher.
"No, Temerian, actually," Harry replied, and the elf nodded:
"Ah, yes, of course," she said, "I should have known by the accent. Hermione Granger, by the way," she said, dropping the medallion and putting a dainty hand in Harry's to shake it.
"Harry," the witcher returned shortly.
"No surname?" the elf frowned. Harry blinked, of course he had a surname once, back in that short time that he was the infant son of a Temerian noble. But now he was a witcher, and witchers had no use for family names.
"No family, no family name," the witcher replied, and took another spoonful of stew. Try as he might to ignore it, his forsaken family name floated to the top of Harry's mind.
Hermione's brows knotted together a moment, and then, "Potter, is it?" she asked, smiling serenely.
Harry blinked, and felt a familiar and calming feeling steal through his head. Understanding what was happening, he immediately thought of the dirtiest thing he could, which involved the sorceress nude, and on all fours in front of him. To his credit, Harry refrained from laughing when the sorceress drew back and disgust flitted across her face for a microsecond:
"You shouldn't be so casual about reading people's minds," he said.
Realizing she'd been had, the sorceress shook her head in mock disgust. "And you ought to be ashamed," she teased, taking the joke with far greater humour than Harry expected. "Though, really, it's quite impressive. Most people fall for the trick, and think I'm clairvoyant."
"It's not far away; still magic," replied the witcher.
"True, I suppose," said Hermione, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
Harry looked up. "Well, Hermione. Are you going to introduce us?"
Hermione swiveled on the bench and saw what Harry was looking at: a a large, bulky man with bushy eyebrows, clad in leather armor and carrying a notched sword at his side. He glared at Harry as though the witcher had wronged him personally.
"That's my bodyguard, Viktor," the sorceress said fondly. "A bit overprotective, but he's a gentle giant, I swear."
"Ah, well. Nice to meet you, Viktor," Harry said; the bodyguard didn't answer, instead choosing to continue watching him like a hawk, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Harry's hand slid down to the handle of his own steel blade that was propped up against the table.
Hermione noticed. "As it happens, Master Witcher," she said hastily, perhaps in an attempt to calm things before they escalated, "I've been looking for someone to help me with a particular problem, and you have just the skillset."
The sorceress's diversion worked, as Harry was once again focused on her: "Do I, now?"
"Yes, I need you to help me find someone."
Harry blinked. "Can't, er... your bodyguard help with that one?"
"Unfortunately, no," answered Hermione, "Viktor is an excellent fighter, but not much of a sleuth. I'm told witchers are expert trackers."
"So, you need me to track someone down?"
"In a manner of speaking," the brunette replied evasively. "I need you to track down a murderer. You'll be quite handsomely rewarded."
Harry shook his head. "Nope."
Viktor immediately stepped forward, but was just as quickly stopped by one raised hand from the sorceress. Hermione's eyes flashed with the fervour of a merchant starting a haggling process. "And may I ask why?"
"I'm not a detective; I'm not a private investigator. If you want someone to find a killer, look for one of those two. That's not a witcher's job."
"A witcher's job is to protect humans from monsters, is it not? Can humans not be even greater monsters than your average lakeside drowner?"
"Philosophically, yes," replied Harry, "but you forget a key difference between the two."
"And what's that?" asked the sorceress.
"Killing a drowner nets me five crowns a head; killing a man, no matter how awful, gets me stoned to death at dawn."
Hermione laughed; it was a musical sound that seemed quite appropriate coming from her lips. She soon covered her mouth, as her laughter gave way to soft giggles. "I apologise," she said, "that was uncouth of me."
Harry shrugged. "I don't mind."
"Regardless," said the sorceress, once she had regained her composure, "you needn't worry, as I'm quite sure this search will necessitate your skills as a monster slayer."
"How so?"
"Join me tomorrow morning, no later than nine, and you'll find out," Hermione stood up without waiting for an answer, and nodded to her bodyguard, "Viktor, I'll be retiring for the evening."
Viktor nodded quietly, and let Hermione pass him. Harry watched them go silently, gaze drawn to the sorceresses swaying hips until she turned the corner, leaving the witcher alone.
When the innkeeper came back and announced that Harry's room was ready, the mutant made quick work of the rest of his meal and hurried to his room. He shut the door behind him and faced a modest room cramped with a small bed and a smaller writing desk. Not the most comfortable he'd ever been, but it would do.
Harry sat down on the bed.
It was exactly as the traveling trader had told him half a day's ride out from the town: a sorceress by the name of Hermione had been staying at The Alchemy Inn in Oxenfurt, and she was looking for a witcher, or someone with excellent tracking skills. He'd been aiming to go to Novigrad, but once Harry heard that name, it was impossible for him to stay away from Oxenfurt.
Ilona Laux-Antille, and her elven protege, Hermione. Those names had stuck with Harry over the past ten years, burned into the flesh of his brain. After all, how could one forget the names of the women who saved his life?
"Hermione Granger," he murmured to himself. Obviously, she didn't remember him; saving him was just another day in her life, but it had irrevocably changed the course of his. Part of him had doubted that she was even the same Hermione, but the moment Harry laid eyes on her, he knew she was the one. There was something about her magic, that was familiar, calming, even.
Normally, Harry avoided taking on contracts that didn't specifically mention monsters, and even his original declining of Hermione's offer was to keep up appearances, but he knew he'd not be able to refuse the sorceress's request. Even if he didn't want to, Harry would be up the next day at nine, waiting for the sorceress and her bodyguard to show, that he knew. If nothing else, he wanted to see the woman as she truly was; if she truly was the type to stop and help a wounded witcher, or if something else had been at play that one night all those years ago.
Still, he would help her. Harry was indebted to her, whether the sorceress remembered it or not.
A/N: Just a short introductory chapter to get into our next arc, "The Last Wish". Aren't I clever with that title?
To answer some questions from last chapter:
Blinded in a Bolthole: Yeah, I suppose I did make Harry age prematurely. I won't lie, it's mostly an oversight. But I also do love the imagery of Harry as an older man having one last great adventure with Geralt and Dandelion, so it'll stay that way. As for the timeline, yeah, it's a little wonky, but I set the chapter in 1251 because I believe "The Witcher" short story takes place after "A Question of Price", in which it's revealed that Pavetta is pregnant with Ciri. Since Ciri is born in 1251, I imagine that "A Question of Price" takes place in 1250, since Pavetta doesn't seem to be that far along and the Belleteyn (when Ciri is believed to be born) is around the end of April. All of this means that Geralt and Dandelion leaving The Temple of Melitele has to take place during at least 1250-51 at the earliest in the timeline.
Trifectum: I don't have a particular date for the next chapter of Morning, but rest assured it's in the works!
And now onto the notes for this chapter:
Hermione, the beauty: Some people might be annoyed that Hermione is described as beautiful in this fic, which is a fair complaint, because she's supposed to be a reasonably pretty girl in HP canon, not some unearthly beauty. But, to those people, I say this takes place in the Witcher world, not the HP one. Hermione is both an elf and a sorceress, which is like winning the beauty lottery, since elves are naturally aesthetically appealing and sorceresses can fix most, if not all, physical blemishes they might have. So, Hermione is pretty, deal with it.
The Alchemy Inn: Still exists in TW3, which might be unrealistic, but hey, maybe Stjepan is the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Pietr.
Potter surname: Harry is still technically a Potter, because his father was James, but I also think that being forced to undergo the Trial of the Grasses also voids your claim to nobility, so Harry merely goes by Witcher Harry, rather than Witcher Harry Potter. There's obviously the matter of the Potter title, as well as their wealth, which may or may not be the subject of a later story arc.
Why doesn't Harry remind Hermione: ...that he's the one she saved all those years ago? It's mostly that famed witcher caution; he doesn't give anyone more information than he needs to, and he wants to see if Hermione really is the person he's spent the last ten years thinking she was.
Harry/Hermione: I've said that this arc was about a witcher and a sorceress hunting down a djinn. And called it The Last Wish. Yes, the Geralt/Yen parallels are super obvious for a reason.
Thanks for reading,
Geist.