Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the wonderful JKR, not me.

Written for the QLFC Round 12: Blurring the Lines
Position: Harpies, Chaser 2
Prompts:
Crossover with Games (The Witcher)
1. (phrase) now or never
6. (colour) silver
8. (word) honest
Word Count: 2,999

Thanks to Nasim for being an excellent beta, and a huge thank you to Massani for helping me out seeing as I've never played a video game in my life. For those who aren't familiar with The Witcher games, it's pretty much all explained in the story I hope. Normal font is from Geralt's perspective and italics is Remus'. Enjoy!

Geralt still couldn't believe it. It had been almost a month since he'd been transported here and it seemed there was no hope of getting home. He and Triss had been tracking down another source; this one was older and more aware of his abilities than Alvin was. The source's control of the arcane was effectively complete, and any incantations and spells Triss could throw his way could do nothing to his wards and defensive spells. The only real threat to him was Geralt, and so the source had done the only logical thing: he had removed him from the equation by teleporting him to an entirely different dimension, or at least it seemed to be a whole new time and place.

Geralt had quickly learned to avoid the populated areas of the region, as many people would stare at him-even more so than in his own land. He had retreated to the woods again, where there were less people. He had felt more at home in the wilderness; it was easier to find herbs and roots to stew, and game was hardly scarce, although the beasts he had found were much more timid than those he was used to. After a month of hunting them he was missing the challenge.

Maybe that was why he had decided to look for work again. He did somewhat miss the thrill of hunting a fearsome creature, and if he somehow managed to return to the world he was wrenched from then his skills would need to be sharp; he feared sometimes that he was getting rusty.

But it was harder than he had reckoned to find work in this world. There was little need for a Witcher, it seemed; indeed, any talk of magic or monsters was met with either laughter or fear. He had learned to be careful when he spoke to travellers, as few seemed to be aware of the existence of magical creatures. It was a while until he found someone willing to talk with him about anything arcane.

The man he spoke to seemed bitter about something that had happened at a nearby school. It had transpired that one of the professors was a werewolf, and had been removed from the post as he was deemed to be a danger to the students. But the man thought that this wasn't enough, and assured Geralt that there were many others who thought the same. It saddened the Witcher to think that werewolves were treated with the same disdain and prejudice here as where he came from. Many were just innocents forced to do unspeakable deeds by the call of the moon. But work was work.

As he crested the hill he thought deeply of his intended task. He was to hunt down and kill this werewolf. Geralt had had few positive encounters with werewolves, and he shared the man's fear; werewolves could be fearsome when transformed.

But the moon was waning at present, and the call would be weaker. He would have time to find the werewolf before he was in any immediate danger, but finding it when it was in human form would be difficult. He walked through the trees and picked up the road running alongside it. Before long he was entering the town the werewolf supposedly resided in. It was a small settlement and it wouldn't take long to search, but it was late and he would have to rest before he started looking.

He walked along the cobbled streets and idly wondered at the name of the town - Hogsmeade. It was an odd name, really; there must be some sort of tale behind the name.

He was amusing himself thinking about drunken pigs when he saw the sign for an inn. It was a somewhat gruesome depiction of a severed pig's head in a pool of blood, but he needed rest and the inn itself seemed agreeable enough. After weeks of camping in the woods he would be grateful for just a pile of straw to lie on. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and straightened his tunic to make himself seem at least partway presentable, and stepped inside.

"What a peculiar individual," Remus thought as he regarded the stranger who had just walked into The Hog's Head. He was a large man, about a head taller than himself, and very broad. He was dressed very oddly; he wore a sort of leather tunic and was covered in belts containing all manner of things. He saw flasks full of strange potions, an assortment of throwing knives and a range of different sized pouches, the contents of which he couldn't even begin to guess. He had long hair tied in a rough ponytail and a vicious scar covering one of his eyes. His eyes themselves were strange; they were bright yellow and had thin black slits for pupils.

Remus' first instinct was to run. The last thing he needed was a stranger who could discover his secret. While he knew the parents weren't happy and could write angry letters, this man could easily kill him if he wished. Although whether that would be a bad thing was a debate raging in Remus' mind. But something about the way the stranger moved, the patterns of scars covering his arms, reminded him of Mad Eye. He had once been wary of the great auror, but he had got to know him. And Remus knew if he of all people started judging others on appearance then all hope was lost.

The strangest part of the man was the two huge swords strapped to his back; one was thinner and ornate with a tremendous sheen on it, while the other was larger and duller. The first sword was silver - there was no doubt about it. Remus could recognise silver anywhere. Despite the muggle myths that it was a source of great pain and even death to werewolves, it actually had virtually no effect. When mixed with dittany it could even be used to seal werewolf bites. He would never forget the certain sheen of silver as it was poured onto his wound. The burn as it sealed it shut. The shame of being bitten and the desire to die instead.

He shook his head to try and focus on the stranger.

The man moved with surprising grace for one so large, and upon spotting Remus moved in his direction. A pity - he had come to the Head to avoid conversation as the pub was usually empty but away from his home where he would sit sobbing into the night, the knives in the kitchen growing more tempting with each minute that passed. This stranger might provide some interesting conversation, however, as he seemed very outlandish and exactly the sort of person who might be able to take his mind off present matters.

"Excuse me, what drinks do you serve here?" Geralt asked as he took a seat next to the inn's only other patron. The man sitting next to him was tall and very thin, and wore ragged clothing more similar to that of his own world than any of the other articles of clothing he had seen yet in this one. His face was covered in faint scars; none as evident as Geralt's own, but with his powerful eyes they were clear to see. He was pale, and seemed frail despite his stature. Maybe he was ill? Remembering the effects that Catriona had on the Northern Kingdoms, Geralt silently regretted his choice to sit next to the man. Although Witchers were immunised to disease they could still be carriers, and the diseases that plagued this land could have catastrophic effects should he return to his own world.

The barman took what seemed like an age to come to Geralt, and when he staggered towards him, he too seemed unwell, although he was full of colour. It was more likely that the patron was suffering from something of a cold and the barkeep was merely a little drunk or just exhausted, rather than a plague running rampant in the town.

With this now established, Geralt allowed himself to relax a little. He could have a drink or two and get what information he could from the other patron before turning in. Hopefully he'd find something useful from him; it was a small place so the talk of a werewolf professor was bound to be commonplace.

Remus watched with amusement as Aberforth struggled over towards the stranger. Aberforth didn't see eye to eye with Albus on many things, but he did agree with his brother on the subject of werewolves, for which Remus was grateful. After all that had transpired with the school over the past few weeks, it was a relief to be in a place where the fact that he was a werewolf was no reason to be hated. No, Aberforth hated everyone equally.

Eventually managing to reach the stranger, Aberforth set about with his usual customer service.

"What do you mean what drinks are there?" he grumbled "We got the normal stuff. If you're looking for anything fancy or high-class then you're in the wrong pub, mate."

To his credit, the stranger didn't look at all put out by his antics. "I'm not from around here" he explained calmly. "I don't really know what the normal stuff is."

Aberforth looked ready to start spewing another load of derision, so Remus leapt in before he was able to. "Try the firewhiskey," he recommended, holding up the drink in his hand as a form of approval.

The stranger looked at him and nodded in appreciation. "I'll take a firewhiskey then, please," Geralt said. As the barman stumbled back to make the drink he turned to the man beside him. "Thank you. I don't really know what I'm doing around here, to be honest."

The other patron smiled. "It's no problem," he assured as he turned back to his drink. "You looked like you were having difficulty with it. My name is Remus, by the way.

The barman finally returned with Geralt's drink and put it on the counter in front of him. "My name is Geralt, Geralt of Rivia," Geralt replied.

Remus nodded and nothing more was said for a while. Perhaps getting information from him would be harder than Geralt had thought.

Geralt went to take his glass but was stopped by the barman.

"You have to pay for that you know," he growled. "It's a sickle."

Geralt opened one of the pouches on his belt, where he had stored the strange money that the man had given him to kill the werewolf. He fumbled around looking for any sort of scythe imprint on the coins that might indicate which was the sickle.

"The silver one," the barman clarified impatiently.

Geralt retrieved one of the coins and gave it to him. He then picked up his drink and turned to Remus again.

"Cheers," Geralt nodded as he downed the drink. Not to be outdone, Remus did the same, the firewhiskey scalding his throat as it went down. If Geralt felt any discomfort he did not show it. The man was clearly adept at keeping his emotions hidden unless he wished to show them. It struck him that this was the complete opposite of Mad-Eye. Now he had seen this man up close he could see the emptiness in the stranger's eyes. He was extremely dangerous, and the Remus was beginning to feel uneasy.

"So then, Geralt - am I saying that right?" Remus asked. Geralt nodded in confirmation so he continued. "I have to ask. Why do you carry swords with you?"

"I need them for my job."

"And what job is that?"

The Witcher was quiet for a brief time before answering. "You could say I'm a hunter, I suppose," he replied cryptically.

"What sort of prey needs to be hunted with swords?"

"It depends on the contract. Sometimes I hunt bandits, sometimes murderers… but mainly I hunt monsters."

"Monsters?" Remus tied to hide the fear in eyes. "What sort of monsters do you hunt?" A voice in the back of his mind wondered if the man would kill him if he asked. He would pay, it would be a contract. After all, he was a monster – at least in the eyes of the rest of the world.

"Again, it depends on the contract," Geralt replied. "I have hunted many things. Griffins, ghouls, Basilisks. Currently I'm hunting a werewolf."

"A werewolf?" Remus asked. He seemed shocked by this. He had been interested in his earlier accomplishments but at the mention of werewolves he had gone quiet. "Are werewolves really monsters?"

This was an interesting moral stance. The man who had hired him had made out that these were hated creatures in this world, but here was another man defending them.

"Have you ever met a werewolf?" Geralt asked.

"Once or twice."

"Tell me then. Are they monsters?" Geralt repeated Remus' own question back to him, interested in what he had to say. He had not met many people in favour of werewolves before.

Remus remained quiet for a while.

"It depends on the man, doesn't it?" Remus stated at last.

"The man?" Geralt repeated. He was confused at this cryptic statement.

"Yes. If the man has no desire to be a wolf and takes steps to prevent his transformations from harming another, then he is not a monster-only the victim of a disease."

"But during the transformation the man has no control. In that moment the animal takes over and the man has no say. Is he not then a monster?" Geralt retorted.

"In that moment, yes. But if he is a monster for one night a month, then is he a monster overall?" Remus replied. He wasn't sure why he cared so much, why he bothered to continue trying to change people's minds. Hadn't he learned from what had happened at Hogwarts? He had hoped that someone as unusual as this stranger would understand but he seemed just as prejudiced as the rest. Maybe he was just trying to convince himself.

"No. He is not."

"What?" Remus asked, shocked by his answer.

"I said that no, they are not a monster overall," Geralt repeated. "I am often disappointed in how quick people are to judge a person, and how quickly that judgement turns to hatred." The words made Remus think that perhaps the man – who looked so strong and assured – was talking from experience.

Remus did not understand this man; he was clearly troubled by his own persecution yet he hunted the otherwise persecuted. Did he do it to justify his own existence? If he did, then to whom was he justifying it? If he could feel such love and compassion towards someone then how could he kill them?

"Why do you hunt those with whom you side with, then?" Remus demanded, anger seeping into his tone.

"Why do I hunt a werewolf if I pity it?" Geralt shrugged. "Have you ever killed a mosquito? Do you not pity it as it buzzes around your head and relies entirely on your blood and the blood of others to survive? It is such a pitiful creature, yet you kill it. Why? Because it is a pest and a danger and so it needs to die."He looked away. "So why do I hunt a werewolf, Remus? Because somebody wants it dead. They deem it to be a danger to the world and as a result I am needed to rid them of it."

The words felt like ash in his mouth. They were lies; all of it. He needed to kill them because he needed money, and the world was a cruel and awful place. He was telling lies to this poor man who sat as his companion - persecuted by the world, just as he was - just trying to convince him to remain still long enough to kill him.

Because of course it was him; Remus was the werewolf he was meant to put to death. The sickliness; it had been a full moon so recently, and he must still be reeling from it. The shabby clothes; who would hire a werewolf? The scars on his face, through which he received the lycanthropy, maybe, or wounds he had inflicted upon himself. It had to be him, Geralt was sure of it. He just didn't know if Remus had figured out that he knew yet.

He knew. It was in his eyes. It was in his hands which twitched towards the swords. It was in his words. The words were cruel and deliberate, but they were true nonetheless. Geralt hadn't lied; he had been honest. Horrendously, brutally honest. Why did he continue to exist when the rest of the world wanted him gone? If he could help this stranger with his death, then maybe it would mean something at least. He'd known since he'd been fired – or maybe even since he'd been bitten – that the world would be better if he was dead.

"Every man has to die. Don't they?" Remus said quietly.

"Yes, Remus. They do." Geralt replied.

"And it's noble, isn't it, to die for a cause? To help someone with your passing?"

"It's very noble Remus. Very noble indeed." Geralt said, standing and turning to face him.

"Well then, Geralt of Rivia, it's now or never." Remus said.

Remus closed his eyes and waited for the sword to be drawn and the blow that would take him from this earth. He expected to feel scared, but for the first time in weeks he felt oddly happy.

He waited for what seemed like an eternity, but the blow did not come. And when Remus finally opened his eyes and looked around, Geralt was gone. All that remained of him was an empty glass and a note under it. It had four simple words on it.

Live for the cause.