Yggdrasil_Loki
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Harry Potter In The Witcher [5]
🕑 Added 2025-05-17 13:51:56 +0000 UTC"The Fidelius Charm," Harry explained, leaning forward slightly, "is a very complex and powerful piece of magic. Essentially, it takes a secret in this case, the location of Potter Manor and hides it deep within the soul of a chosen person, the Secret Keeper. That’s me, by the way. Once the secret is hidden like that, it's impossible for anyone else to find out, unless I, the Secret Keeper, willingly tell them. It's a very high-level charm, and there's no known counter to it. Even things like scrying, divination, crystal balls, all that stuff… completely useless against it."
He paused, letting that sink in. "Those people you called the Wild Hunt? They've been nosing around the edges of my property all week, trying to pick up your trail again. Sadly for them, I completely destroyed any trace of your path, and any time they get too close to the wards I have set up, they just sort of… get lost. They end up turning back, probably thinking they've taken a wrong turn or that you're long gone. I overheard some of them talking on the last day they were sniffing around couldn't understand the language, sounded like complete gibberish to me but judging by their gestures and frustrated tones, I think they've given up and believe you've already moved on from this area."
He offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "You are perfectly safe here, Ciri. I promise. Plus, even if they could somehow magically teleport straight through all the outer wards which they can't, by the way the Fidelius Charm essentially puts the whole house into a sort of… quasi-pocket dimension. It means they couldn't even see or touch the house, even if they were standing right in front of where it should be." He finished his explanation, watching her reaction.
She looked genuinely impressed, her ashen eyes wide. "I have never heard of a spell that powerful, that can do something like that," she commented, a note of awe in her voice. "You must be… very powerful."
Harry felt a blush creep up his neck at her praise. He stammered a bit, suddenly feeling awkward. "Well… I'm alright, I suppose. Far from the weakest wizard around, I guess," he said modestly, deflecting the compliment. He knew, deep down, that he had a natural talent for magic, that he could probably hold his own against, and even beat, most adult wizards. But it still made him uncomfortable to talk about his own abilities, especially when someone was looking at him with that kind of open admiration.
Ciri smiled, a genuine, warm smile this time, and seemed to chuckle softly in amusement at his flustered reaction. She finished the last of her omelette and took a long drink of orange juice.
"I feel much better now, thank you," she said, her voice stronger and clearer. "Thank you for the meal, and for the medicine. I can already feel the pain dulling significantly." She gave him a grateful smile.
Harry smiled back, relieved to see some color returning to her cheeks. "You are most welcome. By the way," he added, realizing they hadn't actually introduced themselves properly. "My name is Harry. Harry Potter. It's… well, it's lovely to meet you, under the circumstances."
She smiled again, a little wider this time. "Ciri," she replied. "It's nice to meet you too, Harry Potter."
Harry grinned, but then his expression flickered as he remembered something. "Oh! I almost forgot." With a casual, almost unconscious flick of his wrist, he silently summoned her neatly folded clothes from where he’d left them outside the door. They floated gently into the room and settled onto the foot of the bed.
"Here are your clothes," he said. "I noticed you were wearing trousers and a blouse when I found you, so I took the liberty of… well, I went and got you some similar clothes from a nearby store, just in case you wanted a change or something more comfortable to wear than what you arrived in. They're on the dresser over there." He gestured towards a large mahogany dresser against the far wall. "Please, don't feel pressured to wear them if you don't want to, or if you're not comfortable. I just wanted to give you the option, that's all." He was quietly glad he could just pop into a regular Muggle shopping mall for things like that, rather than having to brave a wizarding shopping district like Diagon Alley.
He knew how to get to the French equivalent, Place Cachée in Paris, because he’d swallowed his pride and sent a letter to Fleur Delacour asking for directions. He’d also specifically asked her not to tell anyone he’d been in contact. It had been a little awkward, to be honest, as he hadn't spoken to her since the Triwizard Tournament, and their parting hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms. Luckily, Fleur had seemed genuinely happy to hear from him, though she’d given him a stern, but good-natured, dressing down via return owl for taking so long to send her any kind of letter. She’d mentioned how distraught she’d been, thinking he hadn't wanted to continue their friendship after everything. She’d, of course, given him the directions to Place Cachée and had even insisted he should visit her sometime if he was ever in France. He mentally shook his head, trying to pull his thoughts back from that tangent.
"I… thank you," Ciri said, looking genuinely touched by his thoughtfulness. "For your continued kindness. Are you… are you absolutely sure you don't mind me staying here for a little while?" she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"Of course I don't mind," Harry said immediately, and he meant it. "Honestly, I live in this massive, empty house with no one but my crabby old house-elf for company. Having someone else around is probably good for me. Make sure I don't completely go insane from the isolation," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. He gathered up the empty tray. "Get some more rest. I'll have Kreacher bring you lunch later." He gave her a final smile and headed for the door. As he closed it softly behind him, he wondered briefly, with a strange mix of apprehension and anticipation, what the coming weeks, and this unexpected houseguest, had in store for him.
…
Harry’s life, from the moment he was born up until about six and a half months ago, had been the emotional equivalent of a really shitty, poorly maintained roller coaster. It was mostly terrifying drops down steep ravines of horribleness, with only the occasional, tiny little hill of fleeting happiness. Things had started to get marginally better about nine and a half months ago, when he’d finally cut off all connection to the manipulative, ungrateful British Wizarding World. But it wasn't until about six and a half months ago, when he met a certain ashen-haired girl a year older than him named Ciri, that things had really started to change for the better.
Ciri. Her full name, he’d found out later, was Cirilla, but she’d playfully (and sometimes painfully) punch his arm if he ever dared to call her that. Ciri was… well, Harry didn't even know how to properly describe her. Every time he saw her, every time they talked or laughed, it was like emerging from a stuffy, suffocating, abandoned mine shaft into the crisp, clean air at the top of a sun-drenched mountain. She was more than just a breath of fresh air; she was like taking a huge, invigorating swig of a Rejuvenation Potion.
She was so similar to him in so many fundamental ways orphaned, hunted, burdened with a destiny she hadn’t asked for yet completely different in others, with a fiery spirit and a resilience that astounded him. It only made sense, really, that they had become fast, inseparable friends. He had quickly taken to doing almost everything with her, and she, in turn, seemed to return the favor, content to hang around him pretty much any time she could.
After she’d recovered and they’d spent a couple of months mostly cooped up within the magically protected confines of Potter Manor and its grounds (mostly for her continued safety and his peace of mind), Harry had decided it was time to show her some of the Muggle world. She had absolutely loved it. Her eyes had gone wide at the sight of the towering skyscrapers in London, and she’d been endlessly fascinated by the sheer number of cars constantly streaming through the city streets. She’d asked him, with childlike curiosity, if he had a car. When he’d replied that he didn't, her disappointment had been surprisingly palpable.
So, that very night, Harry had inconspicuously slipped away to Gringotts. He'd had the goblins convert a hefty sum of Galleons into about 300,000 euros. Then, armed with a wallet full of Muggle currency, he’d gone to a high-end car dealership and, after some careful consideration (and a bit of a nostalgic whim), bought a gleaming, bright red 1988 Ferrari Testarossa for a cool 80,000 euros. He’d had to employ a few subtle Confundus Charms and persuasive suggestions to get past the dealer's entirely reasonable questions about how such a young kid was planning to pay for such an expensive car, and where, exactly, his driver's license was.
Nonetheless, with some liberal use of memory charms (for which he felt a little guilty, but it was necessary) and an extra 10,000 euros for expedited, discreet delivery, the car was delivered to Potter Manor the very next morning. Getting the Muggle delivery drivers through the outer wards had been a right hassle, involving a lot of carefully timed lowering and raising of specific sections, and he’d felt pretty bad about all the charms he’d had to layer on them so they would completely forget the location of his house. He’d made sure to give them a very generous tip for their troubles.
Ciri had woken up that morning and nearly screamed in pure, unadulterated excitement when she saw the sleek, iconic sports car parked on the makeshift gravel driveway Harry had created (with a bit of magical landscaping) leading from the manor to the nearest main road, which was a good three-quarters of a mile away.
It had been an entire, hilarious, and slightly terrifying process learning how to drive the thing. Neither of them had ever driven a car before, and a vintage Ferrari Testarossa wasn't exactly the ideal learner vehicle. But eventually, after a lot of jerky starts, near misses with ancient oak trees, and much laughter, they’d gotten the hang of it.
"This is even better than racing on horseback!" Ciri had yelled with pure, exhilarating joy, her ashen hair flying behind her as the speedometer needle crept past 257 kilometers per hour (that was nearly 160 mph!). Harry, on the other hand, had been gripping the passenger-side door handle for dear life, his eyes squeezed firmly shut, muttering a string of increasingly desperate prayers. Ciri had laughed at him, mercilessly, for a solid week after that.
Their next big adventure had taken them across the Channel to France, where they’d decided to explore the more magical side of things. The French Ministry of Magic, Harry had been pleased to discover, was significantly less overtly racist and prejudiced than its British counterpart. Any politicians who held such views were smart enough to keep them to themselves. This meant that Place Cachée, the French equivalent of Diagon Alley, was a vibrant, bustling hub filled with a multitude of different humans and a fascinating array of other magical creatures Veela (Fleur’s relatives, no doubt), goblins running their own banks, even a few centaurs browsing bookstalls.
Ciri had also developed an immediate and intense love for magical versions of French food. She now possessed a sweet tooth that, according to her, could only be truly satisfied by a generous slice of treacle tart, which, she insisted with unwavering conviction, was "infinitely tastier" than any Muggle counterpart she’d ever tried (or that Harry had ever made for her). Harry had just rolled his eyes dramatically at that particular declaration, leading to a playful argument about the merits of magical versus Muggle baking.
It was in the middle of one such lighthearted debate, as they were strolling through a sun-dappled magical marketplace in Paris, that a familiar, melodious voice had called out.
" 'Arry! It iz so good to zee you again!" Fleur Delacour said, her silver-blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight as she approached them. Before Harry could even react, she’d swept him into a surprisingly warm, enthusiastic hug, which surprised the absolute hell out of him.
Ciri had just watched the whole exchange calmly, her expression unreadable, though Harry could sense a subtle tension in her, a slight discomfort at the sudden appearance of this beautiful, very obviously magical woman who clearly knew Harry well.
