Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Compared to Little Hangleton, Great Hangleton had the air of a modern town.

There were more people on the streets, many of whom cast puzzled glances at the odd pair—one young, one old—performing what looked like performance art in the middle of a snowstorm.

Dressed in strange clothing, riding a motorcycle.

Still, no one reacted too strongly. In recent years, so-called "avant-garde artists" had been popping up everywhere, doing things far stranger than strolling through a snowstorm in long robes on a motorbike.

Wizards often liked placing their homes in remote, desolate locations.

The Gaunt family home was no exception.

But unlike most wizarding residences, which were protected by spells, it stood as forlorn and unguarded as the Riddle House—perhaps even more so.

At least the Riddle House had been maintained at some point.

This shack, however, had been utterly abandoned.

Overgrown weeds poked through thick layers of snow, and the weight of winter had collapsed sections of the roof, leaving deep, jagged depressions.

As the Hat cautiously carried them up the hill, a faint magical pulse emanated from the shack. It was old but weak.

Harry swept his gaze across the building, quickly identifying the source of the magic—

It came from the door.

Unlike the rest of the decrepit shack, the oak door was pristine, untouched by time or weather. It stood firm, guarding the crumbling structure.

A dead snake was nailed to the wood. It was the core of the enchantment.

As he had done at the Riddle House, Harry knelt to examine the layers of snow.

"Someone was here before the snowfall," he noted, brushing away the last few disrupted layers. "But the snow is too thick, the traces too muddled—I can't determine exactly when."

"After the snow began, though? No activity."

Dumbledore nodded but said nothing. Raising his wand, he pointed at the door.

The dead snake writhed, its mouth opening in a silent, anguished hiss.

It was not speaking Parseltongue—it was merely screaming.

A moment later, the serpent turned to ash, collapsing into a foul-smelling pool of black sludge at their feet.

"A recent curse," Dumbledore concluded. "Cast within the past two months. But weak—so weak it couldn't even hide itself properly. At best, it might have trapped an unwary Auror."

Harry agreed. "That's pretty pathetic."

With a flick of his wand, the dead weeds in the courtyard shot up through the snow, twisting into a skeletal hand.

The hand reached forward—

And pushed the door open.

A spell shot out from inside.

It struck the conjured hand, exploding it into splinters that rained down in all directions.

"Not exactly a warm welcome," Harry smirked, whistling softly.

"We are uninvited guests," Dumbledore admitted. Unbothered, he stepped inside first.

It was like stirring a hornet's nest.

A cascade of magical traps triggered in succession—spells of every color streaking toward them.

The spectacle was grand—

But that was all it was.

Dumbledore lazily lifted a finger and gave a small tap in the air.

He didn't even bother to say Finite Incantatem.

Instantly, every single dark spell dissolved into nothing.

It was weak. Laughably so.

Even Harry could have handled it alone.

"A house like this hardly needs magical protection," Harry observed. In his heightened Witcher senses, the inside and outside felt nearly identical. Wind and snow had invaded freely, covering most traces of activity.

They moved forward.

With every step, a new trap activated.

By the time they reached the stairs to the second floor, they had lost count of how many flimsy spells they had dispelled—thirty? Maybe forty?

The second floor was different.

Fewer traps, but much more dangerous.

Every so often, a curse would strike—highly advanced, radiating pure malice.

Dumbledore remained composed, intercepting them all with ease.

Harry followed closely, calculating.

If he had come alone, he could have handled everything on the first floor.

But up here?

Two or three of these curses might have been unavoidable, forcing him to rely on Quen to survive.

He revised his earlier assessment.

Even in a weakened state, Voldemort was still far beyond Ron's league. At minimum, they'd need someone like Hagrid or Lupin.

They neared the master bedroom.

"He wasted so much effort," Harry glanced back at the battered, curse-scorched hallway. "Just to make sure you wouldn't be bored?"

"If it weren't us, no one else would get through so easily," Dumbledore mused.

He raised his wand and gave the door a gentle tap.

The old, creaky wood groaned as it slowly swung inward.

No spells came.

Dumbledore stepped inside first.

Harry followed.

Even after reaching the center of the room, no traps activated.

Harry examined the surroundings. "Still evidence of a baby carriage, a cradle. But a lot more footprints."

"Hmm... judging by the prints, two men and a woman."

"The woman kept her distance, staying mostly in the corners. The two men? Close—very close."

Harry looked up, his face expressionless.

"Dumbledore, can wizards make men pregnant?"

Dumbledore blinked. He pursed his lips. "Generally speaking, no."

"So there is a way." Harry tilted his head and resumed his search. "Magic is fascinating."

Dumbledore sighed. "Magic can solve nearly any problem—except bringing back the dead."

Harry's eyes flickered briefly.

Witchers were sterile.

That was his only real regret.

If he could...

If he ever started a family someday...

Something he had never had—if he could finally experience it, even as the giver instead of the receiver...

Since Christmas night, the thought had crossed his mind often.

But now, hearing this?

He realized he had been worrying too much.

If magic could let two men conceive, then surely it could let a Witcher and a normal person do the same.

Hell, even Hagrid was possible—his parents weren't even the same species.

And he was at least still mostly human.

...Yes.

When he got back, he needed to research this.

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "So you suspect Tom and another man...?"

Harry didn't answer immediately.

He moved to the wardrobe.

"But he was your student."

Dumbledore sighed. "I had many students."

"But he was your most special one—"

Harry's words cut off abruptly.

Inside the wardrobe, placed precisely in the center, sat a small, delicate ring.

A line from the letter flashed through his mind—

"Stop him from wearing that ring."

He had been puzzled by it before.

Why a ring?

Now, at last, he saw it.

A gold band, set with a deep black stone.

"Harry?" Dumbledore noticed his change in demeanor. He stepped closer, about to place a hand on Harry's shoulder—

And then he saw it too.

The ring.

A mundane piece of jewelry, at first glance.

Worthless to men like them—Harry, who lacked for nothing, and Dumbledore, who had long ceased caring for material wealth.

Yet they could not look away.

The black stone shimmered.

In its depths, their reflections flickered—amber eyes, blue eyes, mingling with the gold like a kaleidoscope.

"...The Resurrection Stone," Dumbledore whispered.

"The Resurrection Stone?" Harry repeated, suppressing the unease rising in his chest.

"One of the Deathly Hallows," Dumbledore's voice grew hollow, distant. "A legendary artifact... with the power to bring back the dead."

And as the words left his lips—

A voice whispered in Harry's ear.

"Do you want to bring your parents back?"

He saw them.

James Potter. Lily Potter.

Not a photo. Not a memory.

Real.

"Put it on," the voice cooed. "There's no price to pay. You can have them back."

"Your family will be whole again."

To bring back the dead.

A temptation like no other.

Harry reached forward.

He wanted this. He needed this—

Then, suddenly—

"Harry!"

Hermione's voice.

His vision shifted.

Hermione—grabbing his hand, eyes filled with worry. "Harry, don't. Don't even think about it."

The memory changed.

Their kiss by the lake, under the moonlight.

He snapped back to reality.

His fingers hovered mere inches from the ring.

He withdrew his hand.

But Dumbledore—

Dumbledore reached forward, his expression stricken.

His lips trembled.

"Ariana... wait for me... I'm coming..."

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Powerstones?

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