Chapter 1: The Striga's Lair

The first thing Harry noticed was the cold—sharp and biting. He wasn't in the Forbidden Forest anymore. The air here was different. Gone was the damp, earthy smell of trees and moss. Instead, it reeked of decay, of something old and malevolent. He opened his eyes, blinking against the low fog that curled around the twisted roots of trees that were gnarled like claws reaching out from the earth.

Where am I?

The last thing he remembered was the flash of green light—Voldemort's curse hurtling toward him—and then the pull of something ancient, something far older than magic. Death's voice had whispered to him, though he hadn't quite understood the words.

"Champion of Death..." The words echoed faintly in his memory.

Now, his body felt different. He looked down at his hands, smaller than he remembered. He was a boy again—no older than twelve, his robes hanging loosely around his shoulders. A swirl of panic rose in his chest. His wand. Where was his wand?

He fumbled through the folds of his robes and sighed in relief when his fingers closed around the familiar wooden length. Holly and phoenix feather—his only lifeline in this unknown place.

The rustling in the bushes drew his attention. His heart pounded in his chest, and his hand tightened around his wand.

"Lumos," he whispered, and the tip of his wand flared to life, casting a pale glow over the forest around him. The light didn't stretch far, swallowed up by the swirling mist and dense shadows. The gnarled trees loomed like specters, casting jagged silhouettes against the fog.

The rustling came again, this time closer, and Harry crouched low, pointing his wand at the source of the noise. His pulse quickened. He wasn't alone.

A low growl rumbled through the air, sending a chill down his spine. He knew that sound—it was primal, feral, and full of malice. He'd heard it from the creatures that lurked in the Forbidden Forest at night, but this one was different, more dangerous.

Then, it appeared.

Emerging from the darkness was a creature Harry had never seen before. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, and its limbs long and twisted, like a mockery of human form. Its head, though vaguely human, was distorted, with blood-red eyes glowing menacingly in the fog. Claws extended from its fingers, sharp and gleaming.

A Striga. Harry didn't know its name yet, but every instinct told him it was a predator, and he was its prey.

The creature let out a guttural snarl and lunged.

"Protego!" Harry shouted, instinct taking over as he raised a shimmering shield between him and the beast. The striga slammed into the barrier, its claws screeching against the magical shield. The force of the impact sent Harry stumbling backward, but he kept his wand steady, reinforcing the shield with everything he had.

The creature backed off for a moment, circling him like a wolf sizing up its quarry. Its blood-red eyes flicked from his face to his wand, and Harry could feel the malice radiating from it.

Think, Harry. Think.

The Protego charm would only hold for so long. The striga was relentless, and it wouldn't stop until it tore him apart. He couldn't rely on defense alone. He needed to attack, to find a weakness. But what worked on a creature like this? It wasn't like anything he'd faced before—no magical creature from his world looked so vicious or deadly.

"Stupefy!" he shouted, sending a jet of red light toward the creature. The spell hit it square in the chest, but the striga only staggered for a moment before shaking off the stun.

Damn it. No good.

The striga's lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing sharp, blackened teeth. It lunged again, faster this time, and Harry barely had time to dive out of the way before its claws raked through the air where he'd been standing.

Harry rolled to his feet, heart hammering. He couldn't keep this up. He needed a weapon—a real one.

His mind raced through his lessons with Professor McGonagall, thinking of transfiguration. It wasn't his strongest subject, but he had no choice. He pointed his wand at a fallen tree branch nearby.

"Verto Gladium!"

The branch twisted, its wood warping and elongating, until it morphed into the shape of a sword. Harry grabbed the hilt, surprised at the weight of it in his hand. It wasn't as refined as a real sword, but it would have to do.

The striga lunged again, and Harry swung the transfigured sword with all his strength. The blade connected with the creature's arm, slicing through the pale flesh. Black blood sprayed from the wound, and the striga howled in rage, staggering backward.

Harry pressed the advantage, slashing again, aiming for its chest this time. But the creature was too fast. It dodged the blow and came at him with renewed fury, claws slashing at his side. He felt a burning pain as its claws raked across his ribs, and he gasped, stumbling back.

Blood dripped from the wound, staining his robes. His vision blurred for a moment, and he felt his strength wavering. But he couldn't stop. Not now.

The striga bared its teeth and lunged for the killing blow.

A silver flash cut through the fog, faster than Harry could follow. The striga's head jerked to the side as something silver sliced clean through its neck. The creature's body fell to the ground with a heavy thud, its head rolling several feet away.

Harry blinked, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to process what had just happened.

Standing over the striga's decapitated body was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with white hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He wore black leather armor that seemed to blend into the shadows, and a silver sword gleamed in his hand, still dripping with the creature's black blood.

The man turned to Harry, his yellow, cat-like eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight of the wounded boy.

"You're not from around here," the man said in a low, gravelly voice, sheathing his sword.

Harry's heart was still racing, the pain in his side sharp and constant. He could barely keep his grip on the makeshift sword. The man took a step closer, and Harry instinctively raised his wand.

"Stay back," Harry warned, though his voice was weak.

The man tilted his head, eyeing Harry's wand with mild interest. "Magic," he muttered, almost to himself. Then, more loudly, "I'm not here to hurt you, boy."

Harry swayed on his feet, exhaustion and blood loss finally catching up to him. His vision darkened around the edges, and before he knew it, his knees buckled.

The last thing he heard before everything went black was the man's voice, muttering, "You've got fight in you. Let's see if you can survive."

Harry woke to the smell of wood smoke and the sound of a crackling fire. His body ached, but the sharp pain in his side was gone. He blinked his eyes open, finding himself in a small, dimly lit cabin. The wooden walls were rough, the furniture sparse but functional.

He pushed himself up on the makeshift bed, groaning as his muscles protested the movement. His robes were gone, replaced by a plain linen shirt and trousers. His hand shot to his side, where the striga had clawed him, but instead of torn flesh, he found only a bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs.

"You're awake."

The voice startled him, and Harry looked up to see the white-haired man sitting across the room, sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate movements. He didn't look up as he spoke.

"Where am I?" Harry asked, his voice raspy from disuse.

"Kaer Morhen," the man replied, still focused on his sword. "Witcher stronghold. You're lucky I found you when I did. That striga would've torn you apart."

Harry swallowed hard. "What's a striga?"

The man paused, finally looking up at him with those strange, yellow eyes. "A cursed creature. Used to be human, until magic twisted it into something else. Dangerous. You shouldn't be wandering around these woods alone."

"I wasn't exactly wandering," Harry muttered, running a hand through his messy black hair. "I don't even know how I got here."

The man studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You're not from this world, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "No. I was fighting someone... back home. There was this spell, and then..." He trailed off, unsure how much to reveal.

The man stood and walked over to him, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. "Geralt of Rivia," he introduced himself, offering a hand.

Harry took it hesitantly. "Harry. Harry Potter."

Geralt's gaze lingered on the wand lying beside Harry on the bed. "Magic like yours... it's different from what we have here."

Harry nodded, though he still didn't fully understand this world or its rules. "Yeah. I guess it is."

Geralt looked him over, his expression thoughtful. "You fought that striga well, for a boy your age. But you're not ready for this world. Not yet."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm taking you to Kaer Morhen," Geralt said. "You've got potential, but you need training. Real training."

"Training for what?" Harry asked, feeling a mix of confusion and curiosity.

"To survive," Geralt replied, his tone cold and final.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, Harry lay back down, staring at the ceiling. His body ached, his mind raced with questions, and the weight of his situation pressed heavily on him. This world was nothing like the one he had left behind. The danger was real, constant, and far deadlier than anything he'd faced at Hogwarts.

But something in Geralt's eyes told Harry that he had no choice but to adapt—or die.

And Harry had no intention of dying. Not yet.