Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Harry's punch was heavy—heavy enough to snap Dumbledore back to his senses.

Only after the potion fully took effect, healing his injuries, did they finally step out of the old house.

Harry carefully used Transfiguration to wrap the ring up, not even daring to toss it into the Sorting Hat. Instead, he placed it in the bag he had previously used for the motorcycle, keeping it separate from everything else—just in case it brought about some unforeseen disaster.

As they left the house,

The Hat had been waiting obediently by the door, even using its built-in cleaning charms to remove any dirt from its body. It looked as if it had stayed there the entire time—quiet, well-behaved, a perfect motorcycle.

"No one saw you, right?" Harry patted it.

The Sorting Hat immediately responded, "Of course not, I was very careful. I just pressed that one—"

Halfway through, it realized something was off, and its voice grew flustered.

"Hey, Harry, I definitely didn't go zipping around showing off like some reckless little wizard!"

"Mm, sure, you stayed here the whole time, good as gold." Harry nodded absentmindedly, helping Dumbledore onto the motorcycle.

"Of course! I am a very responsible Hat—er, no, now I suppose I'm a very responsible motorcycle?" The Sorting Hat muttered, caught in the deeply philosophical question of self-identity.

But soon, it abandoned the thought.

The Four Founders certainly hadn't designed it to dwell on such matters.

Besides, whether it was a Hat or a motorcycle didn't matter—so long as it could brag to Godric.

"What happened to Albus?" It was more concerned with this issue.

Dumbledore looked weak, his face pale, his robes stained with dust, blood, and some strange, vomit-like substance.

"You know how it is—he's getting old," Harry replied, carefully positioning his feet on the footpegs. "Took a tumble going up the stairs, nearly cracked his head open."

"I think it's his stomach," the Hat flashed its headlights a few times before taking off steadily into the air. "Are we going anywhere else?"

"Back to Hogwarts." Harry glanced at the Gaunt shack.

Perhaps, a few months ago,

Tom Riddle had stood in that doorway too, gazing in the direction of Hogwarts.

What had he been thinking?

What would he have thought?

The Hat soared, its practice throughout the day allowing it to fully master its new body. It flew smoothly and swiftly through the air, no longer hesitating or jerking like before.

By the time they returned to Hogwarts, the sky was already dark.

Outside the castle, many students were still engaged in a spirited snowball fight.

This was the liveliest Christmas in Hogwarts history—most students had chosen to stay at school after the Yule Ball.

After all, the most important celebration was already over.

Why go home when you could run around the castle all day, playing without a care?

—

Inside the Headmaster's Office

As soon as they entered through the window, Dumbledore, not even bothering to sit down, immediately said, "Harry, bring it out."

Harry ignored him and flicked his wand.

A silver stag burst forth—a Patronus Messenger.

After a brief hesitation, he decided to include Snape in the summons.

Although, in Harry's eyes, Snape was just as much a risk as Dumbledore—he might lose his mind upon seeing the ring, just like the old man had.

Still, as the only Dark Arts master at Hogwarts, his presence was necessary.

"You don't trust me," Dumbledore sighed, settling against the wall as the Sorting Hat continued chattering endlessly to Godric about its first real outing.

"I do trust you," Harry shook his head and pulled out the bag. "I just don't trust your brain."

Dumbledore blinked. "What's the difference?"

"That ring holds nearly a century's worth of your obsession."

Harry met his gaze, his voice calm.

"You've done incredibly well to resist it for this long. You're nearly there—I'm not going to let you fail at the last step."

Controlling desire is one of the hardest things in the world.

And yet, Dumbledore had resisted for over a hundred years, locking himself away in this small office, refusing to indulge in it.

He wasn't weak. He had always been steadfast.

Of course, suppressing his emotions so thoroughly had left him exhausted in every other aspect of life.

Now that Harry knew the truth about his past, he almost felt guilty for insulting him before.

"You're actually praising me?" Dumbledore looked pleasantly surprised. "This is so rare, I should take a picture for posterity."

Before he could finish his sentence—

Bang, bang, bang!

Urgent knocking on the door.

Before anyone could respond, the door was pushed open.

"Minerva?" Dumbledore looked surprised.

McGonagall's face was stern.

"Harry told me you nearly did something stupid—and that he had to knock some sense into you. He was worried, so he asked me to come check on you."

Dumbledore was stunned.

He turned to Harry.

That's how you worded it in your Patronus message?!

"You actually believed Harry?" Dumbledore took a deep breath.

McGonagall nodded. "Harry is usually very reliable. Besides—"

She gave him a long, knowing look.

"You doing something stupid wouldn't be surprising."

Dumbledore sighed, tugging at his beard.

Was he really that unreliable?

"So it's true?" McGonagall frowned. "Harry really punched you—I mean, you really almost did something that foolish? What foolish thing?"

She had trouble believing it.

But since Harry was the one who said it, the claim had some credibility.

And besides... she could picture Harry punching the Headmaster.

He had yet to hit this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—perhaps he had simply redirected his annual act of violence toward Dumbledore instead.

"Let's wait until everyone arrives." Dumbledore sighed.

McGonagall sat down, and it wasn't long before the other three Heads of House arrived, their expressions grave.

They had worked alongside Dumbledore long enough to know parts of his past.

They understood what kind of man he was.

The story sounded ridiculous.

But not impossible.

Dumbledore poured drinks for each of them—offering Harry a whiskey as thanks—then began recounting the events of the day.

"Voldemort has a child?" Flitwick was shocked. "Does he even seem like the type?"

Sprout cradled her head. "But that would still be his child! He's over seventy—he'd be an old father."

McGonagall wanted to join the discussion—

But Snape cut through the chatter coldly.

"Does it matter whether he has a child?" he said icily. "The focus here is the Horcrux."

"The one that even Albus couldn't resist."

Dumbledore turned to Harry, his voice steady.

"Harry, bring it out. I promise I won't lose control again."

Harry glanced at Snape, then opened the bag.

With a flick of his wand, the box containing the ring floated out.

As it opened, the ring's magic pulsed—

And in the same instant, every professor who laid eyes on it went completely still.

Sprout reacted the quickest—she shook off the spell almost immediately.

Dumbledore's expression was vacant.

This time, he was slightly more in control—his body remained still, his hand did not reach for the ring.

But he did not want to break free from the illusion.

Even if it was a mirage, a trick of the mind, he wanted to see Ariana just a little longer.

Snape's reaction was more complicated than Harry expected.

Unlike Dumbledore, his face was twisted—not just with longing, but also regret, guilt.

He wanted to reach out.

But he hesitated.

His lips parted—

Yet he couldn't bring himself to say her name.

And, surprisingly, McGonagall and Flitwick were caught as well.

Unlike Snape, there was no guilt—only the pure, unrestrained desire to see what they had lost.

Both reached toward the ring.

"Professor Sprout!" Harry shouted.

He drew his wand, pointing it at the ring.

"Got it." Sprout nodded.

She reached into her pocket, tossing a handful of seeds.

Herbivicus!

Instantly, vines erupted from the ground, lashing out—grabbing the other professors, restraining them before they could touch the ring.

Harry worked quickly to dispel the enchantment—

But it was intricate, resisting his efforts—

As Flitwick broke free, reaching again—

Just as Sprout hesitated, debating whether to summon a Biting Cabbage—

Harry finally broke the spell.

The magic dissipated in a puff of smoke.

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Powerstones?

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