Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

When Harry knocked on the office door and got permission to enter, Dumbledore was still in his night robes, yawning repeatedly.

The Sorting Hat was still enthusiastically describing the motorbike to Godric—its deep, roaring engine, its brilliant headlights, its sleek, streamlined body, and its wind-like speed. Godric was utterly envious.

"They've been going on about this all night?" Harry asked, expressionless.

Dumbledore stretched and nodded. "Yes, all night long."

"Godric even wanted Fawkes to summon you so you could bring the bike here to show it to him, but Fawkes didn't dare."

Fawkes let out a proud squawk.

The Sorting Hat was about to translate, but Fawkes immediately flew over and stomped on it, urgently screeching.

"When are we leaving?" Harry asked, studying Dumbledore.

Dumbledore hesitated, then sighed. "I was hoping to get a bit more sleep. You're a bit early."

Harry stared at him, deadpan. "You didn't stay up all night listening to the Hat too, did you?"

Dumbledore chuckled awkwardly.

"Rest for a bit. We'll leave at noon," Harry said, settling into a chair and summoning a book from the shelf.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Harry, I'm not that—"

"If there really is a Horcrux there, it will definitely be trapped," Harry said calmly, flipping through his book. "Tom might even be there himself. Maybe with a dozen Death Eaters."

Dumbledore was about to nod in agreement.

Harry continued, "And your brain already doesn't work properly. If you're too tired, your head might start growing dung stones."

"That's not a very nice thing to say to an old man," Dumbledore grumbled, shaking his head. But after a breakfast with more sugar than pastry, he finally returned to his quarters.

The headmaster's office, however, remained anything but quiet.

Harry couldn't even concentrate on his book.

A hat, a painting, and a phoenix all pestered him to take out the motorbike—Godric was desperate to see it.

The Sorting Hat probably knew less about the bike than Fawkes did. It had only seen it once, while Fawkes had at least seven or eight encounters—after all, Sirius's old bike had been with Hagrid for years. And while Hagrid cared more about magical creatures, he did take it out for rides occasionally.

After all, besides Abraxans, the Forbidden Forest had no creatures large enough to support him.

The Hat's descriptions were all over the place. Even Godric, after circling the motorbike a few times, could tell that nine and a half out of ten things it said were nonsense—the only truth was its praise of Harry's magical skill.

Harry had to explain everything to his three centuries-old, overly curious audience.

From mechanical structure to physics.

Godric was amazed. Muggles had advanced this far? They could create transportation that traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles without magic? In his memory, Muggles still wore rough linen clothes and brandished pitchforks, hissing at him like frightened cats.

Fawkes, for some reason, looked a little melancholic.

It was nearly three hours before Harry could finally relax. But just as he picked up his book again, Dumbledore emerged from his quarters, now dressed in a deep blue robe and a wide-brimmed, pointed wizard's hat.

"Four hours?" Harry set down his book.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I would have liked more, but I'm over a hundred years old. Sleep for the elderly is like water in the desert—precious and scarce."

"And hard to come by," Harry added.

Dumbledore smiled slightly, then noticed the motorbike. "A magnificent machine. I remember Sirius had one?"

"There are three now, maybe four?" Harry thought of Sirius's last letter. Crossing the Pacific had been harder than expected, and the American magical authorities were ridiculously paranoid. They had spotted him from three hundred miles offshore and chased him all the way to Canadian waters before finally giving up.

He had planned to return before Christmas, maybe even see his godson and his godson's girlfriend at the Yule Ball.

Now, he wasn't even sure if he'd be back before the new year.

"Are we taking this?" Dumbledore asked, stepping closer. "It's been with Hagrid for years, but I've never actually ridden it."

"I don't want to Apparate. I don't want a Portkey. And definitely not the Knight Bus," Harry said firmly.

Dumbledore sighed. "Apparition is an excellent spell, you know."

"I'd rather not, unless absolutely necessary," Harry said, his tone unwavering.

"The Ministry might—" Dumbledore hesitated.

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry. I asked Arthur about it. As long as no Muggles see us, we're not breaking any laws."

Dumbledore paused. "Arthur has one too?"

Harry nodded.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Harry, you mustn't pick up Arthur's habit of creating his own laws."

"Arthur knows what he's doing," Harry shot back. "And he's smarter than you. Braver too. At least he doesn't fear the power he holds."

Dumbledore let out a weary smile. "I really shouldn't have brought it up."

They had lunch in the office.

Afterward, Dumbledore waved his wand, morphing the windows into a large door. With another flick, the newly made door swung open, letting a sharp gust of cold wind rush inside.

Harry and Dumbledore climbed onto the motorbike.

The Sorting Hat called out, "Harry, wait! Let me do it—I need to get used to this body!"

Before either rider could protest, the Hat transferred its consciousness into the bike.

The engine roared—

The tires screeched—

And the motorbike jerked violently, skidding in place, leaving a deep black streak on the stone floor.

"What happened?" The Hat sounded confused.

"The handbrake. You need to release it," Harry said dryly, flicking the lever on the right handlebar.

The Hat made a noise of realization, then released the brake.

The motorbike blasted out of the office, shooting through the snowy sky.

Dumbledore quickly turned back and waved his wand—the window reverted to its original form.

"That was fast. I almost didn't have time to seal it," he muttered. "How does this compare to a Firebolt?"

"Normally, about 1.5 times its speed," Harry answered.

The Hat interjected, "Wait, there's an abnormal speed too?"

"There is," Harry admitted. "But you don't get to know yet. Not until you learn to handle this body properly."

The Hat hummed in disappointment, then cheekily twisted the throttle again.

Harry smacked the dashboard. "One more thing."

The Hat made a questioning noise.

"When we get back, I'm giving you a map of Britain. Memorize it." Harry's voice was deadpan. "You're flying the wrong way. We're headed south."

The bike froze in midair.

The Hat hesitated. "...Which way is south?"

Harry blinked.

He suddenly questioned whether making the Hat his vehicle had been a mistake.

What kind of ride didn't know directions?

"Harry, I used to be just a hat," the Hat protested, catching onto his thoughts. "I didn't need to know directions! Why would I know where south is?"

"But I am very smart! The smartest hat! And now, the smartest motorbike! I know left from right perfectly!"

Harry sighed and pointed. "That way."

The Hat promptly adjusted course.

To its credit, it was quick to learn. After asking Harry how to determine directions, it picked up the skill almost instantly. Though the heavy snowfall sometimes threw it off, once corrected, it never made the same mistake again.

After about half an hour, the Hat suddenly asked, "Why doesn't this feel like flying?"

"On broomsticks, the wind really hits you," the Hat mused. "Is the bike too slow?"

Dumbledore agreed. "Harry, I think so too."

Harry's face remained blank. "You really think so?"

Both wizard and bike confirmed.

Harry pressed a small button.

A protective spell dissipated.

The wind howled—

Dumbledore's face contorted instantly. The Hat wobbled in the air, hastily slowing down.

"THE WIND IS TOO STRONG!" the Hat yelped.

"TURN IT BACK ON!" Dumbledore shouted, one hand holding his hat, the other shielding his face. "HARRY, TURN IT BACK ON!"

It was only ten minutes later that Harry finally hit the button again.

"The Firebolt tops out at 150 mph. This bike does 230," he said mildly. "And we're at high altitude."

The Hat vowed, "I will never touch that button again."

"Shift a bit east," Harry instructed, checking the ground below. "We're heading to Little Hangleton first."

"But the Gaunt shack is in Great Hangleton," Dumbledore pointed out.

"The Riddle Manor is in Little Hangleton," Harry said calmly. "It's on the way. No harm in stopping by."

With that, he pressed another button.

Magic spread outward.

"Repelling Muggles?" Dumbledore observed. "And an Invisibility Charm... and something else—"

"It blocks infrared detection," Harry explained. "Arthur and I developed it. Muggles have advanced photography tech—over a hundred years ago, they were already taking clear pictures of the moon."

Dumbledore looked skyward. "The moon?"

Harry nodded. "That moon."

Dumbledore fell silent, his expression thoughtful.

Ten minutes later, Harry tapped the dashboard. "We're here. Land."

The motorbike, still a bit clumsy, made a rough landing, skidding to a halt.

As they passed a worn sign reading Welcome to Little Hangleton, Harry glanced up through the snowfall.

On the hill ahead, the Riddle Manor loomed in ruins.

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Powerstones?

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