The Witcher: Ascending Beyond Marvel

The sky outside was a canvas of swirling gray clouds, casting a cool, muted light over Hogwarts. The distant cheers from the Quidditch pitch echoed through the castle grounds, blending with the rustling leaves carried by the autumn wind. Yet, inside the warmth of Hagrid's hut, Wes was sprawled lazily across a thick, fur-lined rug, utterly unbothered by the excitement outside.

Hagrid, perched on his oversized wooden chair, peered down at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

"Wes, aren't yeh gonna watch the Quidditch match?" he asked, scratching the back of his head.

Wes barely lifted his gaze from the book resting on his chest. "Not particularly interested," he murmured.

Hagrid huffed but didn't press further. Over the past few months, Wes had found a quiet sanctuary in Hagrid's hut—a place away from the prying eyes of students and the burdens of academia. The rustic charm, the flickering fire, and the countless rare materials displayed around the room made it a haven unlike any other.

More importantly, there was always good wine.

Hagrid, ever the generous host, grabbed a bottle of deep crimson liquid and effortlessly yanked the cork off with his thick fingers. The scent of aged oak and berries filled the air as he took a hearty swig, his beard catching stray droplets.

The moment was shattered when the door burst open.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stumbled inside, their faces flushed from running, their breath coming in quick gasps. Hermione's curls were frizzed with static, Ron's scarf hung askew, and Harry's glasses had slid halfway down his nose.

"Hagrid—Harry was nearly killed today!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice sharp with urgency.

Hagrid jolted upright, nearly knocking over the wine bottle. "What?" His small eyes blinked rapidly in confusion. "What are yeh talkin' about?"

"You don't know?" Ron gawked. "He was attacked—on the Quidditch pitch! Someone cursed his broom!"

Hagrid's grip on the bottle slipped, and with a loud thud, it hit the floor. Deep red liquid pooled onto the wooden planks.

Immediately, Fang, Hagrid's boarhound, darted forward, eagerly lapping up the spilled wine.

"Oi! Fang, that's expensive stuff!" Hagrid scolded, bending down to shoo the dog away. His massive hands fumbled to salvage what little remained in the bottle.

Hermione, hands planted firmly on her hips, ignored the commotion and turned her sharp gaze on Hagrid. "I remember perfectly well that you were supposed to be patrolling near the stadium today. Why are you here drinking instead?"

"Uh—" Hagrid's beady eyes darted toward Wes. In a desperate attempt to shift the blame, he blurted, "Wes needed me for somethin'! We were discussin' important business. Ain't that right, Wes?"

The three turned their attention to Wes, who was still sprawled on the rug, barely acknowledging their presence.

"Professor Irwin?" Hermione asked, her voice laced with surprise. "You were here all this time?"

Wes waved a lazy hand. "Don't mind me. Pretend I'm not here."

"Forget that!" Hagrid exclaimed, now fully processing Hermione's words. "Harry, what happened? Tell me everything."

Hermione launched into a detailed retelling of the match, her voice filled with certainty. "I saw Snape muttering under his breath—he was cursing Harry's broom! The second I set fire to his robes, the curse broke, and the broom stopped trying to kill him!"

Ron nodded fiercely. "Yeah! It was definitely Snape!"

At this, Wes let out an amused chuckle.

Hermione spun toward him, eyes blazing. "What's so funny?" she demanded. "I've read plenty of Sherlock Holmes' cases, and my deduction is solid!"

Wes propped himself up on one elbow, smirking. "Read fewer mystery novels."

Hermione looked momentarily stunned, clearly not expecting him to know about Muggle literature.

Wes sighed. "I grew up in the Muggle world. Of course, I know Holmes."

Hermione, still unconvinced, crossed her arms and plopped down next to him. "Then explain why I'm wrong."

"Gladly." Wes sat up properly, brushing off his robes. "First, let's establish one fact—Professor Snape is a potions master. Do you know what that title means?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged confused looks. They shook their heads.

"In all of Britain, there is only one wizard officially recognized as a potions master—Severus Snape."

The trio's eyes widened.

"Wait, really?" Harry asked, his brows furrowing. "But that doesn't mean he didn't try to kill me."

"It means he wouldn't be stupid enough to do it that way," Wes countered. "If Snape wanted you dead, he'd have slipped poison into your pumpkin juice, not cursed your broom in front of an entire stadium."

Hermione faltered. Wes had a point.

"But—but Harry's broom was cursed," she insisted. "If not Snape, then who?"

"That's the right question," Wes said, leaning back. "Snape was actually countering the curse. He was protecting Harry."

Harry looked like someone had just told him the sky was green. "Snape? Protecting me?"

"The real culprit was at the scene," Wes continued. "But unless you saw exactly who cast the spell, we're only guessing."

Hermione frowned, deep in thought. Ron muttered something about not liking the sound of this.

Hagrid, who had been silent for a while, suddenly cleared his throat. "Wes… can't yeh help 'em? Harry's been through enough already."

Wes exhaled, rubbing his temple. "What do you expect me to do? Dumbledore's already keeping an eye on him. If anyone can stop whatever's coming, it's him."

Hagrid gave a reluctant nod, though the worry didn't leave his face.

Taking that as the end of the conversation, Wes flopped back down onto the rug, stretching like a cat. "If you're done theorizing, I'd like to go back to my very important business of doing absolutely nothing."

The trio knew a dismissal when they heard one. Hermione huffed, still unconvinced but without any real argument left.

As they left, Ron muttered, "That bloke's weird."

Harry glanced back at Wes, who had already closed his eyes, utterly detached from their predicament.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "But I think he knows more than he lets on."

Outside, the cold autumn wind greeted them once more, carrying with it the distant roar of the still-ongoing Quidditch match.

Inside, Wes lay undisturbed, a small, smirk playing at the corner of his lips.