The night air was sharp with autumn chill, carrying the scent of rotting leaves and the faint tang of smoke from distant chimneys. Godric's Hollow had always seemed quiet at this hour, a village that slept under the watchful eyes of its ancestors. The moon hung low and pale, casting silvered shadows across the cobblestone streets. But for James and Lily Potter, this Halloween promised something entirely unfamiliar: freedom. For the first time in years, they were leaving the house, leaving the weight of parental duty behind, and venturing into the world of laughter, music, and masks. A Halloween party awaited—a chance to remember themselves, not just their roles as guardians of the Wizarding world.
At home, the children played. Harry, barely a toddler, gurgled with delight while his younger brother Benjamin clutched a small wooden toy, eyes bright and curious. James's parents, devoted and wary, kept a careful watch, their vigilance a shield against the dark forces that often threatened the family. For a few brief hours, all seemed normal. The firelight flickered softly across the nursery walls, and the ticking of the clock was the only sound besides the occasional squeal of delight from the children. Shadows danced along the walls, and the wind whispered through the cracks in the old wooden window frames, carrying a chill that made the hair on Harry's arms stand on end.
But darkness had been waiting, patient and malevolent.
Lord Voldemort descended upon the house like a shadow that swallowed the night. The air seemed to warp with his presence, bending light and sound as if reality itself recoiled. The soft laughter of the children was replaced by the harsh crack of spells colliding, each echo a drumbeat of terror. James's parents, stalwart defenders of the Potter line—known to some as Edward and Mary Potter—stood firm, shielding the nursery with every ounce of their power. Sparks flew as ancient wards clashed with raw, unchecked magic, setting the old timbers ablaze in brief, flickering bursts. Yet the Dark Lord was relentless. A green flash tore through the room, splintering the walls and igniting the hearth, and the ground shook beneath the force of dark energy.
The elder grandmother, a woman of quiet courage who mirrored the bravery of Lily herself, raised a protective charm around Harry. Her magic flared bright and hot, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness. But it was not enough. The curse struck, searing through the fragile shield and into Harry's tiny body. The world exploded around him. Wood and stone rained down, a cascade of fire and debris, and Harry screamed—not just from pain, but from the shock of raw, incomprehensible violence.
Rubble fell upon him, pinning him against the broken floor. Dust filled his lungs, making every breath a struggle, each inhalation thick and choking. His small body throbbed with a strange emptiness. He was alive, but the magic that had always felt so natural in the world… it was gone. Severed. Gone like the wind after a storm, leaving only the faintest trace, a burning scar across his forehead. A lightning bolt, a mark of survival, and yet a reminder of what he could no longer feel.
Benjamin's cry pierced the smoke-filled air. A piece of fallen masonry had struck him, leaving a sharp, v-shaped scar across his cheek. He was unharmed, yet marked—a mirror of the chaos that had struck his family. His tiny hands trembled as he reached out blindly, calling for his parents. Lily and James arrived seconds later, their return cutting through the night like a knife. Dumbledore followed, calm yet grave, surveying the wreckage. The smell of smoke and ash hung thick in the air, mingling with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid tang of shattered wards.
"Benjamin," Dumbledore said, voice steady and certain, "the Boy Who Lived." And the world shifted. Benjamin's future was etched in the annals of magic, celebrated and protected, while Harry—alive, scarred, and squibbed—was quietly erased from the stories, a ghost living in the shadow of his own family.
Years passed, and the Potter household grew colder. James and Lily, proud and accomplished in their own right, could not entirely ignore the reality of Harry's condition. Witchers were feared, and their squib wards often ostracized those born without magic. They did not harm Harry, nor cast him away to the muggle world, but their warmth was selective, their attention focused on Benjamin. By the time Harry turned six, the reality had settled over him like a winter frost: he was unwanted, not through malice, but through fear and social expectation.
Harry watched from the sidelines as his brother learned spells and charms, his small hands trying to mimic movements he could not feel in his bones. Frustration burned in him, a silent ember that refused to die. He wanted, more than anything, to feel the spark of magic coursing through him, to be a part of the world his family celebrated. But no spell would come. No wand would answer. Only the scar remained, a permanent reminder of what was lost—and what had never been granted.
Yet the Potters were clever, resourceful, and fundamentally good. They sought a solution that was both unconventional and daring: a Witcher of the Bear School. From that moment, Harry's life became a new kind of trial, one not measured in magical ability, but in endurance, discipline, and survival.
The Bear School's stronghold was remote, nestled in jagged mountains where storms lashed against stone walls and the air tasted of iron and cold. There, Harry began the brutal training of a Witcher. At first, it was purely physical: running, lifting, and sparring beyond the limits of any normal child. Soon, the mutations began. Pain wracked his body, tearing and reshaping bones and sinew. Many of his peers had died under these trials, but Harry, stubborn and determined, survived. Each night, as the wind shrieked outside the stone walls, he would clutch his arms and grit his teeth, knowing the agony was forging him into something stronger.
His training was unusual from the start. He adapted to the Viper School's reflex exercises with startling ease, despite his already large frame, and his latent magical ability resonated with the Griffin School's techniques. His instructors marveled at his resilience. He synchronized his body to the best attributes of three schools: the Bear's strength and stamina, the Viper's reflexes, and the Griffin's magika. By the time he reached thirteen, he towered above his peers, muscles coiled like steel cables, reflexes honed to a razor edge.
The pain had not ended. Mutations flared unpredictably. Sometimes his limbs moved too fast for his intent, striking with destructive force rather than precise control. Sometimes he overshot a target, shattered the wrong object. But the Witcher signs, once impossible for him, now flowed naturally into his swordplay. He learned to channel his reflexes, strength, and magical potential into a single, harmonious form of combat.
By fourteen, Harry had mastered the rigors of the Witcher's craft. Six feet tall at thirteen, now approaching six-foot-five, he was formidable in both size and skill. His brother Benjamin, oblivious to the shadowed sibling who had survived the night of ruin, prepared for Hogwarts, a young wizard destined for fame and glory. Harry's path was one of steel, blood, and discipline, shaping him into a weapon unlike any other.
The following year brought both trials and opportunity. Benjamin's first-year triumphs—stopping Voldemort from obtaining the Philosopher's Stone—had made him arrogant, the shadow of Harry's squibbed existence far behind him. Meanwhile, Harry honed his craft further, taking on contracts, slaying goblins, and earning goblin-forged armor and a silver sword of remarkable craftsmanship. He learned the weight and balance of the blade, feeling the vibrations of every strike, the rhythm of combat, and the subtle signs of danger that only a Witcher could sense. When Dumbledore called for Witchers to aid Hogwarts during the Basilisk crisis, Harry and his master were nearby, answering the summons. At fifteen, he stood a colossus of muscle, skill, and lethal intent.
No one at Hogwarts could anticipate the arrival of a boy forged in pain and discipline, a squib no more—though magic had abandoned him, the Witcher's training had made him a force beyond reckoning. The boy once forgotten, the child cast aside, now strode into the world with the power to shape destinies. The wind hissed around him as he approached the castle, his silver sword strapped to his back and armor glinting faintly under the moonlight. Every step was deliberate, measured, and yet full of deadly potential—a force waiting for its first strike.