Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

The Sword of Gryffindor was remarkably sharp, and the Troll Oil was working its magic.

Even though Harry's strength was limited by his age, it was enough to slash through the troll's tough hide and carve out a chunk of flesh. Blood and gore splattered onto the floor, and the troll bellowed in fury, raising its massive wooden club high before smashing it down toward Harry.

Whoosh!

Harry rolled, sliding between the troll's legs as the club struck the ground he'd just vacated. The impact sent fragments of stone and a cloud of dust flying, leaving the floor cracked and cratered.

"Aard!"

Raising his hand, Harry unleashed the Aard sign.

While this forceful sign was strong enough to send his two-hundred-pound Uncle Vernon flying, it only made the troll stagger slightly, further tearing open the gash on its leg and sending more blood gushing out.

Even the Aard sign, which usually didn't fail, seemed lackluster against this foe.

Harry gritted his teeth. For the first time, he fully understood why, despite his enhanced physique and surviving the mutations of the Trial of the Grasses, other Witchers had insisted that he wait until he turned twenty before embarking on his Path.

Having an extra bit of height, weight, and muscle could make a world of difference.

"You should run," the Sorting Hat suggested earnestly. "Its leg is injured—it might not be able to keep up with you. Escaping isn't defeat. You've already done enough by stalling it."

"Shut up!" Harry snapped. "Hermione is still in the bathroom!"

"Madam Pomfrey can heal her as long as she isn't dead," the hat countered. "The troll's attacks aren't magical."

Harry ignored it, pulling the hat off his head and tossing it aside.

He hadn't been able to brew Witcher potions yet, and the other magical remedies he'd learned were useless in this fight.

The hat wasn't any help either.

"You little brat!" the Sorting Hat shouted indignantly. "Do you have any idea where you just threw me? This is the bathroom doorway!"

Harry smirked coldly. "I'd throw you into a toilet if I weren't so busy right now. It might help you cool off."

Raising his hand again, Harry cast "Igni!"

Flames burst forth, enveloping the troll. Golden tongues of fire licked at its flesh, visibly weakening its thick skin.

It worked—and it worked well.

Not wasting time questioning why, Harry leapt forward and swung the sword at the same scorched spot, slicing off another chunk of the troll's flesh.

For the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope.

He could wear this thing down—or at least hold it off until a professor arrived.

The troll howled in pain and stomped its massive foot.

Harry rolled away again, slapping his hand onto the ground as he did so.

"Yrden!"

Purple runes shimmered into existence on the floor, forming a magical trap designed to slow enemies and make them sluggish.

But the troll hardly seemed affected.

The Yrden sign was useless.

Harry spat on the ground and raised his hand once more, summoning a protective golden shield around himself.

"Quen!"

Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open, and a small, frightened face peeked out.

Hermione.

She had been hiding inside, but the commotion outside had made her curious.

Harry's eyes widened in horror. "Get back inside!" he roared.

But Hermione was frozen, staring at the monstrous troll charging toward her, club raised high. Tears filled her eyes, though she had no energy left to cry.

"I... I can't move," she whimpered.

She was utterly drained—crying and starving all day had sapped her of all her strength.

The troll let out a deafening roar and brought its club down toward Hermione.

Harry raised his hand.

"Aard!"

The telekinetic blast wasn't aimed at the troll but at Hermione herself.

The force of the Aard sign was enough to fling her backward, along with the bathroom door, which slammed into the wall with a deafening crash.

The troll's club struck the spot where Hermione had been, sending wood splinters and shards of stone flying everywhere.

Inside the bathroom, Hermione lay in a crumpled heap. She was dazed and disoriented, the force of Harry's spell having left her battered and bruised—but it was still better than being crushed by the troll's club.

"Harry, you're a wizard, not a warrior," the Sorting Hat muttered, grumbling from beneath the troll's massive foot. "Hurry up and finish this! By Merlin's beard, this thing stinks!"

Harry blinked.

The Witcher instincts that guided him in battle had momentarily overshadowed the fact that he wasn't limited to those skills.

He drew his wand with his left hand.

In his right, the Sword of Gryffindor gleamed. With a swift strike, he slashed at the troll's wrist, cutting deep enough to expose bone.

The troll roared in pain, dropping its club.

Harry seized the opportunity and waved his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The club floated into the air, then spun around and flew back toward the troll, binding its legs like a rope before winding itself into Harry's outstretched hand.

"Igni!"

Golden flames surged forward, wrapping around the troll and creeping up its body toward its neck.

"Aard!"

The telekinetic wave hit the troll, making it stagger just enough for Harry to act. Gripping the makeshift rope, he yanked hard.

Crash!

The troll toppled to the ground.

Now was his chance.

Harry leapt onto the troll's back, climbing up to its neck. With both hands gripping the sword, he drove it down into the troll's spine.

Blood spurted out, drenching Harry in a crimson spray.

The troll roared in agony, still alive.

Harry yanked the sword free and stabbed again.

And again.

On the third thrust, the troll let out one last pained groan, then fell silent.

It was dead.

Harry exhaled heavily, pulling the sword free. He turned and hurried back into the bathroom, where Hermione lay on the floor.

"Hermione, Hermione, wake up." He gently shook her.

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy with confusion. "Am I... dead?"

"Not yet," Harry replied, pressing her back down when she tried to sit up. "Stay still. If you move, you might end up that way."

The Aard sign had left her with no small amount of injuries.

From the hallway, Harry heard the sound of hurried footsteps—many of them.

"The professors are here," he said, standing up. "You stay put. I'll go talk to them."

"The troll! There was a troll!" Hermione suddenly remembered, panic flaring in her voice.

"Relax," Harry said as he walked out. "It's dead."

Hermione blinked, stunned into silence.

Outside the bathroom, Ron was leading Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell to the scene—or rather, being dragged along with them.

"Potter!" McGonagall's eyes widened in shock when she saw Harry, his clothes soaked in blood. "What on earth—?"

Snape's face also darkened as he rushed forward.

Only Quirrell seemed unperturbed, skipping straight past Harry to examine the troll's corpse. He clutched his chest and began to sob dramatically.

"Professor, I'm fine," Harry said gently. "This isn't my blood; it's the troll's."

Snape scrutinized him closely, then scowled. "Potter, are you insane?"

"What do you think you are, a savior?"

"Hogwarts is full of professors, yet somehow you think it falls to a first-year to play the hero? Do you just love showing off?"

McGonagall said nothing, but her stern gaze matched Snape's. Both professors looked equal parts furious and deeply shaken.

Harry turned to Ron. "Didn't you explain to them?"

Ron winced, shrinking under the weight of their stares. "Oh... I, uh, forgot."

"Fine." Harry sighed. "Let me explain..."