Harry sat in his study, the old leather chair creaking softly as he shifted. He was deep into a book titled Dark Spells: A History. Finding it tucked away in a dusty corner of Potter Manor's enormous library had been a genuine surprise.
The place was a labyrinth of forgotten knowledge, shelves groaning under the weight of centuries.
The book itself, despite its ominous title, wasn't a how-to guide for aspiring Dark Lords. No, it didn't actually teach you the incantations or wand movements.
Instead, it delved into the origins and evolution of various dark spells, some so old they'd faded from memory, others still favored by the kind of "dark tossers" Harry had unfortunately become all too familiar with.
Just thinking about Death Eaters made his jaw clench. His mind, as it often did these days, drifted to his supposed arch-nemesis, Lord Voldemort, and his merry band of inbred asshats.
It had been quiet for a few months, disturbingly so. No sign of them, no whispers of their activities. Then again, it had been a few months since Harry had seen anyone from the wizarding world.
Sirius's death had been the breaking point. That, and the little incident where he'd, well, completely trashed Dumbledore's office in a fit of grief and rage. After that, Harry had cut ties.
Cold turkey. He'd marched into Gringotts, claimed his inheritances from both the Potter and Black families a staggering amount of gold and property that still boggled his mind and then retreated to Potter Manor.
The ancient estate was now his fortress. He'd paid the goblins a hefty sum to layer it with every defensive ward they knew, spells that would make an intruder wish they'd never been born.
On top of that, Harry himself had cast a Fidelius Charm, making Potter Manor unplottable and unfindable to anyone he didn't personally invite. Which, currently, was no one.
His only link to the outside world had been the incessant stream of letters. Owls from his friends, from Dumbledore, all practically screaming at him to come back, to return.
Harry had developed a simple system: any letter mentioning his "duty" or the "wizarding world" or "Dumbledore knows best" went straight into the fireplace, regardless of the sender.
He'd eventually put a complete block on Dumbledore's mail. The old headmaster had a nasty habit of lacing his parchments with tracking charms, a level of manipulative bullshit Harry was no longer willing to tolerate.
Even the Ministry had tried its hand, sending official-looking letters full of thinly veiled threats about the "consequences" of his absence. Harry couldn't have cared less.
He did feel a brief pang of guilt about Ron and Hermione, at first. Not telling them his plans, just vanishing. But that guilt evaporated pretty quickly when their letters started arriving.
Full of how they "understood what he was going through," followed immediately by lectures that his grief was "no excuse to stop listening to Professor Dumbledore." That's when their letters started joining Dumbledore's in the flames.
So now, his days were spent differently. He practiced magic, real magic, the kind he found in the restricted sections of both the Potter and Black family grimoires.
When he'd officially become Head of the Black family, he'd had Kreacher, surprisingly cooperative now, apparate the entire Black library from Grimmauld Place to Potter Manor.
That, combined with the already vast Potter collection, gave him a truly massive library to explore.
Oh, and speaking of Grimmauld Place, he'd slapped new, impenetrable wards on that dump too. The Order of the Phoenix could find somewhere else to hold their useless meetings.
He might have felt a twinge of regret about kicking them out, if they'd ever actually, you know, done anything to help anyone.
But since their main activity seemed to be sitting around looking grim and waiting for Dumbledore to tell them what to think, Harry figured they got what they deserved. Kicked the fuck out.
Harry looked back down at Dark Spells: A History, then set it aside with a sigh. The biggest downside to his splendid isolation was the boredom. It could get mind-numbingly dull at times.
Still, he'd take dull over dealing with the hypocritical, fickle wizarding world any day. The same world that had branded him a liar and a lunatic one year, then expected him to be their savior the next, all while they sat on their arses and did nothing.
Honestly, some days Harry wasn't sure who he disliked more: Voldemort, or the pathetic, spineless masses who refused to lift a finger against him.
He pushed himself out of the chair and stretched, his back popping. A walk. That's what he needed. He headed for the grand front entrance of the manor.
The ornate double doors, made of dark, ancient wood, swung open silently at his approach. He stepped out into the cool air.
It was overcast, a familiar grey blanket spread across the sky, but Harry didn't mind. The chill on his skin had a dulling effect, almost pleasant in its numbness.
He started towards the woods that bordered the manor grounds, a sprawling, ancient forest that had become his go-to spot for clearing his head.
The forest itself was just… a forest. Peaceful, quiet, and, as far as Harry could tell, not magical in any significant way. He'd seen deer, foxes, plenty of squirrels, but nothing that screamed "wizarding world danger."
Sadly, his usually beautiful, peaceful walk was about to be very, very interrupted.
~~~~
Ciri's POV:
'This is not going well,' Ciri thought, the words a bitter understatement as she crashed onto her backside. The landing was hard, jarring every bone in her body. She was in some dense forest, on some unknown world she'd desperately hoped the Wild Hunt couldn't follow her to.
That hope lasted all of five seconds.
A sickening, blue swirling portal ripped open the air about twenty yards away, its unnatural light casting long, dancing shadows. Ciri's heart plummeted. She knew, with a cold dread, exactly what was about to step through.
Scrambling up, ignoring the protest of her aching muscles, she started to run. She had to find cover, a place to hide, someone to help her. The familiar, chilling barks of the Hounds of the Wild Hunt echoed through the trees, closing in. They were on her scent.
She pushed herself, forcing her legs to move faster, branches whipping at her face. An idle, desperate hope flickered please let there be no local beasts or monsters drawn by the commotion.
A sharp, searing pain shot up her left leg. She glanced down, registering the tear in her trousers and the dark stain of blood already spreading. She'd snagged it on a thorny bush, a deep gash. Grimacing, she pushed the pain aside. No time.
She didn't stop moving. Well, not until a figure stepped out from behind a thick tree directly in her path. The Navigator. Before she could even react, his staff arced through the air and slammed into the side of her head with brutal force.
Stars exploded behind Ciri's eyes as she hit the ground, the world tilting. Groggily, she pushed herself up, her vision swimming.
She had to get to her feet, couldn't let them take her while she was down. Her hand instinctively went to the sword strapped to her back, the cold steel a familiar comfort as she drew it.
She braced herself for a fight. There wasn't much room to maneuver, the trees pressed in close around them, no clearing in sight.
"You only delay the inevitable, Zireael," the Navigator's cold voice cut through the air. "There is nowhere left for you to run."
Ciri didn't waste breath on a reply. He was right about one thing: she was pinned. She could feel the presence of the other Hunt warriors closing in, flanking her.
The rest of them had caught up. She was going to have to fight her way out, or die trying. Exhaustion gnawed at her. The jump to this world, an accidental, panicked leap, had drained most of her energy.
She sensed, more than saw, a warrior lunging at her from behind. With a burst of adrenaline, she twisted her body, a movement that should have been impossible for someone so tired and injured.
Her blade came up, catching the warrior's sword, deflecting it wide to her right as she sidestepped to the left.
In the same fluid motion, she thrust her sword forward, punching it straight through a gap in his armor, deep into his chest. She ripped the blade free with a sickening squelch.
Immediately, she had to leap to her right as another warrior charged, his weapon aimed at her exposed side. No time for a fancy counter. She sidestepped again, letting his momentum carry him past, and drove her sword up into his neck, through the vulnerable join of his helmet and breastplate.
It was a small victory, short-lived. She couldn't react fast enough, couldn't spin around in time to see the monstrous Wild Hound stalking up silently behind her. She screamed, a raw sound of agony, as its powerful jaws clamped down on her already injured calf, teeth sinking deep. The beast yanked, and she was dragged viciously to the forest floor.
The pain was a roaring inferno, almost too much to bear. More Hounds were on her then, a whirlwind of biting teeth and tearing claws, savaging her arms, her legs, her sides. Dimly, through the red haze of pain, she heard the warriors call them off.
The Navigator strode forward, his spectral form looming over her. "You should not have resisted, little swallow," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "You have only caused yourself more pain."
Ciri looked up at him, her vision blurring, consciousness slipping away like sand through her fingers.
'Damn it!' she thought, a wave of despair washing over her. 'I can't believe… I'm going to die like this. I'll… never see Geralt or Yen again. I… I'm scared!' The darkness was closing in, pulling her under.
Just as the last vestiges of light faded, a new voice cut through the chaos, sharp and incredulous.
"What in the possibly nine hells are you doing?"
That was the last thing Ciri heard before everything went black.