Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World-Chapter 416: Found

To sing with the landscape.

Siren-kind were vicious, but even the most jaded witcher had to admit—their entire species were born singers.

Their lure in the hunt was their human-like beauty and ethereal, enchanting voices.

This siren began hesitantly, voice barely spilling from her lips.

The harp bumped against her back.

She glanced back, aggrieved, but unwillingly picked it up, plucking softly. Once she found the rhythm, the scattered notes turned melodic, blending into the sea breeze.

Clear, airy, and as deep as the ocean.

Hermione rested her chin in her hands.

Sometimes she looked out at the sea, sometimes up at the clouds. The ocean and the sky felt so close—within reach. Even Harry was close.

"This is perfect..." she thought.

"If only it could always be like this."

But she knew they couldn't afford to indulge. They carried the weight of two worlds. Just having this brief interlude of peace along the journey was enough for her. They were young. There would be time.

Without all of this, would they even get to enjoy moments like this back at Hogwarts?

She felt at peace.

Time flowed like a gentle stream woven through the music. It felt slow.

But it was only a feeling.

The boat drifted on its own, eventually gliding into a mist-shrouded part of the sea.

"We're here," Harry said quietly, lifting the bottle.

The white orb inside glowed more intensely, pointing into the heart of the fog.

He uncorked it.

The glowing sphere floated upward, drifting ahead.

A flick of Harry's wand—

A golden thread extended from the mast, tethering to the orb.

This was a real sea.

The mist, the reefs—very real.

Many Skellige ships had wrecked here. Wrecks littered the waters, some only a few months old, others aged beyond recognition.

The siren's song shifted—low, mournful.

The fog was tinged with grey.

Sirens perched atop masts, watching with sharp eyes. But hearing the song of one of their own, they hesitated, then reluctantly dispersed.

The boat reached an old dock. No attacks.

"You can go now," Harry said, lifting her magical restraints.

The siren clutched her harp, snarled at Harry, and flapped away as fast as she could.

The glowing orb continued drifting.

Harry and Hermione followed on foot.

The island was thick with mist. Strangely silent.

"Watch out!" Harry suddenly warned, swinging his wand.

"Protego!"

The spell struck Hermione just in time—sharp claws swiped out from the mist, striking her invisible armor with a loud clang.

"Stupefy!"

Hermione's reaction wasn't as fast as Harry's—she was still human, not a witcher with heightened senses. But she didn't panic. Wand drawn, she cast without even seeing her attacker.

The spell hit squarely, sending the creature flying in an arc before crashing to the ground.

Harry drew his sword, finished it with a decapitation.

Hermione leaned in.

The creature resembled a nekker—big ears, smaller jaw—but its claws were long and razor-sharp.

"What is it?" she asked, watching Harry dissect it expertly.

"Foglet," Harry replied.

"A pain in the ass kind of monster. Every new witcher dreads running into one."

Where there was mist, there were foglets.

Unlike other beasts, foglets could manipulate mist.

They attacked from behind in the gloom, clawed, disappeared, and repeated—driving prey mad, drowning them in swamps, or tearing them apart.

Harry used to rank them among the worst monsters to face. He'd rather battle a leshen head-on.

But now was different.

He bagged the parts, tucked them into the Sorting Hat.

They followed the orb up a winding mountain path. Eventually, it stopped at a stone-and-wood cabin, newly built and neatly kept.

"She's in there?" Hermione tilted her head, waved her wand.

A stone near the door morphed into a human-shaped construct, pushing against the door.

It didn't budge. The stone golem stumbled back.

"It's locked," Hermione said, casting another spell. "No curse detected."

Harry knocked.

"Ciri, are you in there?"

"It's me. Open up."

No reply.

He knocked harder.

Still no response.

"No one?" Hermione whispered, tense.

Harry shook his head—his witcher senses heard heavy breathing behind the door.

"Is someone there? Say something."

They shared a glance. Hermione nodded, waved her wand.

"Ventus!"

A gust blew under the door.

She tapped the Sorting Hat.

A rope slithered out—one of George and Fred's prank tools for spying through cracks. It followed the wind inside.

"Ah!" someone yelped in surprise.

Harry leaned closer.

"Open the door."

"Who are you? What do you want?" came a voice—bored, gruff, clearly a dwarf.

"Witcher. I'm looking for a young woman—grey hair, scar on her face."

The dwarf sounded annoyed.

"Go away."

Hermione whispered, retracting the tool.

"Four dwarves inside. Armed, but not too dangerous."

Dwarves.

Geralt had never explained what happened on the Isle of Mists in detail. After finding Ciri, everything moved quickly—they had to prepare for the Wild Hunt.

Harry didn't know much either.

But—

They were dwarves.

Harry looked at Hermione. They exchanged a glance.

Hermione raised her wand.

"Alohomora!"

Click. The lock opened.

Harry kicked the door in. The four dwarves behind it didn't expect such sudden force.

Swoosh swoosh—

Four ropes shot out from the Sorting Hat, binding each dwarf before they could grab their weapons.

The two stepped inside.

They scanned the room.

On a bed directly across from the door lay a pale woman with gray-white hair, deathly still.

Harry's senses told him—

No breath. No heartbeat.

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Powerstones?

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