Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Arthur coughed lightly, lowering his voice.

Some things... didn't need to be said aloud.

And as for those Ministry officials—what were they thinking? It was fine to keep such thoughts in their heads, but did they really have to nod in agreement like that?

The elevator continued stopping and starting, its golden grilles sliding open and shut as Ministry officials came and went. Above them, paper notes flitted through the air like restless birds, zipping from office to office.

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Includes the Improper Use of Magic Office, the Auror Headquarters, and the Wizengamot Administration Services."

Dumbledore turned to Harry. "We've arrived."

Arthur stepped out with them—his own office was on this floor as well.

"Goodbye, Harry," Arthur said cheerfully, making a deliberate effort to ignore Dumbledore's presence. "My office is that way. You two are heading to the Wizengamot, so I'll leave you to it."

They parted ways at the corridor.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows, bright and warm—completely at odds with the gloomy weather outside.

Before long, Harry and Dumbledore reached the end of the hall, stopping before a grand violet door. In its center was an ornate, golden, clover-shaped plaque, engraved in elegant lettering:

Wizengamot Administration Services.

Dumbledore pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

There was no sign of anyone, though the furnishings were well-kept and modern. A few cabinets lined the walls, displaying an assortment of photographs. Dumbledore's face appeared in the majority of them, while the rest featured elderly witches and wizards unfamiliar to Harry.

A few sofas were arranged neatly in the space, looking hardly used despite having been there long enough to press slight indentations into the wooden floor.

"Have a seat, Harry," Dumbledore said, waving his wand. A cabinet creaked open, and several clean glasses floated out, followed by a bottle of red wine. "The Wizengamot offices are rarely occupied. You must understand, we're all rather old. Most of us would rather sit in the sun and doze off."

"What time is it now?" he asked.

Harry glanced at his watch. "Eight forty-eight."

"Your case isn't scheduled until ten o'clock," Dumbledore remarked. "Over an hour from now. And knowing them, they probably won't show up until ten minutes before it starts."

He settled onto a sofa, took a sip of wine, and relaxed.

Harry nodded, about to respond, when he suddenly turned his head toward the door.

A rush of hurried, panicked footsteps approached.

"They're coming now?" Dumbledore said, surprised.

His answer came in the form of a loud bang as the door was flung open.

A breathless wizard stumbled inside. "Professor Dumbledore! Mr. Potter! Thank Merlin I found you—I heard someone say you had already arrived at the Ministry."

"What's the matter?" Harry asked.

The wizard nodded hastily. "I sent out several owls to deliver your notices this morning, but for some reason, they all failed to reach you."

Dumbledore and Harry simply watched him, silently letting him dig his own grave.

The wizard swallowed nervously and continued, "Mr. Potter's hearing has been rescheduled. The time has been moved to nine o'clock, and the location has been changed to Courtroom Ten."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Courtroom Ten?"

The wizard nodded and whispered, "It's... on the tenth underground level. A chamber used for interrogations."

"A chamber," Dumbledore added, "typically reserved for prisoners whose guilt has already been determined."

The wizard lowered his head, avoiding their gazes.

"Why was the time changed?" Harry asked.

The man answered honestly, "This morning, we received notice that over two-thirds of the Wizengamot members were indisposed due to illness and would not be attending today's hearing."

"According to Ministry regulations, if attendance falls below one-third, authority over the trial is transferred to the Ministry itself, to ensure fair proceedings."

"This trial will now be personally overseen by Minister Cornelius Fudge."

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses with a slow push. "And yet, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I was not informed of this?"

Even though he had long since handed over the Wizengamot's actual control to the Ministry, a mass absence of this scale should at least have warranted some notice to him.

The wizard remained unfazed, even appearing puzzled. "Perhaps the owls failed to reach you as well?"

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "And why was the location changed?"

"Minister Fudge has a meeting with the International Confederation of Wizards at ten o'clock, followed by an afternoon appointment with the Magic Minister of the Thousand Lakes Federation. As you may know, the disappearance of Headmaster Karkaroff has become a global concern."

He added, "And, according to Ministry regulations, when there is a change in trial personnel, the time and location may also be adjusted accordingly."

"Yet you still should have notified us beforehand," Dumbledore said, his tone mild but firm.

"I did notify you," the wizard insisted weakly. "I sent multiple owls. But... you never received them."

He straightened up. "Now, Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Potter—time is short. We should hurry—"

"No." Harry interrupted. "I'm not going."

The wizard froze.

Harry drained his glass of wine, then crossed one leg over the other. "Tell dear Cornelius that I'll be waiting right here. He can come explain things to me at ten o'clock—not interrogate me."

"If he doesn't show up by ten..." Harry glanced at his watch. "Then I suppose we simply weren't meant to meet today."

The wizard hesitated. "But—Minister Fudge has an important meeting at ten—"

"That's his problem," Harry cut in. "And let's be clear—I am not a criminal."

He spread his hands out.

"But if you want me to become one, I'd be happy to accommodate you."

"After all—I am a very generous Gryffindor."

The wizard gulped audibly.

"Now—go let Cornelius know," Harry said pleasantly. "Oh—" He checked his watch again. "You've only got five minutes."

"Mr. Potter, this is—" The wizard made one last attempt.

"You do know my name is Harry Potter," Harry said coldly, cutting him off again, "not Albus Dumbledore."

He raised his hand.

Aard!

The Sign exploded outward—boom! A forceful wave of air sent the wizard stumbling backward, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Harry casually flicked his wand.

With a snap, the door slammed shut in his face.

"Impressive silent casting," Dumbledore remarked, amused.

Harry sighed. "Not quite at your level of wandless, silent magic, though."

"I didn't truly master wandless magic until after I was fifty," Dumbledore admitted. "And in terms of silent casting? I barely managed to use it practically by the time I graduated—you're far ahead of me there."

The two of them continued chatting.

Magic was far more interesting than anything the Ministry could throw at them.

By the time they had finished half the bottle of wine, Harry checked his watch again. "It's ten o'clock, Professor Dumbledore. We should be leaving. Can we Apparate from here?"

"No, we'll need to return to the atrium," Dumbledore replied, rising to his feet.

They walked toward the door—

Click.

The doorknob twisted.

Fudge stepped inside, followed by a crowd of Ministry officials. Closest to him was the toad-faced woman from the Triwizard Tournament—Dolores Umbridge.

Several others wore deep purple robes, each emblazoned with a silver "W" on their chest—the remaining members of the Wizengamot.

The two sides faced each other.

"Mr. Potter," Fudge greeted stiffly. "Good morning."

Harry smiled slightly. "I thought you had an important international meeting at ten?"

"Looks like you weren't that busy after all."

Fudge gritted his teeth. "You should be following Ministry procedures, not disrupting my schedule with childish defiance. Do you have any idea how much trouble—"

Harry cut him off, pressing his wand lightly against Fudge's chest. "I am willing to follow some of the Ministry's rules. But when someone starts changing them on a whim, I see no reason to comply. Wouldn't you agree?"

Fudge stiffened. "Mr. Potter, what exactly are you insinuating?"

"I don't like these little office games," Harry stated bluntly, his slit pupils locked onto Fudge. "Let's keep this simple, shall we? I have already compromised a great deal—out of respect for Professor Dumbledore. So, why don't you stop trying to play me?"

Fudge took a deep breath. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Harry clapped his hands together, his expression neutral. "Then let's get on with it, my dear Minister Cornelius—you've already wasted enough time."

Fudge pursed his lips tightly and stepped further into the room.

The group followed him into the meeting chamber.

Like the outer sitting area, it was pristine and well-maintained. However, the furniture inside bore visible signs of frequent use—tables with softened edges, chairs with worn cushions.

Once everyone was seated, Fudge seemed to regain some of his confidence, bolstered by the circle of officials around him.

He waited for Umbridge to arrange her notebook and self-writing quill before clearing his throat. "August 31st, trial proceedings."

With a flick of her wand, Umbridge's quill began to scribble automatically.

"Presiding officers: Minister of Magic Cornelius Oswald Fudge, and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Susan Bones."

"Recorder: Senior Undersecretary Dolores Jane Umbridge."

"Defendant: Harry James Potter."

"Defense witness: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

Umbridge smiled brightly.

Fudge hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing.

"Mr. Potter, regarding your actions on the night of June 24th in Little Hangleton, where you were involved in the deaths of—"

"Self-defense," Harry interrupted.

Fudge frowned. "Are you going to use that Death Eater nonsense as an excuse?"

"Does whether or not they were Death Eaters have anything to do with the fact that the Ministry had a spy inside Hogwarts?" Harry said, his tone dripping with mockery. "Or the fact that the Triwizard Cup had been tampered with, turning it into a Portkey? Or that I was ambushed by twelve fully grown wizards and had no choice but to fight back?"

Fudge's face twisted.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "As much as I think the Ministry is incompetent, I always assumed Scrimgeour was at least a decent Auror. Has he really been under your command for two months without uncovering the truth?"

"Of course we know the truth!" Fudge slammed a hand onto the table. "We investigated thoroughly!"

"Some of them may have had past ties to the Death Eaters—"

"All of them," Harry corrected, cutting him off.

"Cornelius," he continued smoothly, "I do hope you're not forgetting one minor detail—the Dark Mark on all their arms."

Thanks to The Quibbler's recent publication, the Ministry could no longer pretend they were unaware of this. At the very least, they could no longer act as if the issue didn't exist.

Rita Skeeter!

Fudge clenched his jaw.

The same woman he had once loved as an ally in the press... he now despised with every fiber of his being.

It took him a long moment to calm himself. Finally, he let out a slow breath. "Mr. Potter, I don't believe we are familiar enough to address each other by first name."

Harry nodded. "Understood, Cornelius." His expression was deadpan.

Fudge flinched, his face twisting as if he had just witnessed Dumbledore chewing on a cockroach cluster.

"...Even if they were all former Death Eaters," Fudge pressed on, "they had already reformed—"

"So, reformed Death Eaters just casually enchant the Triwizard Cup with a Portkey, kidnap me, and ambush me with twelve wands?" Harry interjected.

Fudge gripped his quill so tightly it nearly snapped. "Mr. Potter, please, allow me to finish—"

"Certainly, Cornelius," Harry said, once again cutting him off. "But when you deliberately try to rewrite reality, I simply can't ignore it."

Fudge inhaled sharply through his nose. "Mr. Potter, our investigation revealed that those twelve individuals had severe traces of Dark Magic on their bodies."

"Although they appeared to have been slain by a sword," Fudge continued, narrowing his eyes, "their corpses were drained—completely devoid of blood. Even without external injuries, they would have died from the sheer effects of the Dark Magic."

He leaned forward. "Mr. Potter—how do you explain this?"

Harry chuckled, unable to hide his amusement. "That's impressive. The Ministry actually managed to figure that out?"

Fudge's chest swelled with satisfaction. "Don't underestimate the Ministry, Mr. Potter. Nothing escapes our investigations—"

"But if you were just a little smarter," Harry cut in smoothly, "you might have noticed that the source of that Dark Magic was the Dark Marks on their arms."

Fudge slammed his hand against the table. "Stop using this ridiculous Death Eater and You-Know-Who nonsense as an excuse!"

"You-Know-Who has been dead for fifteen years! How could his Mark still hold any power?!"

His voice rose, filled with frustration. "I think you experimented on them using Dark Magic and staged their deaths to look like self-defense—"

He narrowed his eyes. "You carefully selected twelve wizards with questionable pasts—"

"This was murder, Potter."

He spoke with conviction, as if he were determined to pin the charge on him.

"Use whatever brain cells you might have left and think, Fudge," Harry sneered. "I was inside Hogwarts for the entire Triwizard Tournament—under the Ministry's watchful eye. So tell me—how exactly did I tamper with the Cup? How did I contact twelve specific people—who all just happened to be Death Eaters—and arrange for them to be waiting for me?"

Harry leaned forward. "Are you suggesting that I am more powerful than Voldemort himself? That the Death Eaters answer to me instead of him?"

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

The very mention of that name—Voldemort—sent a chill through the air.

"Minister Fudge."

The voice that broke the silence belonged to Amelia Bones.

A stern, sharp-featured witch who bore a striking resemblance to Professor McGonagall in both presence and tone.

"If you had read the report submitted by the Auror Office three days ago," she stated coldly, "you would know that the source of the Dark Magic on their corpses has already been confirmed—it came from their Dark Marks."

Her voice was firm. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement can personally attest to this fact."

Fudge's eyes widened in shock.

That report was important?!

Harry turned to look at Amelia Bones, mildly surprised.

"But that doesn't prove that Potter was innocent," Fudge protested, grasping at straws.

Harry's gaze darkened. "But it also doesn't prove I was guilty."

Dumbledore spoke for the first time since the trial had begun.

"Cornelius," he said kindly, "have you found the one responsible for enchanting the Triwizard Cup?"

Fudge hesitated. "No. There are no records of any unauthorized Portkeys at the Ministry."

Harry's voice turned cold. "Do you think that a group planning to kill me would have filed paperwork beforehand?"

Fudge flipped through the files in front of him, as if searching for something—anything—that could still be used against Harry.

Harry, however, had lost his patience. "Is there anything else you'd like to accuse me of? The Hogwarts Express leaves tomorrow, and I'd rather not waste my time here."

Dumbledore cast a glance around the room, then tapped his wand against the table, conjuring a teacup filled with thick syrup. "I do not believe there is any law that allows us to convict someone who is entirely innocent."

"We all know the truth of this situation."

"Twelve former Death Eaters."

"And one student—who, might I remind you, has received Hogwarts' Special Award for Services to the School."

Dumbledore's expression became oddly amused as he turned to look at Harry. Why does this feel so familiar?

Fudge inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling as he steadied himself. "Very well. Those in favor of continuing the charges against Mr. Potter, please raise your hand."

He raised his own hand.

Umbridge followed suit without hesitation.

Dumbledore and Harry scanned the room, watching as only three additional people hesitantly lifted their hands.

Fudge's expression darkened.

"And those in favor of dropping the charges against Mr. Potter?"

Bones raised her hand without the slightest hesitation.

The remaining Wizengamot members followed—those who had bothered to attend today's farce of a trial. They weren't foolish enough to cross Dumbledore, even if his title as Chief Warlock was mostly symbolic now.

"Five in favor, eleven against, nine abstaining." Amelia Bones announced coolly. "Cornelius, as I told you before—this was a waste of time. What matters now is not persecuting Mr. Potter, but finding the real culprit behind the Triwizard Cup's enchantment."

Fudge clenched his jaw, then abruptly stood, leaving the files scattered on the table as he turned toward the door.

Harry flicked his wand.

The sound of screeching wood filled the room as a chair slid across the floor, cutting off Fudge's path.

"Mr. Potter?" Fudge turned, barely containing his irritation.

"Cornelius," Harry said softly. "Is there something else you haven't told me?"

Fudge's expression tightened.

He glanced toward Dumbledore, then toward Bones, and finally at the other Ministry officials watching him.

"...Apologies for wasting your time, Mr. Potter," Fudge said stiffly.

Then he quickened his pace, attempting to leave.

Damn it!

The Ministry was supposed to back him on this! Next time, he would personally propose replacing Amelia Bones—this woman was far too difficult to deal with.

SCREEEECH—

The chair slid back in front of him.

Fudge stopped, his face turning red with anger.

"Mr. Potter," he snapped, his jaw tightening. "What exactly are you trying to do?"

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Powerstones?

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