Toussaint was a wealthy land—rich not just in material things, but in spirit too.
If there was any kingdom where witchers could live in peace and contentnt, it would be this one.
Here, people didn’t insult witchers—they greeted them kindly, treated them with courtesy.
What more could a witcher ask for?
But Vesemir had scarcely stepped foot in this country—until today.
Like many witchers, and indeed many n, Vesemir had once had a strong, handso body, and a quick, clever mind—he was, naturally, a bit of a charr.
He’d had many stories with many won.
One of them had been a countess from Toussaint.
It was love at first sight.
They fell in love.
But even in this tolerant land, the romance between a noblewoman and a witcher wasn’t easily accepted.
One day, while Vesemir was in her chambers, her brother ca storming in. Vesemir, being a witcher, wasn’t caught—but it left a scar.
For decades, Vesemir never pursued another lasting relationship.
Ti heals most wounds.
Since coming to Toussaint, Vesemir had stayed at the countess’s estate. She had never forgotten him either—she still kept the clothes he’d fled in that fateful day.
With her help, Geralt and Yennefer’s wedding went off without a hitch.
The venue was prepared. The clothes were ready.
Ciri served as maid of honor. Harry, the best man.
The ceremony was simple, no lavish displays—just a gathering of their dearest friends: witchers, sorceresses, Dandelion and his crew... even a few nonhuman guests.
Beneath an arch woven of white roses and pink hydrangeas—
Vesemir officiated, face solemn.
"Geralt of Rivia, do you take this woman to be your wife? In wealth or poverty, in sickness or health?"
Geralt nodded softly. "Yes. I do."
"Yennefer of Vengerberg, do you take this man to be your husband? In wealth or poverty, in sickness or health?"
Yennefer nodded too. "Yes. I do."
"We always have, haven’t we?"
Most present had never attended a wedding—they treated it more like a grand celebration. Once the vows were said, the party broke loose.
Harry lit fireworks, setting the mood alight.
Hermione, wine in hand, watched it all with dreamy eyes.
Their future would be even more festive.
anwhile, in another world—Hogwarts.
It was already September 1st.
Professor McGonagall sat dark-faced in her chair, glaring at Dumbledore. "Albus, Harry still hasn’t returned!"
Dumbledore replied softly, "Minerva, no need to worry..."
Her tone sharp: "I’m not worried about him—but he’s got the Sorting Hat!"
"How are we supposed to sort the students tonight?"
Dumbledore paused, lips pressed. "It’s just a hat. Surely the true spirit of the Sorting Hat remains here."
McGonagall’s expression froze. "You an the motorbike?"
Dumbledore didn’t speak.
"That motorbike," she continued, "that just crossed the Antarctic, shot through the Indian Ocean and diterranean, and caused havoc in multiple countries?"
Dumbledore gave a pained nod. "That one, yes."
She laughed—bright and cutting. "So tonight, I’m to wheel in a motorcycle and have our new students place that on their heads?"
"Why not have them ride it?" Dumbledore suggested carefully.
Her look turned icy. "Do you really want to find out?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "We’ve no other choice."
"Then I leave the ceremony to you, Headmaster," she said coldly, rising. "You’ll conduct the Sorting."
Dumbledore sighed. "I haven’t done that in ages..."
She walked away without a word.
That evening—
The Hogwarts Express arrived. Students filed into the castle.
At the Gryffindor table, Neville, fully recovered, peeked around. "Where’s Harry and Hermione?"
"I didn’t see them on the train. I sent loads of letters this sumr—no reply."
His gran had begged him to invite them—they’d changed Neville and the Longbottom na.
Revenge, taken by his own hand. Beautiful.
But still—no response.
"I heard they’re off at Geralt’s wedding," Ron said. "Might not be back yet."
Neville sighed. "I’ll wait then."
He looked toward the staff table.
McGonagall’s seat was empty—normal for the Sorting.
But so was Dumbledore’s.
Students began whispering—why wasn’t the headmaster there?
Luckily, the other professors looked relaxed—so even seed excited. It stopped the rumors.
Soon—
Professor McGonagall led the first-years in.
But sothing felt... off.
Where was the stool?
Where was the hat?
Then—BANG!
The hall doors burst open.
Dumbledore zood in on a motorcycle, flying through the air before landing gently at the staff table.
A few fresh leaves fluttered down behind him.
He dismounted. "Ah-ha, what a curious experience!"
The students stared, baffled.
So this was what the staff had been waiting for.
He explained, "Due to certain reasons, the original Sorting Hat couldn’t co."
"But though this is a motorbike—it is also the Sorting Hat."
The headlight flashed.
The Sorting Hat spoke, booming, "Greetings, Hogwarts students! I’m thrilled to see you all again!"
It sang joyfully.
Its sumr with Sirius had been wild, but it hadn’t forgotten its song.
The students finally relaxed.
Even if it was a motorcycle—
The spirit of the Sorting Hat was still very much present.
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