Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

The rain had been falling for half a month.

By the end of November, the rain finally stopped, but it was not replaced by clear skies—it was followed by heavy snow.

From autumn's damp chill to winter's damp chill.

Despite the harsh weather, Harry and Neville's training did not stop.

People are weak.

Adults are, and Neville was no exception. Even with the fire of revenge burning fiercely in his heart, Hogwarts was simply too safe.

And safety led to complacency.

On rainy days, Neville had wanted to give up. The muddy roads, the blurred vision, and the relentless downpour all made training difficult.

When the snow began to fall, he wanted to give up again. The heavy rain had only made the snow-covered ground more treacherous.

Harry did not give him the chance.

He dragged him forward, forcing him to keep training.

The contract was already signed—Neville had no way to back out.

Lately, he had been visiting the hospital wing often.

Neville had always been a frequent visitor, but in past years, it was always due to accidents—falling down the stairs, getting blown up by one of Seamus's mishaps, or unknowingly eating one of Fred and George's prank sweets.

And those really were accidents!

No one ever pranked Neville on purpose.

Even Fred and George had no idea how their prank candies always seemed to end up in his mouth.

Now, though, he was in the hospital wing for injuries from training. Of course, what would be serious issues for Muggles were easily handled by a spell or a potion. Every week, Neville had Madam Pomfrey examine him so that Harry could adjust his training plan accordingly.

Madam Pomfrey had complained more than once—she finally felt like she was actually earning her Hogwarts salary.

But the results of this high-intensity training were obvious.

Neville hadn't lost weight—on the contrary, he had gained a considerable amount.

But he didn't look fat. He looked strong.

Though with that gentle, round face, it was hard to see him as threatening.

More like a big, harmless bear.

On Saturday night,

Harry finished reading their essays and set them aside.

"Theory is fine." After half an hour, Harry put down the last parchment and looked at Neville. "Hermione, Ron, would you two like to join Neville's combat training with me?"

Combat?

The word made all three of them freeze.

Hermione looked confused. "Haven't we always been doing combat training?"

"No, no, that wasn't combat." Harry shook his head and gave them a deep, meaningful look. "That was just practice—turning theory into skill. But that's still very different from a real fight."

"Neville has to train in actual combat."

Then Harry paused. "You can decide after watching."

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances and nodded. They could already sense a shift in the atmosphere.

Neville looked at Harry in confusion as he picked up his wooden sword.

"Not with that toy." Harry flicked his wand, and from his hat, an iron sword flew out—the one Neville had given him for his birthday.

"Use this."

"A real sword?" Neville took it cautiously. "Isn't that a bit too—"

"This is combat." Harry shook his head. "Combat."

"Neville—no, Mr. Longbottom."

"From now on, the person standing before you isn't Harry. I am your enemy."

"You must fight with the intent to kill me."

Fight with the intent to kill Potter.

Neville muttered to himself. That was the kind of thought only Professor Snape would have.

Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor.

A wand in one hand. A sword in the other.

He stood at one end of the abandoned classroom, looking across at Neville.

"Mr. Longbottom, this is your first battle. Draw your sword. I will wait until you are ready."

Neville cautiously unsheathed the sword, gripping it tightly. Like Harry, he held a wand in one hand and a sword in the other.

After a long breath, he called out loudly, "Harry—no, Mr. Potter! I am ready!"

The moment his words fell—

Neville's eyes widened in disbelief.

Something changed!

Harry still looked like Harry. He still had the same face. But everything had changed.

Every nerve in Neville's body screamed.

DANGER!

His instincts roared at him like an alarmed Foe-Glass, ringing wildly inside his head.

DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

If you don't fight back, you will DIE!

Think! Think about your training! Hold your sword in a defensive stance!

No—no, that's wrong—cast a spell!

Protego!

No, that's wrong too—a Shield Charm only blocks magic, not physical attacks. Harry was strong.

Then—Stupefy?

No, that wouldn't hit him. A swordsman's footwork is too fast.

Impedimenta!

Yes! That's it!

Neville's expression finally shifted. He tried to move his body—

But his limbs wouldn't listen. They were frozen.

Just one look into those serpent-like eyes, and he was petrified.

Move!

Move, damn it! Say the incantation—!

A heavy impact struck his chest.

He lost control and fell backward.

A flash of cold light filled his vision—

The blade of Gryffindor's sword—headed straight for his head.

It's over!

I'm dead!

Neville's mind went blank.

A sharp whoosh filled his ears—

The blade missed.

It struck the stone floor beside his head, lodging deep into the tile.

His ears rang.

After a long moment, he finally heard Harry's voice.

"What were you thinking?"

The voice was familiar.

Neville's pupils refocused.

It was Harry—standing over him, still pressing him down with one foot.

"I told you," Harry said as he pulled his sword free. "Right now, I am your enemy."

"Don't think that only Professor Snape would try to kill me. You must be ready to do the same. This is combat."

He reined in his presence.

The air in the abandoned classroom flowed once more.

The two spectators could finally breathe again.

"Neville?" Ron's voice trembled. "Are you still alive?"

Neville weakly responded, "Of course I am."

"I thought you were actually going to kill him," Hermione exhaled sharply.

It was the first time she had watched Harry fight up close.

It was different from when he taught them.

Different from how Professor Flitwick trained them.

For the first time, she found Fred and George's nickname for him—"The Lion King"—entirely accurate.

Harry was truly a lion.

And they were nothing more than rabbits, puppies, or groundhogs.

"I was ready to kill him." Harry flicked his wand, pulling Neville up and steadying him against the wall.

From within the Sorting Hat, a vial of dittany flew into Harry's hand.

"I'm injured?" Neville asked hesitantly.

"Your ear. Just a small scratch."

Harry waved his wand, turning part of the wall into a mirror.

Neville saw his reflection clearly.

What an ugly face.

Flushed red. Weak-eyed.

Pathetic.

What was he grateful for?

Grateful that Harry hadn't actually killed him—when he hadn't even fought back?

How could he dare feel grateful?

Longbottom, you coward!

Neville scolded himself.

It took him a long moment before he even noticed the small wound on his ear. The blood had already dried into a scab.

"Harry, I'm not so weak that I need dittany for this."

"I just needed an excuse to show you your reflection."

Harry tilted his head, staring at the mirror embedded in the wall.

Harry tilted his head, staring at the mirror embedded in the wall.

"Do you like what you see?"

Neville said nothing.

"The Neville Longbottom in that mirror cannot take revenge."

Harry's voice was quiet, but it cut through Neville like a blade.

"Look at that weak face. He has anger, but no conviction."

"He may have changed physically, his magic may have improved, but deep down, he's still the same cowardly little Neville who used to clutch his pillow and cry at night."

"Harry!"

With a roar, Neville clenched his fist and punched the mirror.

Glass shattered.

Shards dug into the back of his hand, blood dripping freely.

Harry lowered his eyes, his expression calm.

"Mr. Longbottom, are you ready now?"

Neville gritted his teeth.

"Of course!"

"Then—begin."

The moment Harry's words fell, his footwork shifted, his body light and agile as he lunged at Neville, sword swinging.

Neville barely had time to react—he instinctively raised his sword to block.

Swish!

A sharp whoosh split the air.

Neville expected the clash of metal—

Instead, vines sprouted from the shattered mirror, wrapping around his limbs, binding him in place.

Before he could even register what had happened—

Thud!

The tip of Gryffindor's sword grazed past his ear, embedding itself into the stone wall once more.

"I should praise you," Harry said, meeting Neville's eyes. "At least this time, you had conviction. Your body moved."

"But where was your mind?"

"Conviction and intelligence—must you really choose between the two?"

Neville clenched his teeth. "Again!"

The third round.

This time, Neville remembered he was a wizard.

But once they closed the distance, he focused too much on spellwork, forgetting he held a sword in his other hand.

He still didn't last more than three moves.

"Longbottom, if I were Crouch, you would already be dead. Three times over."

Harry flicked his wand, sending up fireworks.

Golden-red sparks formed the number "3" and transformed into a small crown, landing on Neville's head.

"Let's see how many times you'll die tonight."

The fourth round.

Harry's sword pierced Neville's thigh.

Neville cried out, collapsing in pain. His face turned ghostly pale.

"You're getting weak again."

Harry's voice was steady as he pulled the sword free. He handed Neville a potion.

"This is combat. This is life and death."

Neville gulped down the potion. Harry applied dittany to his wound and cast a healing spell.

"Maybe this injury will finally teach you something."

"Neville—treat me as your enemy."

"Can you still continue?"

Neville gritted his teeth.

He hurled the empty potion bottle aside, shattering it against the ground.

"Of course, Mr. Potter!"

Ron and Hermione stood frozen, watching in silence.

They had never imagined combat training would be this brutal.

Neville died over and over again at Harry's hands, accumulating wounds one after another.

The night stretched on endlessly.

----------

Powerstones?

For 20 advance Chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates