Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

After nearly a year, Harry found himself back in Snape's detention, and oddly, he felt a sense of nostalgia.

Since losing an arm, Snape seemed even more serpentine, his verbal barbs sharper than ever, as if he'd taken a summer crash course in "venomous wit."

The tension between the two, already heavy, grew colder after their first detention session that term. Once it became clear their philosophies on potion-making diverged greatly, their silent standoffs made the atmosphere even more forbidding. Few dared to approach the two when they occupied the same space.

Snape understood why Harry was willing to endure such intense side effects in pursuit of potions with extreme efficacy.

But that didn't mean he liked it.

After all, Dumbledore was still around, as were Sirius, Lupin, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout. Though Harry was undeniably exceptional for his age, he was still only fourteen.

Blasted Albus, with his insistence on trusting in that prophecy!

Despite his personal reservations, Snape offered Harry unreserved assistance. Someone needed to keep an eye on him, to prevent Harry from concocting another dangerously flawed creation like the first iteration of his Thunder Potion—a potion Snape considered unworthy of its risks.

Yet Harry had a knack for innovation.

He devised concepts for potions that could:

Restore stamina and magical energy over extended periods, Enhance the effects of Felix Felicis, Provide instant healing and restore physical vitality.

Each idea could revolutionize potion-making, but they all shared one alarming characteristic: they were rooted in the use of potent toxins.

Snape feared that if left unchecked, Harry would one day poison himself with his own concoctions.

By the fourth week of September, on Tuesday the 20th, Harry caught a stroke of luck with a clear, cloudless sky.

That evening, cloaked in his invisibility robe, Harry slipped out of the dormitory. Under the Whomping Willow, he retrieved the leaf he'd kept in his mouth for a month. Thanks to the ritual's magical properties, it hadn't decayed; it remained as fresh as if it had just been plucked, emanating an ever-shifting aura of Harry's magic, the mandrake's essence, and the pull of the full moon.

Positioning himself under the full moon's light, Harry dropped the mandrake leaf into a glass vial and filled it with his saliva.

The moonlight seemed to solidify, piercing the mandrake stem like a silvery blade. Slowly, the leaf and saliva absorbed the moon's power, taking on a shimmering silver hue. Once fully imbued, Harry added a single hair from his head, a teaspoon of dew gathered over seven sunless days in the Forbidden Forest, and the chrysalis of a Death's-Head Hawkmoth.

Carefully sealing the potion, Harry stored it in the passage under the Whomping Willow, ensuring it remained untouched by sunlight. To further secure the vial, he transfigured several small clay guardians to watch over it.

Now all he needed was a thunderstorm.

Weather charms wouldn't do the trick.

A wizard in the past had attempted to use magic to replicate the required conditions, only to meet a tragic end. His potion appeared successful at first, but after consuming it, he transformed into a mindless beast—human in form but entirely animal in nature.

The lesson was clear: magic allowed no shortcuts.

The weeks passed, and no thunderstorm came. Harry buried himself in his studies.

Gryffindor House grew unusually calm. With Ron realizing he wouldn't gain McGonagall's approval to enter the Triwizard Tournament, he directed his mischief toward Malfoy instead. This didn't cause much trouble for Gryffindor, as Malfoy had been abandoned by his own house.

Without his father and with the stigma of Azkaban hanging over his name, Malfoy's status as a Slytherin leader vanished. Even when Ron or Lee Jordan provoked him, Slytherins merely watched indifferently.

Meanwhile, Fred and George appeared reformed—at least on the surface. Though their usual antics were absent, they studied diligently, impressing McGonagall enough for her to approve their early applications for the Triwizard Tournament.

Upon receiving her approval, the twins immediately reverted to their mischievous selves. Their first order of business? Stuffing Malfoy into a sack and giving him a thorough beating in a bathroom as a "celebration."

Other students, particularly those nearing seventeen, began receiving permission to apply as well. Yet Harry remained silent.

Though McGonagall wasn't one to meddle, her curiosity got the better of her.

After one of Harry's detentions, she broached the topic. "Mr. Potter, I noticed you haven't submitted an application for the Triwizard Tournament. Have you made a decision?"

Harry answered without hesitation. "Professor, I'm not planning to participate."

McGonagall blinked, clearly startled. "Why not? It's an incredible opportunity to prove yourself."

"I don't need to prove myself," Harry replied, packing his belongings. "Besides, it wouldn't be fair. Bullying children isn't very appealing."

"You're still a child yourself, Potter," McGonagall pointed out.

Harry said nothing, merely fixing her with an unwavering gaze.

McGonagall sighed. "All right, perhaps you're not an ordinary student. But I hope you'll reconsider."

She hesitated before adding, "I'd like to see Gryffindor win. It's been over a century since our house held the Tournament's honor."

Harry nodded. "I'll think about it, Professor."

McGonagall wasn't the only one to urge Harry to compete. Letters arrived from Sirius, enthusiastically encouraging him to join, and even Lupin, though more restrained, expressed support.

In October, as rains fell but storms stayed away, McGonagall tried again during detention.

"Potter, have you made up your mind?"

"So many people are excited about this tournament. It'd be rude of me to refuse," Harry said.

McGonagall smiled.

"But if I do compete, I'll need extra time to study," Harry continued. "Perhaps we could add two more detention sessions on Saturdays and Sundays?"

McGonagall froze. "Two more?"

"Saturday afternoons and evenings are for Professor Snape," Harry explained. "Sunday mornings belong to Professor Sprout, and Sunday evenings to Professor Flitwick. They've all approved my request."

"They... all agreed?" McGonagall's voice faltered.

Harry nodded.

"Very well," she managed.

"Thank you, Professor." Harry beamed.

Watching him leave, McGonagall sighed deeply. "What have I gotten myself into?"

By October 30th, Hogwarts stood ready to welcome Durmstrang and Beauxbatons.

Students lined the Great Hall, with each house led by their top students: Cedric Diggory for Hufflepuff, Cho Chang for Ravenclaw, and Harry Potter for Gryffindor.

Against McGonagall's advice, Harry wore both of Gryffindor's swords strapped across his back.

"They're a sign of respect," Harry insisted, much to Godric Gryffindor's enthusiastic approval.

McGonagall could only shake her head and sigh.

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Powerstones?

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