Summary: A Witcher stops in a port town. Chaos ensues. A short story told in three parts.

Foreword, 1/1/2020: As the recent release of the Netflix Witcher series has prompted something of a minor renaissance for this fic, or at least it has according to my traffic stats, I think it might be prudent to start the decade off by providing something of an introduction to this fic, as it is very polarizing for several reasons that will be made clear below.

1. On the Timeline: The meat of this story takes place approximately 200 years before the beginning of The Last Wish (or S1 of the TV Series, for those who haven't read the books). While you will occasionally meet characters from Witcher canon, don't expect Harry to be palling around with a lot of them. Sorry Harry/Ciri fans, it ain't happening in this fic.

2. On Magic: While I think a few of the other fics in this archive are HP fics with Witcher elements, this is a Witcher fic with HP elements: namely, the characters, and some of the events of the HP books have been blended into the Witcher universe. As such, there are no elements of the HP magic system in this fic; everything here is pure Witcher and nothing else. I know that will be an issue for some, but them's the breaks.

3. On the subject of OCs: The characters being OCs with the names of HP characters has been a common accusation leveled at the fic both in a few reviews and recommendations on the HPFanfiction subreddit. To this, I can only shrug: Yes, the characters are going to display some level of OOC-ness; it is physically impossible to write the Witcher Harry, who grew up in a violent, unjust medieval society acting exactly like Harry Potter, who came of age during the Cool Britannia era of the UK. This goes for pretty much all characters that you will see in this fic. I have tried to preserve the essence of their characters, but it is up to you to determine whether I have succeeded or failed. If occasionally OOC characters are a dealbreaker for you, I advise you to heed this warning and click the back button, or to continue with all this in mind.

4. On Harry as a Witcher, rather than a Sorcerer: This is another common question: Why is Harry a Witcher, rather than a Sorcerer? The answer is twofold. One, I find sorcerers a dreadfully boring subject in comparison to witchers (what can I say? I prefer swords in my Sword and Sorcery); and Two, because the role of a witcher suits Harry more than a sorcerer in Sapkowski's world. Harry does not play the role of a phenomenally powerful wizard in canon (though occasionally he is one due to plot contrivance), but he generally plays the role of a detective: he's endlessly fascinated by mysteries and skulks around in the middle of the night with his invisibility cloak trying to solve them. The central tension of nearly every book in the series is a mystery that more closely evokes crime fiction than fantasy fiction. This is why JKR's books after HP have been straight up mystery novels, rather than concerted fantasy efforts. Witchers are far closer to detectives in Sapkowski's world than sorcerers are, in a weird, medieval folkloric sense. Since that role fits the Harry I know from Rowling's books, it's the role I've selected for Harry in this fic.

Well I think I've flapped my gums at you enough for now. If I haven't scared you off by now, I hope you enjoy, and I wish you happy new decade, one with a lot more Witcher to come, I hope.

Geist.

1054, March
30 miles from the fortress of Rozrog,
Yaruga River

The road to Cintra had been a perilous one.

It had started well enough, having left the comfort of Toussaint, but once on the famed River Yaruga, the pilgrimage had taken a turn for the vexing. Horrors, spooks, and werewolves roamed the riverside, along with common corpse-eaters and drowners, digging up the dead and spreading disease. It was a fright for townsfolk, ealdormen, and mayors alike, terrorized as they were by these beasts of burden.

But for a Witcher, it was as though gold fell from the sky.

A small wonder, too. The life of a Witcher was one deeply unfulfilling to most: it was a life spent traveling from one town to the next; it was a life spent sleeping under the stars; and, most of all, it was a life spent ever without gold to spend. So, a few spooks to slay and a bit of extra pocket change went a long way. Still, it prolonged the process of reaching proper civilisation, and so, the journey remained more memorable for its annoyances than its opportunities.

That being said, golden eyes, cat-like and glowing, scanned the shoreline, from underneath the hood of a cloak, for some of those suddenly not-so-rare opportunities. A gauntleted hand fiddled with a curio hanging from a chain. It was a medallion, made of the finest steel, carved into the roaring visage of a bear. It looked innocent enough, but that bear was far more than just a medallion around someone's neck, it was a warning: Don't come near; here death rests with two swords upon his back.

Perhaps that's why the sailors let him be, unimpeded with his own small corner on the deck of the ship.

The witcher had long since become used to the whispers, and slammed doors, and sneers. Loneliness no longer affected him, as it did when he was young and green. And though he was still considered young by the his very long-lived mentors, the hatred was one thing that all men of his ilk came to terms with very quickly.

Besides, few would come to speak, regardless, given the torrid weather.

It had rained since the ship has cast off from Dillengen some three days earlier, and the captain was diligent in his caution. They went at a snail's pace, and the Witcher deemed it would be some time before he reached Cintra.

"Oi, Master Witcher!" someone said, surprising the cloaked man. The Witcher turned, and found a scallywag of a sailor, dressed in strips and rags, staring him down. He didn't reply, and instead waited for the deckhand to speak:

"You ought to go below decks," he said, with surprising care for a man who looked as though he went through his entire life sucking on a lemon. "Out in the rain is no place to be, Witcher or no."

Those cat-like eyes fell upon the sailor, and softened some. "Thank you for the offer, but I'll be fine."

The sailor stood, fat droplets of rain spattering his face. "I-I know that most of me mates don't like youse," he said quietly, "but a Witcher once saved me mam from a werewolf. Didn't even ask for coin."

"He was a poor witcher, then. We don't kill monsters for free."

"Hah! Maybe so, but he was a decent man. Not at all like the books say. I know you lot aren't like the books say."

"Thanks," the cloaked man grunted.

A silence fell over the two again, and just to hear some sound beside the rain, the sailor spoke once more. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're looking for something, like you're waiting."

The Witcher nodded and held out his hand, palm facing upward. In it was that bear-shaped medallion. The silver vibrated furiously, looking for all the world as though an actual bear was rearing itself up for attack.

"You know what this means, I assume?" the cloaked man asked.

Swallowing, the sailor nodded.

"Good," said the witcher, "When we make port, tell the captain you shouldn't stay long. Stay only the time it takes for you to restock, and then go toward Cintra as fast as you can."

"Aye, and you? What of you?"

"I'll be getting off at the next town. Looks like there's work for me, yet."

THE LESSER KINDNESS

Rohg was a quaint little port town steeped at the banks of the Yaruga. Like most riverside hamlets, it was a muddy morass of huts and ramshackle bungalows, held together by a series of rickety docks that could only be called a port by the most simpering of flatterers. To most, the villagers were a kind, friendly people, welcoming of outsiders and especially welcoming of trade. A Witcher, however, was not 'most', as the monster hunter was quickly reminded only a few moments after leaving the relative safety of the corvette.

It had stopped raining in the interval since his conversation with the sailor and the cloaked man no longer saw a need to be cloaked as he stepped down the wooden planks to the rickety docks. He threw back the hood of the cloak and ran a hand through unruly black hair, brushing back the fringe to reveal a scar.

The scar was an interesting one, not that scars were all that novel to a man like him; he had more scars on his face than he knew what to do with: two over an eye, one across the nose, another down over the lips, which ignored the mention of the innumerable ones along his chest and arms. But the one across his forehead, a curious scar in the shape of a thunderbolt, was the most interesting of all. He had received all his other scars as trouble from his profession, or the training beforehand. The one across the eye was given to him by a particularly angry cockatrice, the one across the nose from a common cutpurse, and the one on the mouth from a particular intensive day of training with sharpened blades back at Kaer Almhult. But the thunderbolt, the thunderbolt had been branded on him for as long as he could remember.

Some even said he was born with it.

He watched as sailors stepped off the boat and peasants barraged them in hopes that a merchant schooner had come by. Unwilling to wait to be crushed, he made his way through the crowd and quickly escaped the throng, though another problem soon came after:

"Another one!?" someone muttered under their breath in a smaller coterie ringing the larger group. "Have we become a haven for mutants, then?"

"Shut yer gob, Gerd, we're in dire straits as it is!" another man, a more sensible one, whispered fearfully.

"Oh, you're such a bleedin' pantywaist," the first man growled, and then addressed the Witcher directly, stomping up to him. "Oi! Mutant! We've already one of your kind here, we don't bloody well need another!"

The witcher ignored his insult. "One of my kind?" he asked instead.

"Yes! Mutant! Witchman! One your lot."

The Witcher stared back, unfazed. "And where is he?"

"Negotiating with the ealdorman, robbing us honest folk of our hard-earned gold! What else do you lot do?"

"Negotiating for what?" asked the witcher, and the man opened his mouth to hurl out more abuse, but his friend, the sensible one, used his sensible senses to sense that the 'mutant' would not tolerate much another insult:

"To hunt down Harbreg!" he interrupted, before his friend said something that would cause him to lose his tongue.

"Harbreg? Is that a person? Witchers don't hunt men."

"No, Master Witcher, he ain't no man. The Harbreg's a forest spirit. An angry one, at that!"

"Tell me where your ealdorman lives. I wish to speak with him."

"Erm... uh, ahm, he's in the big house in the centre of the village. Exterior painted green. You'd have to be blind to miss it!"

The witcher grunted his thanks, and left the two men to grumble at each other. He promptly put his cloak back on; there was no need to draw more attention to himself than he already had. So he kept to himself and traveled down the main street, refraining from bemoaning the state of his boots and breeches; the hard-packed dirt of the road had long since turned to a muddy stew that splashed up with even the smallest step forward. Nevertheless, he trudged forward.

On the trek, he passed a butcher's house, judging by the drying cuts of meat, covered from the unpredictable elements by a large, sturdy tarp. On the other side of the road was a herbalist's hut, and further still were the thatch-roof houses of the other peasantry. He spotted a seamstress's home, a general store, and a small blacksmith's forge all within a hundred paces of each other.

As the witcher carefully traversed the small roadways, he spied a great many things about this place and its people. He passed a brother and sister arguing over chores at one hut, a woman weeping softly over something while her husband held her at another, and an elderly man patching a leaky roof at still another house. Some veterans of one of the wars the Northerners often got into snickered at the cloaked man who wore two swords on his back, of all places, but the witcher paid them little mind.

When he was young and brazen, he would have thrown off his cloak and strutted about the village, earning fearful glances, surprised gawking, and baleful glares alike. The witcher had grown wiser with time, and knew now to keep his hood up; then no one paid him any more attention than a mild chuckle.

And just so, he continued onward to the heart of the village, which was a small roundabout of a village square, ringed by several modestly-sized homes, the carts of a few fish peddlers and trinket merchants, and an inn. A scaffold with a hangman's noose stood proudly in the its centre, like some deranged monument.

Directly behind the scaffold was the house the witcher had been looking for, a little, green bungalow the mutant smiled at. It was a quaint thing that the villagers thought the ealdorman's house was big; he had seen peasants own larger homes from Beauclair to Novigrad. But he hadn't come to disparage the size of a man's home, he'd come for work.

And so the cloaked man passed by the small crowds, formed by shoppers, backwater socialites, and gawkers alike, to that 'big house' in the village centre. Even before he knocked on the door, he heard it.

A conversation. About monsters. One scrambled to describe a great big beast that didn't actually exist, and the other spoke sceptically, with sound of someone learned about monsters.

The first witcher was still in the house, then.

Mustn't forget manners, thought the mutant dully as he knocked on the door. There was a flurry of movement inside, and very soon the door was opened by a comely young lass. She looked up with luminous green eyes, observing the cloaked man; those eyes of hers widened when she saw his own:

"Another one?" she murmured, to herself, at first. There was another long moment where the two stared at each other, until the witcher pulled back his hood and confirmed who he was. She took in his face, but looked down until she found the vibrating bear's medallion, roaring at her from his chest. At once, the girl seemed to come back to herself and sprinted into the next room. "There's another one, father! Outside! It's another Witcher."

"Another one? Here? What a surprise," said another voice, deeper.

"Did you see his medallion?" a third voice interrupted. There was his witcher. He didn't recognize the voice, so he couldn't have been another of the Bear School. Given the area they were in, he could easily be from the Cat, Griffin, or Wolf school.

"Uh-huh."

"Well, don't hold back," said the other witcher, voice filled with good cheer, "I'm dying to hear it."

This had gone on too long; it was time for the drifter to introduce himself. Stepping through the threshold of the house, he crossed into the modest sitting room and found himself staring at three people: the girl he had already met; next to her was a middle-aged man with the same brown hair and green eyes as her; but it was the last that interested him most:

Shock red hair spilled out over pale skin, a scant few freckles ran over his nose, and his golden eyes glowed with the proof that he, too, had undergone the mutations.

"Bear school." said the first witcher. He would have asked what school the other witcher hailed from, but one could already tell from his armor: the overly-stylish leather jackets and breeches were practically a Wolf School calling card.

"Bear school? Ah, should've known from the armour. You're Skelligan, then?"

Harmless, frivolous information. He could share. "No. Temerian, I s'pose. Though I've lived in Skellige for a very long time."

"Ha!" laughed the other witcher, "Redanian, myself. Ron," he finished, extending out his hand.

"Harry," he replied, taking the other witcher's hand and shaking it. "Good to meet you."

"You know this doesn't change anything," said the third man, the one who must have been the ealdorman. "We've already agreed on a price, and I'm no' increasing it for 'nother Witcher."

Ron winked at the man and a ran a hand through his carrot-coloured hair, the picture of ease. "Don't worry about it, we'll get this all settled up at the inn, won't we... Harry?" he said, and clapped his compatriot's shoulder robustly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, and made to swat at his hand, but before he could, the ealdorman let out an exasperated grunt: "Fine!" he threw his hands up. "I'm sick o'explainin' things to ye' anyways." he whirled on his toes and stalked out from the room, leaving a confused Harry and a thoroughly amused Ron.

Asha, the girl who had let Harry in, blushed in embarrassment. "I apologise, Master Witcher," she said to Harry, "you must forgive my father. He's... a bit old-fashioned. You know how old folk are."

"Only too well," replied Harry.

"Would either of you care for a drink? I can tell you anything my father might have forgotten."

"No, but thank you, darling," said Ron roguishly, "we'll be heading to the inn for a drink." he finished, and waved Harry over with an expectant look.

Harry sighed, I always get the pushy ones. He followed behind the Wolf School witcher back out into the soaked world.

"Damn," murmured Ron. "I hate rain. That's one of the great things about Kaer Morhen: hardly ever rains."

"It always rains at Kaer Almhult," Harry replied, "I guess I'm used to it."

"That explains a lot about you Bear folk. Dourest bunch I've ever had the fortune to meet."

"You should meet a member of the Cat School."

"Touché," Ron said pithily, as they crossed the square together, unmindful of the stares and whispers that followed them to the inn. The inn, if it could be called that, was a dirty, grimy watering hole with few beds, bad food, and barrels of pale yellow pish they claimed was faro straight from Cintra.

"Nice place," commented Harry drily as they sat.

Ron ignored him. "Innkeep!" he shouted to a fat, jolly man at the beer taps, whose rosebud cheeks turned chalk white at the sight of the two witchers. Coming closer, he demurred, wringing his hands together nervously as he spoke:

"Masters, what can I get for you?"

"Roast mutton with onions. And whatever beer you've on tap. And you, Harry?"

"Sauerkraut stew with beef. Water will be fine," Harry replied quickly.

"Aye, masters, aye, I'll get right away on it," he bowed low, so low that his large belly nearly kissed the ground.

"Polite," said Harry, as the man scurried away.

"He should be; he's heard what an angry witcher can do to his beloved inn."

Harry raised an eyebrow, but refrained from responding to it; he probably would have done the same in the redhead's stead, and it wasn't his place to chide.

Evidently, Ron didn't agree. "Sauerkraut stew and water? A modest meal, don't you think?" the redhead asked with a careless smile.

Harry chose to ignore Ron's jab. "So. Why am I here?"

"You're here because I need another witcher to talk to about this 'Harbreg' of theirs."

"What? You think it's a ruse?" Harry brought a hand to his jittering medallion; it was certainly no ruse.

The red-headed Wolf School witcher noticed as well, and frowned. "You feel it, too? So then we both agree it's real."

"But?"

"The monster they're describing. I've never heard of it," said Ron, folding his arms on the face of the heavy wooden table.

"Never?" asked Harry; he remembered hearing the description of the monster outside the ealdorman's house. Ron was right, vibrating medallion or not, the monster they were talking about was non-existent.

"There's nothing like it. Believe me, I know. I've the bestiary memorised like the back of my hand, Vesemir made sure of that."

"Vesemir?"

"One of the senior Witchers at our school," said Ron, "nice bloke, but boy is he a slave driver."

"How did they describe it again?"

"Like a bear, but with a lion's head, ram horns, and ox legs... it's all a load of ploughing bollocks."

"So?" shrugged Harry. "It wouldn't be the first time a client's exaggerated the monster they saw. I once did a contract near Vengerberg, and this miller was convinced his boy was attacked by a werewolf. 'Huge and fierce it were!'," he continued, mocking the boy's accent, "I was a bit suspicious from the start; the kid had hardly a scratch on him and apparently managed to outrun a werewolf," he stopped to chuckle at the thought, "turned out I was right: our huge and fierce werewolf was just a lost dog from a nearby village. Damned docile thing, too. Apparently the runt kept throwing rocks at got bit him when it had finally had enough. Poor kid was probably lying to save face."

Ron looked amused. "What did you do?"

"Assumed the dog was from the village next over. So I brought the dog there and it immediately scampered back to its owner. Then I went back into the woods, found a wolf and took its pelt, then got the reward."

"And the boy didn't say anything?" the wolf school witcher asked, incredulous.

"What would he say, 'I didn't get attacked by a werewolf'? Admit he wasted the ealdorman's time, as well as his father's and my own?"

The redhead smiled at that, and made to reply, but their quiet conversation was broken by an intruder come to the table. A very fetching bar wench, with a lovely, slim face and eyes that shone like sapphires, even in the dim light of the tavern, came to them with two oversized mugs. One was filled with fresh, life-giving water, and the other a noxious-smelling, vile sort of beer, poorly brewed and poorly prepared, though Harry supposed the ample bosom served alongside almost made up for it.

Thankfully, however, Ron was the one that had opted for the beer, and so, while Harry contentedly sipped at his drink, the other witcher observed his own as if it were poison, and eventually pushed it aside with a scrunched face and a disdainful sniff:

"I had been itching for a pint of proper Cintran Faro," he moaned piteously, "this looks worse than the slop I had in Vizima!"

Harry chuckled softly. "Vizima? Beer? You poor man."

Ron laughed. It wasn't altogether unpleasant sound, a quick, severe, barking noise, but it served to remind Harry that he was more like the medallion around his neck than he looked. "I am, indeed. That's the Path, isn't it? Always with no more than hundred coins of whatever currency in whatever kingdom. Even this bloody contract will only give me a hundred gold ducats, fifty of which I'll have to share with you."

Harry, too, laughed. "Backbreaking training, The Trial of the Grasses, numerous mutations, infertility..."

"...and for all that, a bloody fifty ducats," commiserated the red-haired witcher.

"That is," said Harry, "if we even survive long enough for that; most of the other witchers my age died half a year after leaving Kaer Almhult, dead in a swamp from their first fiend or chort."

"Or worse still, a band of nekkers or an exploding rotfiend..." Ron sighed, "poor Terry. Horrible way to go."

A comfortable silence fell between the two, just as the drunken braying of a pig-farmer about a Redanian milkmaid's breasts filled up the small tavern. A load of other men and boys clapped along to the rhythm; the Witchers watched and smiled, and Ron even joined in on the clapping, though mercifully few paid little attention to them.

"We need to speak with Jonas, the butcher, after we eat," said the redhead after the revelry ceased. "Given what I heard from the ealdorman, I don't suspect that he'll be of much use, but I hold out hope for a small wonder."

"An eternal optimist, then," Harry commented slyly, raising up his drink, intending to clink it against Ron's own. The unwary redhead complied and they both took a very long swig of their respective drinks; Harry smacked his lips in content and laughed when the other witcher gagged on his own.

"That..." Ron sputtered, "that was unkind."

Harry shrugged once more, a mischievous smile playing at his lips.

Once Harry had eaten his meager meal and Ron his curiously sumptuous one, for being a witcher on a strict budget, they headed out into the swell and muck, sloshing their way through the streets. A gaggle of boys played in a large, muddy puddle, while some girls sat together, not far off and unmindful of the rain, and sang an unnerving ditty about wishes and debts.

The kids stopped playing once the viper-eyed hunters passed them by; some cowered, but others, as brash children were wont to do, puffed out their chests and began following at a distance. Harry almost smiled; they truly thought they were being sneaky.

"What's with the runts?" Ron asked, more to himself than to Harry. "Do we look a pair of pipers?"

"Ah, let them follow. I half suspect they'll tire themselves out when they find us having a terribly exciting chat with the butcher," replied Harry, adjusting the strap of his steel sword, a well-made, curved sabre he had received from a Zerrikanian merchant visiting Toussaint some months ago.

Ron laughed. "Such a bore; if I were one of them, I wouldn't care unless I saw a witcher literally eat the butcher."

"Death by gross irony, it would be enough to satisfy me," Harry said.

But, before the children could even begin their tail, they were caught by a pair of eagle-eyed seamstresses not but a few feet away before they could get out of sight. Harry and Ron both chuckled a bit at the verbal bollocking they received, and then continued on their way up the path.

Eventually they came by the hut that Harry had passed on his way into the town from the docks, the one with carcasses all drying under a coarsely-spun tarp. Ron turned to him:

"Should I take point, or would you rather?"

"I know next to nothing about this contract, aside from the fact that this monster is called 'Harbreg'. I'm more than willing to watch you work."

"Ah, the Bear School," bemoaned Ron with a small grin, "as lazy as your namesake."

Harry nodded, unfazed by the jab. "Go on, then."

Shooting his companion a dirty look, the Wolf School witcher turned on heel and marched right through the quagmire to the door. With three sharp raps, he waited, folding his arms crossed, looking every bit the surly, mutated monster hunter. But he only had to wait a moment, for the door nearly immediately opened, as if the two had been expected. A bearded man with black hair, not unlike Harry himself, stood in the relative warmth of his hut and stared at Ron, then to Harry, and finally back to Ron once more:

"Stonemen?" he murmured quietly to himself.

Harry sighed, yet another strange epithet for his caste, but he did not rise to the bait.

Ron however, saw differently. "Yes, yes, Stonemen. Witchers. Freaks. Mutated on by mages until we have a murderer's skill and a heart of stone. As it happens, also the men here to hunt down Harbreg."

Jonas apparently was a discerning man, for he seemed to realise that he had offended a witcher. And, being a discerning man who had read much about witchers, he knew insulting one was a very dangerous thing to do:

"Oi, Master Witcher, I didn't mean none by it."

Ron raised a brow. "I'm sure you didn't," he said, and an awkward silence fell between the two. "Well?" asked Ron impatiently, after a short time. "Are you going to let us in, or not?"

The butcher jumped. "Oh! Aye, Masters, aye. Come on in!"

He waved them through with a manic expression, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of the two monster hunters in his home. Usually it was rather obvious, but with the butcher, Harry couldn't discern if his behaviour was due to fear, malice, or just plain stupidity.

The hut was a small thing, but quite cosy when coming out of the early spring ring. A fire roared to the side in a modestly sized fireplace; Harry's eyes drifted from it to the kitchen table, where a boy sat and stared with open mouth at the two visitors. Movement came from the side, and from an oblique corner rushed in a matronly woman, who scooped up the gawping boy, and left nearly as quickly as she came.

Harry tried to ignore it, but he Ron cross his arms and his brows furrow at the scene. Eventually, the redhead, too, shook himself from his daze and turned back to the butcher:

"Your name is Jonas?" Harry asked first.

"Aye," replied the man.

"The butcher?" Ron added for good measure, though neither of the two really needed the confirmation.

Jonas's chest seemed to puff out at the mention of his trade. "Aye," he said again, "been a butcher all me life. So was me da', and me da's da', and his da's da before that." he finished proudly, before he stopped and looked at the two curiously.

"Have I something on my face?" Ron asked, brows sloping low once more.

"I was just wondering about you. What about you lot? How does one become a witcher?"

Both witchers were taken aback by the question, and the sincerity in his tone. After all, Harry surmised, it wasn't every day that someone stooped to ask a lowly witcher his story. Ron, as Harry began to sense was typical of him, covered his surprise in a mask of indifferent humour:

"My father, apparently, had trouble with an alghoul that had taken up residence in our cellar," Ron replied. "A witcher stopped by, killed it, and invoked the Law of Surprise. So here I am, a witcher, because of an alghoul."

"Great Melitele, what rotten luck!" exclaimed the butcher, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "What about you, black-hair?" he asked, pointing at Harry.

"My story's not all that interesting. An unlucky orphan, as it were," Harry said evasively; Ron gave him a sideways look, though Jonas didn't seem particularly offended:

"Oh, I see," said the peasant, "but I reckon you lot haven't come here for a small talk. You want to know what I know about Harbreg."

Both witchers nodded.

Jonas sighed. "I can't tell ye' much, Masters, 'twere dark when I saw the beast, and it was but a glance at a passin' shadow mores like, than a proper clean look. But from what saw'r, it were huge! Teeth nearly big as me own 'ead!"

"Where did you see it? When?" Harry asked.

"In the forest, some weeks ago. It was soon after them girls began disappearing."

"Right," said Ron, "the ealdorman mentioned something about children disappearing at night."

Jonas snorted. "Hardly children; they was all fourteen or thereabouts. Practically marriageable, innit?"

"Sure," Ron continued, dismissive, "tell us what you know about the disappearances."

"Not much, masters. Don't have a daughter meself, and the boy is barely old enough to hold a cleaver, let alone sire a bairn of his own. But, what I 'eard is that the girls get up in the middle of the night, calm as you like. But there still asleep-like, eh? I dunno how else to describe it, really."

"Like, sleep-walking?" Harry supplied.

"Possessed by demons, mores like," answered the butcher with a shiver, "they leave their homes, quiet as mice, and dance their way to the forest."

"The forest," said Ron. "You're sure about this."

Jonas shrugged, and ran a hand through his bristly black beard, the picture of bemusement. "'M not sure about nothing, Master Witcher. As I said, it's only things I been hearin'. But I been hearin' exactly so: the girls leave and go into the forest, and are never heard from again."

"Big, horned, possibly capable of luring victims," Harry muttered in an aside to Ron. "Chorts can be capable of hypnosis. It'd explain the size of what the butcher saw."

"But why girls? And adolescent girls, specifically? Don't think chorts much care who or what they eat." Ron returned.

"Good question," said Harry. "What happened next?" he asked, turning back to the butcher.

"Well, some of the stronger, strapping lads decided they'd go into the forest to look for the missing girls..." he trailed off.

"And now they've gone missing, too?"

"Aye," Jonas returned sadly.

Ron slapped a thigh and looked up with a thoughtful expression, as though he had come to some resolution: "Well, that settles it, then!"

"Settles what?" asked Harry.

"We ought to go to the forest!"

It was late afternoon when the two witchers entered the forest, which was a mire of a tall, sturdy trees, bubbling brooks, and an interminable, unnatural fog that clung to everything. No birds sang, and no animals trotted about; the whistling of the wind and the rushing of water were the only sounds that remained. But, more than that, something itched at the senses, speaking through the primal language of danger and fear. Instinctively, both men were immediately on guard. Harry's medallion vibrated fiercely as his companion cut through the silence:

"I've already a bad feeling about this place," Ron said, raising a cautious hand up to the handle of his sword.

"Yeah," said Harry, "something's not right here."

Swords came out from their scabbards; Harry gripped his Zerrikanian steel sabre and Ron his silver bastard-sword, forged by the best blacksmith at Kaer Morhen. It was a simple enough strategy; if they were attacked by men, Harry would deal with them, and if they were attacked by monsters, Ron would step forward.

Together, they slipped deeper into the murky wood.

To be continued in Part 2...

Author's Note: That's a wrap on Part 1. Part 2 will take the contract to its conclusion. This fic was essentially inspired by an /r/writingprompts thread a few months ago, as well as an /r/HPfanfiction prompt for more HP/Witcher crossovers. Hopefully, I've done you fans of both fandoms proud, so far. I'm not sure whether I'll continue onward with more chapters after the next, but I suppose I'll let the audience decide. If it seems people want more, I'll put it on the burner with my other fics; if not, then no harm no foul, after Part 2 I'll mark this complete and go back to my other fics.

Chapter Notes:

Kaer Almhult: Shown only in Wild Hunt, Kaer Almhult was a castle constructed for Skelligan kings, but fell into disuse because kings preferred to stay on their particular island, and was eventually converted into a prison with skycells. It's the place with the Tyrion easter egg, as well as the Cthulhu one. So, that's the "canon" version of what Kaer Almhult was, but it's just such a gorgeous ruined stronghold that I had to include it in the story somehow, and that was as the Bear School headquarters.

Witcher Schools: I didn't want to make our protagonist a complete Geralt stand-in, so Harry is a part of the Bear School over the Wolf School. Though it also has a bit to do with the armour; while I like the Wolf School armour set in TW3, I adore the wandering ronin look of the earlier tier bear school armour sets as well.

Timeline and Characters:This takes place long before the games and the book series, mainly to avoid constantly tripping over characters and events from Sapkowski's canon. There are a few around, such as Vesemir, Philippa, and Francesca Findabair, but aside from that, most characters from Witcher canon haven't even been born yet.

Cintra: Since I'm aware that some of those reading this fic may have only played the games and not read the books, you might be somewhat unfamiliar with where Cintra is. Cintra is one of the southernmost of the Northern Kingdoms and was conquered during the First Nilfgaard-Nordling war, in one of the most decisive and brutal battles of the war, which is colloquially referred to as the "Slaughter of Cintra". Since Geralt sticks to the Northern Kingdoms in each of games, we don't ever see Cintra, but it is just south of the Brokilon Forest, where Dryads like Morenn (who Geralt meets in The Witcher 1) are from.

Thanks for reading!
Geist.