Witcher at Hogwarts

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Reznov seemed unwilling to continue the conversation, deftly steering it in other directions.

Before long, he led Ethan and Tonks toward a slightly larger house, its chimney releasing a thin plume of smoke into the overcast sky.

As they neared the village, the road worsened. Muddy ruts, strewn with piles of livestock excrement, turned their path into a treacherous maze.

They picked their way carefully, dodging filth and stepping gingerly on what little solid ground remained. The streets were eerily quiet, with only a few shadowy figures milling about, most clad in tattered, timeworn clothes as if from another era.

The villagers appeared gaunt and weary, their hollow eyes darting nervously as they hurried past. Parents pulled children indoors at the sight of the trio, doors slamming behind them with hurried finality. From behind grimy windows, suspicious eyes tracked their every step. Occasionally, a dog would bark, only to be silenced swiftly by its wary owner.

Ethan felt a strange familiarity settle over him, like the echo of a dream. It reminded him of how Witchers were often received with similar caution in the villages of the world he once called home. Oddly, it brought him an inexplicable sense of comfort.

"Don't take it personally," Reznov muttered, exhaling heavily.

"They don't mean to be rude. It's just... we've suffered too much. The monsters have left us with nothing but pain."

His words seemed to weigh on him, and a shadow crossed his face as he fell silent. Fortunately, they had arrived. Without another word, Reznov pushed open the door to the house and gestured for Ethan and Tonks to enter.

"This is my aunt's tavern," he said with a faint smile.

"You must be cold and hungry after the journey. Come, have something warm. The village will take care of it."

"Oni! We've got guests!" Reznov called into the dimly lit interior.

Ethan stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the rundown establishment. The tavern was worse than the Leaky Cauldron—filthy and neglected.

The tables and benches were greasy with years of accumulated grime, and the wood was sticky. Some tables didn't even have chairs, and those that did wobbled precariously.

"Coming! Coming!" came a pair of shrill voices from the back room.

Moments later, a stout woman with a barrel-shaped body and a flushed, round face bustled in. Her welcoming smile faltered the instant her eyes fell on Ethan and Tonks.

"Reznov, who are they?" she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

"They're the Monster hunters Sir Sapkov hired!" Reznov announced proudly.

Aunt Oni's expression shifted at his words, and she forced a more accommodating smile.

"Thank you for coming. I'm sure the journey was long. Please, sit," she said, motioning to a table.

The three of them settled at one of the less grimy tables.

"Your gun is... impressive," Ethan remarked, eyeing the weapon strapped to Reznov's back.

Reznov's face brightened.

"Like it? Want a closer look?"

He unslung the massive firearm and handed it to Ethan, who quickly realized it was no ordinary rifle—it was a cannon disguised as a gun.

The weapon was an elephant hunting rifle, a monstrous 33.7mm caliber. Each bullet was nearly half a pound—an unmistakable testament to its brutal, destructive power.

The elephant gun's muzzle energy exceeded 17,000 joules—enough force to bring down even the largest beasts.

In the 19th century, hunters wielded weapons like this to kill giants such as elephants and rhinoceroses. One missed shot often spelled doom, as these colossal creatures would charge without hesitation if provoked.

But such destructive power came at a cost: recoil. The blast could easily throw an inexperienced shooter off their feet.

Muggle hunters, aware of this, often worked in pairs—one to fire and the other to brace the shooter from behind, preventing them from being hurled backward by the force.

Ethan, staring at the gun's massive barrel, exhaled slowly.

"A weapon like this…"

Tonks, wide-eyed, whispered, "What kind of monster are you dealing with?"

Reznov's expression tightened, realizing he might have revealed too much. Before he could reply, Aunt Oni reappeared, carrying a large iron pot.

"Here we go! Rabbit stew, piping hot!" she announced cheerfully, setting the pot in front of them. The savory aroma filled the air.

"You're in luck—Peter caught some rabbits a few days ago. I was going to make bacon, but today seemed better suited for stew."

Her gaze flicked around the room, and she frowned slightly.

"Where's Peter? Reznov, you should've called him—he loves rabbit stew."

Reznov froze, his face hardening.

"Peter… didn't make it back," he said quietly, his voice thick with grief.

"He died outside."

Aunt Oni's face went pale as his words sank in. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and tears slowly spilled down her cheeks.

"Peter… no, not Peter," she choked out, her voice breaking as the weight of the loss overwhelmed her.

She staggered back toward the kitchen; her sobs muffled as she disappeared behind the door, leaving the room steeped in sorrow.

Reznov sat in silence for a long moment; the pain etched deep in his features. Finally, he rose from his seat, made his way behind the bar, and returned with an oak barrel and three mugs. He poured the ale slowly, the sound the only noise breaking the heavy quiet of the tavern.

He took a long, slow drink from his mug, his voice barely audible as he spoke.

"Peter… he was a good man. He went out to meet you. Thought you might get lost in the wasteland."

Tonks gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh no…"

Reznov shook his head, his gaze distant. "It wasn't your fault. It was his choice. He was worried."

He drained his mug in a single gulp, his movements sharper now, his emotions harder to contain.

"He was a Squib, like me," Reznov added, his tone bitter.

"In this place, you learn quickly—only the useful survive. Squib or wizard, it doesn't matter. If you don't make yourself valuable, you're just waiting to be forgotten."

His words hung in the air, heavy with frustration and the harsh reality of their lives.

"Life here is unforgiving. Those monsters… they won't stop until every last one of us is dead." He paused, the color draining from his face as he realized he had said too much again.

Abruptly, Reznov stood, clearly rattled.

"Your room's upstairs. Stay the night. Sir Sapkov will see you in the morning," he said hastily before retreating from the room, leaving the oppressive silence in his wake.