Evanesco—the Vanishing Spell.
A high-level Transfiguration charm.
Like a meteor poised to end the world in the Cretaceous, the massive ice sphere abruptly vanished, along with the biting cold that had stung their skin. Only the gently falling snow remained.
Caranthir snapped his head up.
At the street corner, a burst of flame—utterly out of place in this frigid scene—swirled and unfurled.
It emanated from a creature so beautiful it looked unreal.
He had read Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. That was a phoenix.
And through the fire—
Three towering figures emerged.
Dumbledore, though old, stood tall and straight without a hint of frailty.
Geralt and Harry—both Witchers—were naturally large and imposing.
Harry raised his wand.
It was he who had cast Evanesco.
"Harry the Parselmouth, and the White Wolf, Geralt," Caranthir murmured. "And that must be the White Wizard—Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore nodded with a smile. "So even the Wild Hunt has heard of me?"
"Mr. Potter, thank Merlin you're finally here," Scrimgeour exhaled deeply.
Scamander, too, sighed with relief.
Clearly, either his owl had made it—or the Ministry Aurors had passed the message in time.
"Mr. Scamander, I must apologize," Harry said as he approached, wand in his right hand, left hand reaching into the Sorting Hat. "Some unfortunate news—your owl was knocked out by my Hedwig."
Scamander blinked in surprise.
"She got a little overexcited," Harry explained. "Hedwig thought it was one of those magically controlled creatures."
"She—it's not hurt, is it?" Scamander asked, tense.
"Should be fine. Just exhausted and passed out from the surprise attack," Harry assured him.
Scamander let out a breath.
"We'll talk about the owl later." Harry turned his gaze. "Caranthir?"
"You know me?" the Wild Hunt navigator lowered his voice.
"Golden boy of the Aen Elle, renowned pathfinder," Harry raised his wand. "A big catch."
Caranthir wrenched his staff from the ground. "And you think you're the fisherman?"
Harry didn't reply. With a flick of his wrist—
"Accio Armor!"
He visualized Caranthir's armor in his mind.
CLANG!
With a metallic crash, the target of the Summoning Charm was yanked toward Harry, dragging the wearer with it, helplessly pulled forward.
The Summoning Charm—taught in fourth-year Charms at Hogwarts.
If you had a clear concept of the object in mind, it could be summoned.
Its speed was astonishing—Professor Flitwick had once exaggerated that it could rival the speed of light.
Of course, that was an exaggeration.
But Ravenclaw students had tested it—back when Cedric was still at Hogwarts, they borrowed Harry's Firebolt and had Cedric fly it across the Quidditch pitch to see if the charm could catch it.
The Firebolt couldn't keep up.
Even if the caster delayed the charm by a second, the Firebolt still couldn't escape it.
And at a distance of under thirty meters, time became a blur.
Harry stretched out his left hand.
The Basilisk-bone sword was drawn, held straight, awaiting the charging armor—and the doomed knight within it.
The spell suddenly failed.
The target of Accio vanished.
At the last second, the seasoned warrior reacted—teleporting away.
He reappeared behind Harry in a blink.
His wand flicked—an ice orb formed and shot forward.
The concrete rippled, a wave rising up to intercept the orb. Of course, it was pierced through effortlessly. But the delay was enough—Harry ducked, and the cement crashed back like a tide, leaving nothing between them.
He struck.
Sparks flew—Caranthir's armor was masterfully crafted. Even the Basilisk-bone sword couldn't slice through immediately.
Whoosh! Caranthir vanished again.
He landed—
"Accio Armor!" Harry cast again.
He quite enjoyed doing this.
The Summoning Charm was powerful, yet rarely used in wizard duels. Not because wizards feared close combat—
Even if untrained, being suddenly dragged into close range caused panic.
More importantly, most wizards trained in anti-interference charms—lessons Harry had learned from Professor Flitwick in second year. These protected their own spells from being disrupted or manipulated.
But—
Only wizards had that ability.
Caranthir, despite having captured spellcraft master Miranda Goshawk, clearly hadn't learned—and perhaps couldn't learn—this world's magic. Children were the ones who believed in the power of the soul. Adults often lost that ability. And Caranthir, raised in an entirely different magical system, lacked it completely.
He was suffering.
Accio, Leviosa, even trick spells—
In the hands of Aurors, they were unremarkable. Against the Hunt, often ineffective.
In Harry's hands, they hit hard, again and again.
Caranthir's armor was coming apart.
His body now bore several wounds—laced with basilisk venom, which numbed both body and spirit.
"A Parselmouth indeed…" Caranthir muttered, retreating again.
He raised his wand.
A portal began to open.
Pale light spilled outward.
He glanced across the battlefield. In his duel with Harry, he had been outmatched—the Witcher's enhanced body, this world's tricky magic—it overwhelmed him. But at least, he could hold off Harry.
On the other front—
The Wild Hunt had initially been overpowering the wizards.
Until Geralt and Dumbledore joined the fight. Now they were collapsing.
Caranthir could feel it—that white-bearded wizard radiated an aura even more powerful than Harry's. With a wave of his wand, the Hunt were caught in transfigured traps, then slain by the other Witcher.
If he didn't leave now, he wouldn't be able to at all.
Caranthir tried to flee.
He couldn't be allowed to.
Harry swept his wand. The concrete behind him surged forward like a wave, pushing him ahead at great speed.
Caranthir retreated, hurling an ice orb.
Harry didn't dodge.
Shielded by Quen and a Shield Charm, he took the blow to accelerate—just a second faster, close enough to reach the portal first.
Caranthir had one foot in—
Yrden!
Harry raised his hand. Purple runes burst from the ground, flaring—
CRACK! The spell interfered with the magic. The portal flickered, then vanished.
Harry used the momentum—
THUD! He kicked Caranthir to the ground.
"Trying to escape? Too late, dear Caranthir," Harry said softly, one foot planted firmly on the elf's chest, pinning him down with a grin.
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Powerstones?
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