Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Hagrid was now experiencing the most painful period of his life.

Despite their packed schedules, Hermione and Harry carved out time to teach him how to read and write, starting from the very basics—phonetics.

Ron, who had initially planned to slack off and just play with Fang, was forcibly dragged into the lessons as well.

Hogwarts didn't offer language classes. A wizard's proficiency in language depended almost entirely on their upbringing.

And...

Aside from Muggle-borns from educated families who recognized the importance of proper language skills, most young wizards simply went with the flow.

Some, like Ron, got lucky—meeting friends who could help them learn.

Others, like Hagrid, weren't as fortunate.

Learning was painful. Language learning was even worse.

Hagrid's long-idle brain creaked and groaned under the strain. His vocabulary was a mess, making progress excruciatingly slow.

When someone unaccustomed to thinking suddenly had to use their brain, the result was terrifying.

Ron was tempted to hit Hagrid with an Obliviate, turning him into a mindless idiot—at least then, their lessons might progress faster.

It was slow going.

But it worked.

A month later, the students of Hogwarts were astonished to realize that Hagrid's speech had become somewhat more structured.

At the very least, they could finally understand what he was saying.

His explanations about Blast-Ended Skrewts—their habits, attack methods, and level of danger—caused an uproar.

For the first time, students truly understood just how dangerous these creatures were.

Their faces turned green.

For half a year, they had been caring for a species as dangerous as trolls, merfolk, or Occamies... without any real precautions.

Fortunately, Hagrid had already figured out how to handle them and taught the students just in time—barely avoiding an onslaught of Howlers.

February and March passed.

With the arrival of spring, the ice and snow melted, and the lingering cold carried the warmth of the approaching season.

Students began stepping out of the castle more often, eager to enjoy the change in weather.

Harry, however, was in a foul mood.

Rita Skeeter had vanished without a trace.

He had even asked Dumbledore to inquire at The Daily Prophet, but their response was that they hadn't been able to contact her for months either.

Apparently, this wasn't unusual.

Witches and wizards often had strange habits, and disappearing for a while was nothing out of the ordinary.

Though... this time did seem a bit long.

But Skeeter was supposed to be investigating Barty Crouch Jr. for him. Even if she had found nothing, she should have at least reported back.

Maybe she ran.

Like Ludo Bagman, who had bought himself a one-way ticket to some unknown corner of the world, never to be seen again.

But Sirius hadn't written to him in five days either.

That was unusual.

Unless something extraordinary happened—like the time Sirius crossed the Pacific—he always let Harry know in advance.

Sirius wouldn't just disappear like Skeeter.

Frowning, Harry sent Hedwig with a letter to Sirius.

Then, borrowing Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon, he sent another letter to Lupin.

By noon, both owls had returned.

Hedwig gently placed a letter on the table, looking unusually subdued.

Pigwidgeon, on the other hand, hooted excitedly and dropped a letter in front of Harry.

Harry's frown deepened.

He didn't even need to read the contents. Just sensing the residual magic on the parchment, he already knew—

His letter to Sirius hadn't even been delivered.

The envelope was the exact same one he had sent, still carrying traces of his magic.

Hedwig had spent the whole morning flying around and had even taken the time to catch a mouse.

At least Lupin had responded.

Harry tore open the letter from Pigwidgeon.

Lupin's handwriting was hurried, the note brief but clear.

Three days ago, Sirius had picked up a lead on Skeeter—she had been captured.

At the time, Lupin was busy handling a batch of Ministry orders for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, so he asked Sirius to wait until he was free so they could go together.

Sirius had agreed at first.

But the moment Lupin turned his back, Sirius had left a note and set off alone.

Ignoring everyone's warnings.

Since the day before yesterday, there had been no news.

Not from Harry.

Not from Lupin.

Reading those few lines, Harry's grip on the letter tightened.

"He's gone missing?" Hermione leaned over, noticing the familiar handwriting on the envelope. Her heart clenched.

Harry nodded and handed her the letter. "Yeah. Cover for me with Professor McGonagall."

"You're going after him?" Hermione grabbed his wrist.

Harry's tone was firm. "Of course. He's my godfather."

"He's in trouble."

The letter mentioned that Skeeter had disappeared inside the Crouch estate.

The woman was cautious—she had left behind a coded message.

But Sirius never found it.

Lupin had to visit the scene himself before uncovering the clue.

She went in.

She never came out.

"Shouldn't you tell Dumbledore?" Hermione refused to let go.

"He's not my babysitter." Harry's response was blunt. "Besides, Sirius is my godfather. Not his."

Hermione still didn't let go.

Harry turned his hand over and squeezed hers. "If I don't come back in three days, then go to Dumbledore."

"Two days," Hermione countered.

Harry smiled. "Alright, two days. If I'm not back by then, go to him."

At last, Hermione let go.

She watched his back disappear into the distance, feeling helpless.

She wished she could stand up right now and say, "I'm coming with you."

But she didn't.

She knew her limits.

She was an exceptional student.

But she wasn't yet strong enough to stand beside Harry in battle.

At the very least...

She had to surpass that insufferable Fleur first.

Hermione pushed aside her plate and stood up.

"Hermione, you haven't finished eating," Ron called after her.

Hermione shook her head, ignoring him.

She entered an empty classroom, took a deep breath, and hid inside a cabinet.

Then, she pulled out her Time-Turner and began turning it back.

If twenty-four hours a day weren't enough to catch up to Harry, then she'd use twenty-five.

Or twenty-six.

Or as many as it took.

In the Great Hall, Ron stared blankly at his half-eaten lamb chop.

With a sigh, he put it down, stood up... hesitated, then went back to grab it before heading to his next class.

He needed to work harder too.

—

It wasn't the weekend.

The iron gates leading to Hogsmeade remained closed.

A few Nifflers clung to the bars, trying to escape—

If they couldn't steal from Hogwarts, they'd steal from Hogsmeade instead.

Harry slipped through the Whomping Willow's secret passage and emerged in the village.

Using the Floo Network at The Three Broomsticks, he returned to the Potter home.

The Crouch estate was also in Godric's Hollow—this was the fastest route.

"Harry?" Fleamont Potter's surprised voice greeted him.

Harry flicked his wand, brushing off the soot.

"I thought it wasn't the holidays yet," Fleamont mused. "Something wrong?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "Where's Uncle Remus?"

"This morning, an owl arrived, and he rushed out immediately. Hasn't been back since," Fleamont sighed. "No idea what he's up to."

Half a day and still no word.

Harry's frown deepened.

With a flick of his wand, he transfigured his robes into a loose-fitting coat and stepped outside.

Fleamont sighed, muttering about "young people never staying put" and "the house getting quiet again."

Godric's Hollow was a mixed community of wizards and Muggles.

The Crouch estate, like most wizarding homes, was tucked away from Muggle residences, warded with Repelling Charms.

Though neglected for half a year, the magic hadn't yet faded.

The house looked old—like an overexposed photograph.

The yard was overgrown with knee-high weeds.

A narrow path leading to the door had been trampled, the grass flattened—

More than one person had walked this way.

Lupin's scent was still fresh.

Sirius's was there too—faint, almost completely gone.

But Skeeter's?

Nowhere to be found.

Harry stepped carefully up to the front door.

Inside, it was eerily silent—too silent.

Even if no battle was taking place, there should have been the sound of conversation, some form of confrontation.

But instead, there was nothing.

Something was very wrong.

Even if they weren't fighting, there should at least be voices.

This complete and utter silence meant only one thing—something unnatural was at work.

Harry raised his wand.

With a flick, the door creaked open.

Inside, the house was pitch black. A spell had been cast, swallowing any light that tried to enter. Even the daylight spilling through the doorway was devoured by the unnatural darkness.

Even with a Witcher's sight, Harry couldn't see through the void.

He flicked his wand again.

A withered branch from the yard soared toward the entrance, morphing mid-air into a rabbit. It hopped inside—

Only to vanish entirely within seconds.

The spell severed his magical connection to the transfiguration.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

His magic wasn't weak—on the contrary, he was powerful.

Yet whatever spell had been cast here could completely cut off his magic inside.

That wasn't normal.

He tested again.

"Incendio!"

Flames roared into existence, surging into the darkness.

But just like the rabbit, the fire was swallowed whole.

Gone.

Not even an ember remained.

Magic was useless.

Harry narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist.

Igni!

A blast of flames erupted from his palm, shooting straight into the house—

Only for the darkness to surge forward, devouring it completely.

Even non-magical flames were ineffective.

To go in, or not to go in?

Harry hesitated for only a moment.

From within the darkness, a voice spoke—low, smooth, and laced with amusement.

"Harry Potter?"

"You're actually here?"

"And not tucked safely inside Hogwarts' little cradle?"

Harry said nothing, his gaze locked on the black void. He had never heard this voice before.

"You're here to rescue your godfather?" The voice chuckled. "That filthy pure-blood traitor, Black?"

"Or perhaps that mutt of a werewolf who came running straight into our hands?"

It was mocking.

Harry remained silent.

The voice sighed in exaggerated disappointment. "Oh, don't tell me it's that ridiculous beetle woman? Did she really think she could get away?"

So all three of them were inside.

"Potter, do you want to save them?" The voice dropped to a hushed whisper, almost seductive. "I'll give you a little hint... they're still alive."

"For now."

"But who knows how long that will last?"

"You see, Black has quite the attitude problem. He doesn't like being tamed."

"He actually tried to transform and escape—"

"But we broke his legs."

The voice laughed. "Now he can't run even if he wanted to."

Harry's eyes turned sharp.

"Maybe we should see if the werewolf's life is worth more than his pride?"

He took a slow breath, steadying himself.

"Hogwarts' little lion prince, aren't you?" The voice purred. "So calm. Or maybe you just don't care about them?"

"Perhaps you just like playing house, pretending they're family to make up for the ones you lost?"

"Want to prove you care?"

"Come inside, Potter. You have to step inside if you want to save them."

Harry scoffed. "You're mistaking me for Sirius."

"I promise," the voice crooned, "I'll give you a fair chance."

A slow clap echoed from within the void.

"Let's play a game, shall we?"

"We'll bet on Black's life. And the werewolf's. And the beetle's, if you care."

"If you win, you take them all."

"I swear it—on my honor."

Harry let out a cold laugh. "What honor does a Death Eater have?"

"Being a Death Eater is the highest of honors," the voice corrected smugly. "Only the greatest wizards are worthy of the title."

Harry didn't respond.

The voice became softer, like a whisper in the dark. "Besides... do you really have any other choice?"

"This is one of the Dark Lord's greatest spells, Potter."

"You're just a boy who got lucky. Survived by accident."

"You think you can break a spell cast by the most powerful wizard alive?"

"Tom really told you that?" Harry interrupted.

Silence.

"You do know his name is Tom, right?" Harry's tone was flat.

The voice faltered.

"You dare—"

"You do know, don't you?"

The Death Eater's voice sharpened in anger. "Do not insult our Master!"

Harry smirked.

"You don't even realize how pathetic he is, do you?" He tilted his head. "A miserable, half-blood accident created by a love potion."

"Watch your mouth, boy!" the voice snapped, furious.

"Why?" Harry twirled his wand lazily. "Because it's true?"

The man was fuming. "The Dark Lord is—"

"A fraud," Harry cut in, his voice dripping with mockery.

The voice inside the house hissed in rage. "You—"

"But you are right about one thing."

Harry's expression darkened.

"This is an impressive spell."

He extended his hand.

Magic flared.

The ground rumbled.

A deep, guttural roar echoed beneath their feet.

The earth itself trembled in response.

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Powerstones?

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