Go, Find Avalon

The knights struggled desperately.

But their hands were tightly bound by vines, and even their swords were entangled, rendering them useless.

"You vile sorcerer! Release us! If you dare, face me in a one-on-one duel!" one knight shouted, wriggling in vain, managing only to sway his hips awkwardly.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Harry couldn't bear to watch any longer. With a flick of his wand, he petrified the knight.

"You filthy beast!" another knight spat curses, but before he could continue, a vine shot into his mouth, silencing him.

"Spit!"

One of the knights spat water from his mouth, drenching a nearby vine.

The other knights watched with bated breath, waiting.

One second, ten seconds, a minute passed.

Nothing happened.

Harry stood still, observing with mild curiosity.

"What are you waiting for?" He finally broke the silence, unable to hold back his question.

"Holy water doesn't work!" the spitting knight shrieked in terror, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Harry shook his head, exasperated. "What do you think wizards are? Insects you can kill with a bit of bug spray?"

Their expressions said it all.

Yes. That was exactly what they thought.

"You ugly mongrel! If you're going to kill us, do it quickly and get it over with!" one knight bellowed, shutting his eyes tightly in a show of defiance.

The other knights followed suit, bracing themselves for death.

Harry tilted his head, studying them.

This group posed no threat to anyone.

Not to Gryffindor. Not to Harry himself. Not even to an average fifth-year or sixth-year Hogwarts student, who could easily subdue them if they kept their wits about them.

And any young wizard who had made it through the traps in the previous village and traversed the Forbidden Forest would have grown smarter by now.

"What will you do with them?" the Sorting Hat asked, nudging him gently.

Harry raised his wand.

The vine around the knight from the tavern tightened swiftly, choking the life out of him. "The instigator cannot be left alive."

As for the rest—

Harry aimed his wand at them. "Remember my name. I am Godric Gryffindor."

The Sorting Hat gasped audibly.

Harry then cast a Memory Charm, altering their memories.

With another flick of his wand, he sent a Stupefy spell to knock them unconscious. The vines twisted further, tearing off each knight's left arm and bending their swords before tossing them into a heap.

"Hey! Why did you say you were Godric?" The Sorting Hat wiggled indignantly.

Harry replied matter-of-factly, "This is Gryffindor's memory. I'm reliving his experiences. Naturally, I must use his name."

The Hat paused, processing this logic. "That... actually makes sense?"

Harry nodded. "I thought so."

The Hat pondered for a moment before asking, "But why did you cast the Memory Charm?"

"To make them remember me as Gryffindor."

The Hat jabbed him in frustration. "You can't do that! You're Harry Potter!"

Harry shook his head calmly. "Yes, I am Harry Potter."

The Hat fell silent, perplexed.

"I don't know what choice Godric made back then," Harry said softly as he walked toward the small boat waiting by the lake. "Maybe he would have spared them, adhering to his knightly code."

"But this is my choice."

He stepped into the boat, which swayed gently under his weight.

The Hat didn't say another word. Instead, it began humming a soft tune.

Harry took the helm, waved his wand, and the boat glided smoothly across the still waters toward the center of the lake.

Fog slowly enveloped the boat, thickening until it obscured everything in sight.

Harry waved his wand, attempting to clear the mist, but it clung stubbornly, growing denser with each passing moment.

The boat drifted on.

Harry waited patiently.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed—an hour, maybe a day—before the fog suddenly lifted.

A small island emerged in the middle of the lake.

Harry docked the boat and stepped ashore.

The island wasn't large.

Protected by ancient magic, its flora grew in neat, orderly patches. After just a few steps, Harry found a cobblestone path leading to the center of the island, where a humble thatched cottage stood.

Beside the cottage was a grave, marked by a simple cross-shaped headstone engraved with an inscription:

"Here lies Galahad, the purest knight of Britain, the only one worthy of lifting the Holy Grail."

Harry bowed his head in respect.

With a flick of his wand, he transformed a fallen branch into a small figure, which scurried toward the cottage and pushed open the door. After a moment, it darted back out, dancing joyfully.

All clear.

Harry entered the cottage.

The interior was sparse. A crude wooden partition separated the space into two rooms—a bedroom and a kitchen.

He picked up a frying pan, examining its sooty underside. "It's been used, but not for long. The layer of soot is thin."

Rotting apples, spoiled meat, and half-drunk bottles of wine littered the kitchen.

"Whoever lived here left in a hurry."

Harry's brow furrowed as he moved into the bedroom.

It was even barer—a bed with tattered, unenchanted linens and a wardrobe whose doors hung loosely on their hinges.

He tugged one door free and peered inside. The clothes were old and moth-eaten.

"Men's clothing."

But the size—

"This shoulder width..."

It reminded him of Ciri's style.

Even if she hadn't chosen the path of a Witcher, she'd grown up among them. Her preferences leaned toward practical, combat-ready attire.

Had she lived here for a time?

Harry's gaze shifted to the bedside table.

A few books rested there, their titles faintly legible—history, poetry, magical theory.

No clues. No hidden compartments. No basement.

Just a simple, abandoned home.

Harry stepped outside and circled around to the back of the cottage.

There, standing tall, was a stone slab about half his height. Embedded in it was a sword.

The Sword in the Stone.

Harry chuckled softly.

He could almost imagine Godric Gryffindor finding this island and deciding to recreate the legendary scene for his own amusement.

He climbed onto the stone.

Gripping the hilt of the sword with both hands, he pulled—

A familiar sensation washed over him, reminiscent of the first time he'd donned the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts.

A phantom voice whispered in his ear: "Do you regret your choices?"

Schiiing!

The sword slid free effortlessly.

The voice faltered, then vanished with a soft pop.

On the stone slab, a wooden box materialized.

Harry tapped it lightly with his wand, channeling magic into the lock.

With a click, the box opened.

A shimmering projection emerged, casting a figure onto the ground before him.

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

It was Ciri!

She moved gracefully, wielding her sword with practiced ease, demonstrating a series of complex maneuvers.

As he watched, Harry felt a long-standing question resolve itself.

So this is where Godric Gryffindor learned his swordsmanship?

When Ciri finished her demonstration, she stood still, her gaze seemingly piercing through time itself—through the centuries, through Godric's memory—landing directly on Harry.

"Go," she said softly. "Find Avalon."

Avalon?

Harry froze, stunned.

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Powerstones?

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