Vesemir walked through Kaer Morhen with wide-eyed amazent, his hands brushing along smooth new walls, his eyes tracing the high lights and listening to the faint rustle in the courtyard—seeds Harry had scattered were rapidly growing, devouring the overgrowth.
It was a far cry from the Kaer Morhen of his youth.
But that was good.
A ho should be like this—clean, tidy, and full of light.
"Though it’s going to be a pain to maintain," Vesemir muttered, with a sigh of admiration.
Harry shook his head, raised his wand once more.
A row of statues erged from the corner—each holding a cleaning implent.
"Don’t worry," Harry finally spoke. "You won’t have to lift a finger. These will clean the castle every night."
"Magic can do that?" Vesemir was stunned.
Harry pocketed his wand. "Actually, there are more spells for daily life than combat."
"At Hogwarts, practical charms make up the majority."
Gardening, cooking, cleaning...
Over seventy percent of spells students learned were dostic.
Even Durmstrang, infamous for its dark arts curriculum, followed a similar ratio.
Vesemir could hardly believe it.
Could a world truly be so... peace-loving?
That evening, the witchers held back—no wild drinking, no rabbit costus. Geralt finally changed out of his day-long humiliating outfit.
By morning, the courtyard was spotless—except a single tumbleweed-like plant huddled in a corner, which Harry ignored.
He planted Devil’s Snare in the most vulnerable parts of the wall. With their Igni signs, the witchers would manage it easily.
When the final stone was set—
The Wolf School had its ho back.
Ciri, Geralt, and Yennefer left first, needing ti to prepare for the wedding.
Harry and Hermione planned to make their way slowly.
Vesemir wouldn’t join them—Toussaint, while beautiful, was too full of painful mories for him.
Lambert had wanted to travel with Harry, but Eskel dragged him away—mothers always know what their sons need.
Harry and Hermione’s first stop: Novigrad.
Down the Pontar River, past Oxenfurt.
This ti, unlike before, they had ti and energy.
No Apparition, no flying brooms—just horses and the open road.
Hermione even got a front-row seat to the witcher lifestyle:
Find a village, accept a contract, haggle for gold, kill the monster.
Leave with the pay, amid grateful or begrudging villagers.
She understood now why Harry always warned her to be careful.
He worked too efficiently—made it look too easy. Villagers often thought the threat wasn’t so serious after all and hesitated to pay. So even got physical—not with Harry, of course, but Hermione looked like an easy target.
They grabbed pitchforks—and lost teeth.
"Finally, Novigrad." Hermione stretched on horseback. Witcher life had lost its novelty—after several jobs, it was just tiring.
And worst of all—
Hardly anyone ever said thank you.
Novigrad remained tightly guarded.
Temple guards and witch hunters road the streets, eager to brand anyone a heretic.
The Rosemary and Thy—
No, now it was the Chaleon Inn.
Business was poor under the curfew.
They pushed open the door.
Dandelion’s dramatic voice greeted them: "Welco, traveler! You’ve arrived at the finest, most elegant inn in all of Novigrad!"
"What’ll it be?"
Harry replied lightly, "A dozen of Geralt’s little secrets."
"Oh, Harry!" Dandelion bead, arms wide. "My dearest friend!"
Harry gave him a suspicious look, avoiding the hug. "You seem... overly enthusiastic."
"Well, I do need your help," Dandelion admitted bluntly. "I think only you can do this."
"Mhm?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
Dandelion led them upstairs. "Don’t worry—it won’t take much of your ti."
"Geralt’s gone to look for Ciri. I figured—"
Harry cut him off: "Ciri’s already found. The Wild Hunt, all of it—taken care of."
"I’m here for sothing else."
Dandelion paused on the stairs, then continued. "That’s wonderful news."
"But what brings you here, then?"
"Geralt’s marrying Yennefer," Harry said quietly. "In Toussaint. In half a month. You and Zoltan are invited."
The news hit like a thunderclap.
Dandelion stumbled, nearly tumbling down the stairs. Harry snapped his fingers—Levitation Charm caught him in ti.
"They’re getting married?" he gasped.
Harry nodded.
Dandelion shook his head. "I can’t believe it."
"Hard to imagine him walking into the grave of matrimony."
"They’re over a hundred," Harry pointed out.
"I always forget his age," Dandelion muttered. "Let’s talk to Zoltan about it later."
He stopped at a door, knocking gently.
"Hey, Priscilla. I brought an old friend to see you—can we co in?"
No reply.
Only the soft clatter of pen against desk.
He pushed the door open.
Inside sat Priscilla—the bard whose songs had once stunned crowds at the Kingfisher Inn—writing with a quill, papers scattered before her.
"After you left Novigrad," Dandelion began softly, "Geralt ca by."
"Priscilla and I were struggling to reopen the inn. He helped us with funding."
"But then... Priscilla was attacked."
"Geralt was brave—he slew the vampire, ended the threat."
"But her voice was damaged. She can’t sing like before."
"Harry," he said earnestly, looking at him.
Priscilla shook her head, smiled. Her voice, though raspy, was kind. "Dandelion, I may not sing again on stage, but that doesn’t stop from writing lyrics. Your performances are still loved."
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