Priscilla was optimistic.
Losing the most important thing in her life didn’t an losing life’s aning altogether.
But the weariness in her face and the heaviness in her brows showed it clearly—without that one radiant color, her world had dimd.
"Open your mouth," Harry said gently.
Priscilla shook her head, hesitant.
Dandelion had already summoned many doctors. All had diagnosed the injury, and all had failed. Each hope, when dashed, made the despair heavier.
Harry snapped his fingers lightly.
Her head tilted back involuntarily, mouth opening. Hermione drew her wand, whispered Lumos, lighting her throat.
Harry peered in, made a swift diagnosis, and said calmly, "Corroded by so kind of caustic liquid."
"Not a curse. Not magic."
"That’s good. Much easier to fix."
If it had been a curse or spell, it would’ve been far more complicated—this world’s magic often required breaking through a dium or finding the original caster.
Priscilla’s eyes widened.
Dandelion clenched his fists.
Harry tapped the Sorting Hat; a potion popped out into his hand.
He handed it over. "Drink this."
Priscilla took it without hesitation.
It tasted awful—bitter, sour, and burned down her throat, leaving an itch behind.
"This feels... strange," she grimaced. "And itchy."
Harry shook his head. "Don’t talk. Your vocal cords are regrowing. You’ll be fine by evening."
Priscilla nodded quickly and shut her mouth tight.
"Harry, I love you!" Dandelion cheered. "I knew you could do it! I’m writing a song just for you—with Priscilla!"
Harry took a step back. "Thanks. But save your declarations for Priscilla—or other ladies."
"No, no, I’m serious now," Dandelion insisted. "I finally get it—what you and Geralt an about finding peace beside the woman you love."
Priscilla’s expression darkened.
Dandelion wasn’t exactly the best lover—charming, yes, but he had more lovers in Novigrad alone than most nobles had coins.
Sensing danger, he steered the topic elsewhere. "Let’s talk about Geralt marrying Yennefer."
"Are they really ready for that?"
He pulled over a chair and sat beside Priscilla. "No offense, but do a witcher and a sorceress really need a marriage contract?"
"They’re having a child," Harry said quietly.
Dandelion froze.
"I said—they’re having a child."
"Good gods," Dandelion whispered, rubbing his face. "That’s even more unbelievable than the Eternal Fire mistaking you and Hermione for dragons."
"You managed it?"
Harry nodded. "So magical techniques."
"Well then—congratulations to both of you," Dandelion said sincerely. "That does make the wedding more aningful."
"Half a month? Can we make it in ti?"
"Don’t worry," Harry said. "We’ve got ti."
As they chatted, Zoltan ca upstairs, and Harry finally began sharing the stories he hadn’t had ti to tell before.
Dandelion and Priscilla listened carefully, knowing these tales were more legendary than even Geralt’s.
Harry also learned a few things that drunk Geralt hadn’t explained back at Kaer Morhen.
Much like old tis—
Geralt t the Bloody Baron, solved a leftover issue Harry hadn’t: the unborn child, which Geralt transford into a guardian spirit using an ancient ritual.
He helped mages escape in Novigrad.
Then went to Skellige.
The news of a sea-rampaging dragon had hit their already poor wallets hard.
That night—
Priscilla’s voice returned.
Crisp and clear, just as before.
But by then, only Harry and Hermione were awake to hear her sing again—Zoltan and Dandelion were already passed out drunk.
After three days in Novigrad—
Harry and Hermione toured the city, then set off toward Toussaint.
It was a long journey—across all Teria and along Cintra’s borders.
They finally arrived after nearly a month.
The kingdom left Hermione speechless.
Unlike any place she’d seen before—even her own world lacked such fairy-tale beauty.
Sunshine drenched the vivid landscape: saturated colors, lush forests, fruit-laden trees flanking bright roads.
Her childhood imagination of fairy-tale forests had finally co to life.
They reunited with Geralt in Beauclair, Toussaint’s capital.
"You’re finally here," Geralt sighed. "Yen almost sent Ciri to fetch you."
"The journey was scenic," Harry smiled. "First ti traveling like this."
No purpose. Just being with the one you love. Peaceful. Free.
And with a soundtrack.
Dandelion and Priscilla had composed poetry the entire way—fueled by Harry’s stories, by Dumbledore and Grindelwald, new tales taking shape.
Too bad the Sorting Hat didn’t join.
It had chosen to stay and race cars, forming a grand plan with Sirius Black—to circle the globe. From Felixstowe, through the poles, returning in two months.
"It’s my first ti experiencing this too," Geralt said. "Seeing Yen will calm her down—she’s been moody."
"Cos with weddings," Dandelion chuckled. "Every bride goes through it."
Priscilla coughed pointedly.
Dandelion zipped his lips.
Harry asked, "Is everyone else here?"
"They’re all here," Geralt nodded, leading the way. "Harry, if you’d arrived a bit earlier, you wouldn’t have missed sothing amazing."
"Oh?"
"Vesemir ran into his old fla," Geralt grinned. "I always thought he’d been the serious type his whole life—but no, turns out our old wolf had a steamy history with a countess."
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