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
II
Heels clicked against the floor.
"So you decided to come, then?"
Harry looked up from his porridge and grunted his affirmative at the sorceress. "Mhm. Let's say you've piqued my interest."
"Good," said Hermione, taking a seat at his table and tossing her chestnut hair carelessly over her shoulder. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist a good, old-fashioned mystery."
Harry shrugged and continued eating. Viktor, the sullen bodyguard who followed the sorceress like a lapdog, came up behind them and towered over the table, lancing Harry with a particularly wicked glare. The innkeep stood by the fire, sending furtive glances over to the trio, and shaking her head, grumbling something about duels and witchers underneath her breath.
"You're not much of a talker, are you?" Hermione inquired softly and patiently, though the way her fingers tapped at the table suggested annoyance.
"You've not met many witchers, have you?" Harry replied.
"You're right, I've not. What of it?"
"If you knew most, you'd think I never shut up."
Hermione laughed again. "Yes, maybe so. In any case, I'll leave you to your breakfast and await you outside. When you're finished, come join us. We'll be in the market square just outside."
The brunette nodded to her bodyguard, and the man nearly imperceptibly tensed up. Harry listened closely and smiled at what he heard, before he returned to his breakfast, and let his new clients leave the old inn. The old woman came by with a pitcher of water as soon as the other two left, and began filling the witcher's cup:
"You ought to be careful," she said knowingly, "sorceresses are the crafty type. Always saying one thing, and meaning another. Much too clever for their own good, they are."
"Why let them stay at your inn, then?"
The woman snorted quietly and patted his calloused hand with her own, wrinkled one. "Because the Alchemy Inn is a small beacon of hope for the lost and wayward. It's a resting stop for freaks, mutants, and oddities, and I wouldn't have it any other way."
Her little speech was met with a raised eyebrow and a darkly amused smirk.
"Oh, alright," said the old woman, "she pays triple the normal rate."
"Ah-hah."
"Don't you go telling her, now."
"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."
Oxenfurt was usually a very lively city come the dawn. It was no surprise that a town built around a university, would be a centre of commerce and culture, and nothing exemplified it more than the town square.
In past visits to the town, Harry had the privilege of seeing the square on a normal day: its harbourside fringes were ringed by stately brick-and-stone buildings that offered everything from armor and jewelery, to medicine and banking services. Ensconced by the buildings, little stalls and kiosks lined the streets: among them were a fishvendor's stall, a tattoo artist, a used bookseller, and many other purveyors of trinkets and fragile bric-a-brac. Coriander, cardamom, and paprika filled the air with a strong, exotic scent, emanating from the stall of a traveling merchant from far-off Ofir, offering spices from his homeland and the neighbouring Zanguebar. Walking through the small bazaar was like traveling half the world over in miniature: people spoke a thousand tongues and brought a million ideas through these streets, yet they were all united in the exchange of ideas, as well as goods.
Today, however, there was a hush over the usual motley crew traversing the streets and alleyways of Oxenfurt's town square and makeshift bazaar. Whatever had occurred at the University the night before had brought the city to a grinding halt. Harry was curious, but privately thankful, as the lack of customers made the sorceress and her defender quite visible as they browsed the bookseller's stall.
Harry fixed the strap of his sword-belt and smiled faintly at the scent of cloves that radiated out from the robe of his armour, which had been washed and dried by the innkeep earlier that morning, before he made his way over to the duo.
Hermione turned and waved pleasantly at the witcher as he came down the slope to meet them, dressed once again in fine riding clothes, rather than a flouncy dress, as he had been told to expect where sorceresses were concerned.
"Master Witcher," she greeted exuberantly once Harry arrived in their company, "are you much of a reader?"
Harry shook his head. "Not unless you consider studying John of Brugge a worthy subject."
Hermione crooked her head, as if in thought: "Ah, yes, the anatomist, am I right? Have you read his bestiary?"
"Ghouls, alghouls, forktails, chimaeras... required reading for a witcher in training. Him, and Brother Adalbert, of course."
"I'm afraid I'm not quite familiar with him."
"You wouldn't be," replied Harry, "it's what we might call... specialised reading. It's mostly a detailing of what monsters are weak to and where they're weak. In other words, it's really only useful to witchers."
"I see," said Hermione, thumbing through a book whose cover read The Bear Legend. "Do you read anything outside of bestiaries?"
"Rarely. Don't have the time. Why?"
Hermione shrugged, and set the book down, before indicating that Harry should follow her. "I love books, and reading, and well... most of academia, if I'm to be honest. So, I've read many things, ranging from the common mumming to John of Brugge, as you say. Now, tell me, in all those bestiaries, have you ever come across djinns?"
Harry raised an eyebrow as Hermione led him back up the street in the direction of the university, with Viktor close at their heels, silent and pensive as ever.
"You've not, then?" the sorceress questioned.
"Most witchers don't consider djinns real. Just the ramblings of the disgruntled peasantry," Harry started.
"Well," retorted Hermione, somewhat hotly, "there are those who say that, and they're all fools."
"Yes, they are," Harry replied, nodding.
Hermione blinked. "They are?" she asked.
"Mhm, I've met one. Can't say I'm keen on meeting him, or anyone like him, again."
"Him? I wasn't aware djinns were gendered."
"Ah, he could have been smoke, for all I know; he simply came to me in the form of a man."
The sorceress ran a hand through her chestnut curls as she replied. "Were you his master? Did it grant you three wishes?"
"No, and no," said Harry, "this man certainly had no masters. The woman who had her wish granted by him exchanged something very dear for the wish."
"No master, and the wish was granted as a trade? Are you sure this was a djinn you met?" Hermione questioned, looking very interested.
"That was what the woman who had her wish granted claimed he was."
"I see," said Hermione, and then she spoke no more. They crossed a short bridge that led to the isle where the university was located, passed a statue of a man in deep thought as they entered the courtyard and reached the gate led to the university proper, and were stopped by two sullen, polearm-carrying guards in Redanian-red brigandines.
"Miss Hermione, and Master Viktor," one of the two said, yawning as he spoke, "you two I recognise, but I don't believe I've met your third."
Hermione flashed the man a winning smile. "This is the noble Witcher Harry," she said.
"A witcher, ey?" asked the same guard, in the same, uncaring fashion. "Well, noble Witcher Harry, I don't believe you're allowed on the university's premises without a writ of passage."
"He's with me," said Hermione.
"I understand, Miss Granger," the guard replied, "but I cannot let him through without leave from the Chancellor."
"The Chancellor's dead," the sorceress said, incredulous.
"All the more reason. The Chancellor's only just died under mysterious circumstances, and don't take me wrong, but a sorceress is enough: I'm not sure letting a mutant ghoul-butcher, on top of a mage, through the gate is a smart idea. You know, for the bereaved students, and all."
Harry didn't respond, but was privately amused. This was a daily occurrence for him, and yet, looking at the sorceress, one would have thought he'd been done a great injustice. Her face took on a shade, of volcanic, fury-red, and her normally silky, cascade of curls suddenly seemed bushy and untamed, crackling with some unknown energy. Neither of the guards noticed it, nor did Viktor, but Harry saw it in the split second before the sorceress visibly calmed herself down.
When she had regained her composure, she gave the two guards a sweet smile, but her eyes were spoke murder:
"You will let us through," she said coldly. "You will let us through, and should any students have a problem with it, I shall deal with it forthwith."
It seemed that the two bored guards had finally realised they were dealing with a fully-fledged magic-user, who could turn them into pigs, or render them impotent, or cast any manner of terrible afflictions upon them. Suddenly awake and alert, they half-tripped over themselves in apologetic haste to open the gates.
Viktor let out a small laugh as the doors closed behind them.
Harry nodded at the sorceress. "Thank you for that," he said, deciding it was best to appear grateful.
"I wasn't doing it for you," Hermione snapped back, and immediately shut her eyes, bringing a hand to rub at her temples. "I'm... I'm sorry, Harry. That was unkind of me. They shouldn't treat you that way."
"Don't worry about it; I'm used to it."
"That makes it even worse," she replied, but then shook her head. "Regardless, you're right, we shouldn't worry about, because there's not enough time. We must make haste to the Chancellor's office; they'll be waiting for us there."
"Who will?" asked Harry.
"The Chancellor to be, a superior of mine from Aretuza, the Headmaster at the magical university at Ban Ard, and several members of a Redanian Special Task Force."
Harry whistled low as they passed a few empty, cobble-brick streets of student dormitories and teaching halls alike. "Really rubbing our shoulders with giants, aren't we?"
"Are you suggesting I'm not a giant?" teased the sorceress.
"Apologies, I was speaking for myself: I am but a lowly witcher, who tries to avoid politics," Harry said with good humour.
"Too late to back out now," said Hermione. "You agreed to come, and now you'll see this through."
Harry shrugged, and let Hermione take the lead once more, falling back to just a step ahead of Viktor. He didn't know much about the near-silent man, but it didn't take a clairvoyant to see the bodyguard had no love for the witcher. Though, Harry suspected Viktor's dislike of him had nothing to do with the witcher, at all.
"We're here," Hermione announced suddenly, and Harry saw they'd come to a stop at a tall, pointed building, with a red-brick facade, and a large metal placard nailed next to a cherry-oak door, that read 'ADMINISTRATION'. "Come along then," she said, climbing up the steps to the door.
Viktor slid past the witcher and rushed in front of Hermione to hold the door open for her, and Hermione nodded her thanks to the bushy-eyebrowed man, who smiled effusively back at her. He was significantly less enthused at the prospect of doing the same for Harry, though, to his credit, he somehow persevered.
The witcher observed the large, rectangular room they had entered, deeming it to be the bursar's office, judging by the well-protected windows that ringed the walls, which Harry had only ever seen at Vivaldi's Bank in Novigrad.
"Up the stairs," Hermione said, guiding the two men to a functional wooden staircase that creaked and groaned as they made their way to the second floor, to a small sitting area that led down a narrow hallway lined with sturdy doors. "Last one at the end of the hall, Master Witcher."
They bore down on the office at the end of the hallway, and Viktor took great pains to open the door for the sorceress and the witcher, having rushed past both to get to the leaf-shaped handle first. Hermione went in first, and Harry followed behind her into the aftermath of what must have been an earthquake: books lay strewn about the floor, fancy ottomans and chairs were cracked and thrown at the far corners of the office, and the centrepiece desk, a sturdy bit of furniture made from oak and reinforced with steel about the edges, lay split in two. The coup-de-grace, however, was the great splatter of drying blood and gore on what was once a white rear-wall.
In the centre of the chaos, stood three people: a very old woman, a very old man, and a young, blonde-haired man in Redanian-striped armour.
"Hermione," said the aged woman, with a very proud look on her wrinkled face.
"Professor," Hermione greeted back warmly.
"Pish-posh, my dear; I've not been your professor in years," the woman said, waving Hermione off as though she were speaking nonsense. "How's Ilona?"
"Of course, you know Miss Laux-Antille, always on her crusades," said Hermione, somewhat wistfully.
"Ah." nodded the other woman knowingly. "And who do we have here?" she asked, looking pointedly at Viktor and Harry.
"Oh! Where are my manners?" exclaimed Hermione, immediately setting about to introduce her companions: "This is my friend and bodyguard, Viktor Krum, from Etolia. And, here," she continued, pointing from Viktor to Harry, "is Witcher Harry Potter, of the Bear School."
The old man next Hermione's former professor stiffened, and Harry turned to observe him, only to have his attention stolen by the elderly woman, now the picture of stern stoicism. Hermione had been about to introduce the woman and her cohorts, but stopped dead when she stood tall in the witcher's way, nearly reaching his nose, and her brimmed witch's hat blocked his view of everything else. The woman appraised him with a stone-grey stare, and spoke:
"Witcher, yes?" she asked.
Harry nodded, seeing no reason to speak aloud.
"I see," the woman nodded curtly, and moved on to Viktor. Harry would have listened to their conversation, which, judging by the man's shifting and fidgeting, wasn't a comfortable one, but he felt two sets of eyes on him.
The first was Hermione, who gave the witcher a reassuring smile. The second, however, was the old man who stood by the broken desk. A man in ostentatious, royal blue wizard's robes, he was a caricature of every sorcerer Harry had ever heard of: old, wise, with piercing blue eyes hidden behind half-moon glasses, and wearing a grizzled, white beard that ran down to his waist.
Piercing blue met cat-eyed yellow, and the old man was the first to look away.
"Viktor, Witcher Harry," Hermione was saying distantly, pointing from the woman, to the old man, to the young blonde man, "the people you see before you are Minerva McGonagall, current headmistress at Aretuza, Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at the Magical University in Ban Ard, and Neville Longbottom, our liaison from the Redanian Special Task Force, set up by his majesty, King Vestibor."
Before Longbottom could trot up to him, or McGonagall could re-engage the witcher in conversation, Dumbledore reached him first:
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Witcher," the old man said genially, though there was some deeper emotion in his eyes that Harry couldn't quite decipher.
"As it is to make yours," replied Harry politely, as expected.
"You're Sirius's boy, aren't you?" asked the old man with a kindly look.
Harry was taken aback. Few knew witchers by name, even fewer knew the man who had raised him practically from birth. "Yes. He's my father. How do you know him?"
"I know him through your biological father, one James Potter."
"How did you-?"
"Miss Granger introduced you as Harry Potter, and I did know a boy by that name, once. A boy whom, under the Law of Surprise, was taken to start his own journey down the Path."
"It seems many people knew my father," Harry said dismissively, "he was quite the man of means."
Hopefully, his uncaring tone and demeanour would warn the other man off; Harry had heard much of his parents over the years, and he had no desire to discuss either of them with anyone. Maybe they were great people, as everyone was so fond of saying, but another man had raised Harry, and thus was infinitely more deserving of the title 'father' than James Potter ever was.
It seemed Dumbledore caught the hint, but took it the wrong way. "He did love you. As did your mother."
"Did they?" Harry asked, and then turned to Hermione. "You said some work needed to be done."
The sorceress, who had been in deep conversation with the Headmistress, faced the witcher. "Oh, yes. As you can tell, this room has had quite the night."
Harry observed the wreckage, "Quite," he said pithily.
"Last night, a whirlwind of activity happened in this office," said Dumbledore, smoothly taking over for the sorceress. "Early this morning, well before the dawn, the Chancellor of the University was found disemboweled, with a slashed throat for good measure."
"Where's the body? I could inspect it," Harry asked.
"At the coroner's hut on the beach, not a quarter mile from the harbour," said McGonagall.
"There's little need, though you're welcome to if you'd like, as I have a quick report from a few short observations I made," Dumbledore said seriously. "The cuts clearly did not come from knives, they were much too jagged and uneven, which leads me to suspect a monster, but those same cuts were not consistent with any monster mentioned in a bestiary, which, if Master Harry does take his time to visit the coroner, he will agree with me on."
"Miss Granger seems to think this is related to a djinn," Harry said, avoiding any dancing around the matter at hand.
The old man nodded. "As do we, Master Harry."
"What makes you so sure of it? Djinn are widely regarded to be legend, nothing more," said Harry, suspicion aroused. Few self-respecting academics, especially ones so decorated as the people who stood before him, would simply accept the existence of a creature that most witchers agreed were mythical.
"I have no doubt in my mind that the creature who attacked this university's Chancellor was a djinn," the old man reiterated.
"I'm glad you have no doubts," the witcher smiled hideously, his patience wearing thin, "I'm asking you: why?"
"Because," the Headmaster, "this djinn, who has murdered our esteemed colleague, belongs to us."
A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, but this is really the most natural break to lead us into the next part, which will undoubtedly be longer than the first two.
Chapter Notes:
- Several characters from HP canon are mentioned here, and given their respective stations within the Witcher world; Ilona Laux-Antille, one of the few Witcher-only characters to appear in this fic, was also mentioned again.
Aretuza, University of Oxenfurt, Ban Ard: A clarification for those not very familiar with the schools: Both Aretuza and Ban Ard are technically magic schools, though Aretuza seems to have a focus primarily on young women looking to become sorceresses, while the magical university at Ban Ard is either coed or accepts men only. The University of Oxenfurt, on the other hand, is an actual university in the conventional sense: teaching alchemy, medicine, poetry, and philosophy among others.
John of Brugge and Brother Adalbert: Both have written bestiaries; John of Brugge is noted as being particularly boring (but effective and reliable) by Geralt, Vesemir, and Ciri in Geralt's dream at the beginning of TW3.
Next chapter, Harry investigates the attack, and gets dragged into an adventure that centres around much more than a simple murder.
Thanks for reading,
Geist.