Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

"I heard from my grandmother that Professor Dumbledore invited a lot of wizards, but hardly anyone accepted," Neville sighed.

"It seems that a few people were willing at first, but after Skeeter's article was published, they all turned him down."

"Why would they refuse?" Ron asked, lowering his hand after greeting the Sorting Hat. He looked genuinely puzzled.

Neville grimaced.

"Rumor has it that the professor Harry had a conflict with was Professor Lupin."

"They might overlook the curse associated with the position," Angelina said as she leaned in, her head tilted thoughtfully.

"But I don't think any professor wants to risk getting beaten up by Harry."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Harry said impassively.

"They all came looking for it themselves."

Angelina's eyes widened.

"Wait—you actually fought them all?"

She was only joking.

"Every single one of them, whether they were permanent or substitute professors," Hermione said, counting them off on her fingers.

Angelina stared blankly, scanning the staff table.

"So, which unlucky professor will it be this year?"

Her gaze lingered briefly on the empty chair that usually belonged to Professor McGonagall. Then she glanced at Professors Sprout and Flitwick before finally settling on Dumbledore.

"Looks like Professor Dumbledore is the safest bet."

She paused, turning back to Harry.

"Harry, you can't possibly beat Professor Dumbledore yet, can you?"

"Even if his mind were filled with dung, syrup, and Fudge," Harry replied calmly, "he's still the greatest white wizard. I'm not ready to beat him yet."

Angelina pressed a hand to her forehead.

"Wait, give me a moment to process that."

Her head throbbed, as if she could almost feel herself growing a brain.

What exactly was in Dumbledore's head? How could it be so chaotic, even including Cornelius Fudge?

While the Gryffindors were puzzling over what strange things might be in Dumbledore's brain, the first-year students, drenched like wet rats, were led in by Professor McGonagall.

The portrait of Godric Gryffindor behind Dumbledore smiled warmly as it watched the young wizards.

The Sorting Hat began singing a new song.

It was an ancient medieval tune, never sung before, with longer lyrics than in previous years. It praised Godric Gryffindor and lamented the past. Its mournful tone confused the first and second-year students but struck a chord with the older ones, bringing a few Hufflepuff girls to tears.

Professor McGonagall sorted the new students into their houses and, with a wave of her wand, sent the Sorting Hat flying toward Harry without him even having to get up.

"Hey, Harry!" the Sorting Hat greeted him warmly.

Harry looked at the hat.

"I thought you wouldn't come to me this year."

"Why not?" the hat asked curiously.

"Wasn't the trial over?" Hermione questioned.

"Or is it not finished yet?"

The hat froze, its pointed tip twisting as if in thought.

"That's right... the trial is over."

"Never mind," Harry said nonchalantly, handing it to Crookshanks, who eagerly stretched his paws toward the hat.

"You can volunteer to be Crookshanks' scratching post instead."

"Don't do this to me!" the hat protested, trying to push Crookshanks away with its tip—but it was futile.

"How about like last year? Saturdays, just once a week!"

"Fine. I do have a lot to ask you this year," Harry agreed.

"I was just wondering how to get you out of the Headmaster's office."

Dumbledore waved his wand, and the start-of-term feast began.

The Sorting Hat joined in play with Crookshanks, Hedwig, and Bowse, who had flown in and were curiously peering around the hall before hopping over to join the fun.

When the feast ended, Ron quickly snatched a lamb chop with one hand while stuffing a large piece of pudding into his mouth.

Dumbledore stood up, his tone cheerful.

"Now that everyone has eaten and drunk their fill, it's time to stop and listen to this old man ramble. As always, I have a few announcements to make."

"Caretaker Filch has asked me to remind everyone that the list of banned items in the castle has grown again this year. Skiving Snackboxes, Fanged Frisbees, Ton-Tongue Toffees... what else? I can't quite remember. But you can check the full list—467 items in total—on the noticeboard outside Filch's office."

George and Fred groaned in unison, lamenting the blow to their business.

Most Gryffindors didn't care about school rules, let alone Filch's regulations.

But the twins' biggest clientele came from Hufflepuff, who might actually care.

Dumbledore paid no attention to their disappointment and continued.

"On a more serious note, I must remind all students to stay away from the Forbidden Forest. Last year, Mr. Potter had special circumstances."

He paused, then added, "And for Quidditch fans, I have some unfortunate news. Although we just enjoyed the Quidditch World Cup, this year's House Quidditch Cup will be suspended."

All four house tables erupted in shock, and George and Fred even stood up to protest.

They could bear losing their business—but not Quidditch. This was their second-to-last year, their chance to secure a three-peat championship.

Dumbledore raised a hand.

"Mr. Weasley, please be patient and let me finish."

The twins reluctantly quieted down but remained standing.

"As I was saying," Dumbledore continued, "the Quidditch Cup is canceled because we will be hosting something even grander. This October, Hogwarts will hold an event that will last the entire school year. It will demand much of our time and energy, but I believe it will bring you immense joy. You'll witness a truly magnificent event."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"Hogwarts will be hosting—"

The Great Hall's doors burst open before he could finish.

All heads turned to see a man in a dark cloak step inside. Though not tall, his presence was intimidating. He pulled back his hood to reveal a scarred, pockmarked face with a glassy, rotating false eye.

His gray hair added to his unsettling aura.

A claw-like wooden leg tapped sharply on the floor as he moved. His movements were cautious, his gaze sweeping the hall, lingering longest on Harry.

"Who is he? Harry, why does he seem wary of you?" Ron whispered.

"I don't know him," Harry replied, his eyes locked on the man.

A strange, faintly unpleasant scent reached Harry's nose, but it was hard to pinpoint in the hall, where the air was filled with the smell of lamb, sausages, and caramel pudding.

"Is he the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Seamus speculated, leaning over.

"Harry, don't punch this one too. He looks even frailer than Lupin."

"No promises," Harry replied, his face blank.

The man finally reached the staff table, exchanged a terse handshake with Dumbledore, and inspected the Defense Against the Dark Arts seat. After glancing at Snape with clear disdain, he dragged his chair closer to Hagrid.

"Allow me to introduce our new professor," Dumbledore said warmly, breaking the silence.

"Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody. He will be our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year. A seasoned Auror, Professor Moody has made significant contributions to the wizarding world. I trust he'll be an excellent teacher, rivaling even Professor Lupin."

There was polite applause, though Moody didn't react. Instead, he pulled out a peculiar copper flask, hesitated under Harry's intense gaze, and tucked it back into his pocket.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued.

"As I was saying, this year Hogwarts will host an event that hasn't been held in over a century—the Triwizard Tournament!"

Fred's eyes widened.

"Professor, you must be joking!"

"This is no joke," Dumbledore replied, smiling.

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Powerstones?

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