Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other.

This was the first time they had learned Harry's exact wake-up time.

4:30 in the morning...

No wonder they had never seen him wake up. It wasn't just a matter of waking up early—Harry's sleep schedule was far shorter than they had expected. They were both hardworking students, often studying until one or two in the morning before going to bed.

Even Hermione, with the help of potion supplements, needed at least four hours of sleep to fully recover and face the day.

But Harry? He slept at around 1 AM and woke up at 4:30 AM—only three hours of rest.

This...

"Harry, you always tell me to take care of my health, but you—!" Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously, her tone sharp.

"Relax, I'm fine," Harry reassured her.

Hermione cut him off, her voice turning cold. "I don't believe for a second that someone still growing can survive on only two hours of sleep per night!"

"Whether from a magical perspective—"

"Or from a scientific one—"

"Neither can justify it."

"I think magic can," Harry said gently. "It's a small trick. I'll discuss it with Professor Flitwick to see if I can make it a more universally applicable spell."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

She strongly suspected that Harry was simply pushing through on sheer willpower. He had a habit of not admitting when he was struggling.

"Really," Harry assured her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leaning in. "You can tell the difference between someone who's well-rested and someone who's not."

Hermione's face turned red, but she still examined him seriously.

From his forehead to his chin, she didn't miss a single detail.

No visible signs of exhaustion.

"Fine, I'll accept that it's magic," Hermione huffed reluctantly, nodding.

She didn't criticize Harry's lifestyle choices. If she were in his position, the sheer weight of his responsibilities would keep her awake for nights on end. He was already doing well enough.

The Next Morning

Neville was yanked out of bed by Harry.

He was still groggy, but he didn't complain. Harry helped him dress with a few spells, then led him out of the common room, through the castle, and into the cool morning air for their first training session.

Not long after they left, Hermione came down from the girls' dormitory, yawning and hugging a book to her chest. She cast a Refreshing Charm on herself, then settled by the fireplace, engrossed in her reading.

Outside the Castle

Even in summer, the early morning air was crisp and cool. Neville shivered against the chill, his mind clearing a bit. Clenching his fists, he followed Harry closely, running past the Black Lake, toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

They began their run along the farthest outer perimeter of Hogwarts.

Before even completing a quarter of the route, Neville was gasping for air, drenched in sweat. His stomach churned violently, and with a retching sound, he vomited everything he had eaten the night before.

"Harry," Neville wheezed between dry heaves, shivering. "I—I can't... I can't do this..."

Harry said nothing. He simply pulled out a potion bottle from his hat.

When Neville had finished emptying his stomach, Harry grabbed his chin, and before Neville—now half-conscious from exertion—could resist, he twisted the cap off and forced the potion down his throat.

Neville instinctively struggled, flailing his hands as if drowning, but he was no match for Harry's grip. He coughed and sputtered but was ultimately forced to swallow the bitter liquid.

"What—what was that?" Neville gasped, his face turning a sickly green from the taste. "You could've just told me, I would've drunk it willingly!"

"Run," Harry said, shoving him forward. "Don't stop."

Neville automatically moved his legs.

His limbs felt leaden, stiff with exhaustion. The lactic acid buildup made him feel as though his feet were chained to the earth. His throat, stomach, and lungs still burned from the potion, yet—somehow—he kept running. His mind and body both told him he could keep going.

Hogwarts had never felt so massive before.

And he had never noticed just how many hidden corners and strange details existed around the castle—unfamiliar statues, landscapes he had never paid attention to, even plants he had assumed couldn't grow at Hogwarts, all thriving stubbornly in the smallest cracks.

By the time they had completed a full circuit, they stopped by the Black Lake.

The sun had just begun to rise, golden rays piercing through the clouds, shimmering across the calm lake surface like scattered scales.

Neville wanted to collapse onto the soft grass and stay there.

Harry grabbed his arm, stopping him. "You shouldn't rest immediately after exercising. Walk around a bit."

Shivering, Neville forced his legs to move.

At first, the exhaustion felt unbearable. But then—nothing. His body was numb. No fatigue, no pain, no sensation of weakness.

It wasn't until he finished his cooldown that the full weight of his exhaustion returned, crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

Harry glanced at his watch. "One hour and twenty-seven minutes."

Neville turned to look at the distance they had covered. "I actually ran that whole route? In just over an hour?"

Harry remained expressionless. "Half an hour slower than I expected."

Neville gaped at him.

Harry held up two fingers. "And that was two laps, not one."

Neville inhaled sharply—and immediately choked on his own breath, coughing violently. When he finally caught his breath, he stared at Harry in disbelief.

He had barely survived one lap.

Two laps? That would have killed him.

"But your physical endurance needs gradual improvement," Harry said, flicking his wand. Two fallen tree branches levitated toward him, twisting and reshaping into wooden swords. He tossed one to Neville. "Now that you've recovered a bit—let's begin."

"I'm going to teach you some basic swordsmanship."

Neville fumbled with the sword as he caught it.

"Wizards don't need to learn swordplay," Harry explained. "Magic can solve most problems. But you're different—you're seeking revenge."

"Unless you become as powerful as Professor Flitwick or Professor Snape, most wizards will die the moment they let an enemy get too close. You're much younger than your targets. Swordsmanship will be a valuable asset."

With another flick of his wand, Harry conjured a training dummy.

Neville took a deep breath and gripped his sword tightly.

Harry adjusted his stance.

He imitated the techniques once taught by Vesemir and Geralt.

But he would not introduce Neville to Witcher potions. Neville had already gained an extraordinary opportunity—there was no need to burden him with the life-or-death gamble that came with those concoctions.

The Trial of the Grasses was a wager where one risked life itself.

Few survived. Perhaps only two or three out of ten made it through.

Neville was not yet desperate enough to gamble his life like that. Though Harry knew—if given the choice—Neville would take that risk without hesitation.

Later That Morning

"That's enough for today," Harry finally said, waving a hand.

Neville took a deep breath. "Harry, what time is it now?"

"Seven," Harry answered.

Neville continued striking the dummy. "I can train for another hour. I think I can keep going."

"But your body can't," Harry countered. With a snap of his fingers, Neville's wooden sword transformed back into a tree branch. "You're supposed to strengthen your body, not destroy it. We'll ask Madam Pomfrey to evaluate your training load and adjust accordingly."

Neville had found the morning run agonizing.

Not just physically—it had been mentally grueling as well.

But after breakfast and their first History of Magic class, the real consequences of training hit him.

Everything hurt.

Legs, knees, stomach, wrists.

And then his head started hurting too—because their next class was Potions.

Snape greeted them with a smug announcement. "This may be the last year I have to tolerate your incompetence. Only those who receive an 'Outstanding' on their O.W.L.s will be allowed into my N.E.W.T.-level Potions class."

Many students panicked.

Despite his cruelty, Snape was the best Potions Master of their time.

At noon, Harry dragged Neville to the hospital wing.

Neville, determined, looked at Madam Pomfrey and said:

"Can I increase my training load?"

"By how much?"

Madam Pomfrey let out a deep sigh. "I don't usually recommend young wizards to be this impatient for progress, but since it's you, Mr. Longbottom, I will give you the best advice possible."

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Powerstones?

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