Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

A special operation against Hogwarts?

Snape lowered his head, his expression solemn, his heart tightening.

Inside that castle, there were only two things Voldemort could be concerned about—one was his Horcrux, which might exist, or might not. The other was Harry Potter, and he was most certainly there.

Snape did not ask unnecessary questions. He simply stood quietly to the side, hands folded, feigning indifference.

Voldemort paused for a brief moment.

He was waiting for something—but received nothing in return.

"In the coming days," Voldemort said as he walked over to the sofa and sat down, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled Death Eaters one by one, "find our old friends."

"I can be merciful."

"If they still wish to be our friends, I welcome them."

"But if they refuse..."

"I despise traitors more than anything."

"You know what to do."

Bellatrix responded enthusiastically, while the other Death Eaters trembled with fear.

Voldemort continued issuing commands.

But every order he gave concerned the collection of materials—things for treating his wounds, restoring his magical strength, or even regenerating his severed arm.

There was no mention of Horcruxes.

No mention of Hogwarts.

Snape was in no hurry.

After returning, he simply informed Dumbledore to prepare for possible Death Eater attacks.

The Christmas holiday stretched on.

Snape's office.

Harry and the greasy-haired professor had taken full precautions, wands at the ready, expressions grim.

In the room, besides the two of them, were three werewolves.

Fenrir Greyback lay bound tightly on the table, while the other two werewolves cowered in the corners, wary and nervous.

"You two know him, don't you?" Harry turned his head to look at them.

The two werewolves nodded frantically.

"Did he turn either of you?" Harry asked again.

Both raised their hands.

Snape sneered. "Potter, what a redundant question. Most werewolves in the wizarding world were infected by Greyback. He is the great father of werewolves, after all."

"Severus Snape!" Greyback suddenly struggled against his bindings, shouting, "What do you think you're doing? We serve the same master!"

"Servants?" Snape said with an unreadable expression. "You don't bear the Dark Mark."

Greyback, mid-curse, froze.

His entire body went rigid.

Werewolves were never given the Dark Mark.

No matter how useful they were, they were always assigned the most dangerous tasks.

"When exactly did the Dark Lord ever acknowledge you as a true servant?" Snape sneered. "Don't flatter yourself, Fenrir—you're nothing more than a beast."

"Does the Dark Lord know about this?" Greyback's eyes widened in disbelief, staring blankly beyond Snape as if searching for some unseen truth.

Snape gave no answer.

Greyback inhaled sharply, his mind beginning to spin with paranoid thoughts.

"Stupefy!"

Harry flicked his wand.

A stunning spell struck Greyback. Unlike transformed werewolves, which had a natural resistance to magic, an untransformed werewolf was no different from an ordinary human.

He collapsed, unconscious.

"Professor Snape, you actually had the patience to banter with him?" Harry muttered, then gave another small wave of his wand. An invisible blade sliced through Greyback's arm, cutting away a small piece of flesh.

Snape immediately summoned dittany, treating the wound—not out of concern, but because Greyback, as a special specimen, held research value. As a Potions Master, Snape would never let valuable ingredients go to waste.

The two of them got to work brewing the potion.

Virgin's tears, parsley, powdered unicorn horn...

As the potion simmered, Snape and Harry debated what to do with Greyback's flesh.

It was an extremely unique ingredient—so much so that in all of Snape's years of brewing, he had never encountered anything quite like it.

A whole, unprocessed piece of werewolf flesh.

No potion ever called for such an ingredient in its entirety. The idea of tossing it in whole felt disturbingly like making stew.

Potion-making should never be reduced to something as crude as cooking.

"Should we just throw it in and see what happens?" Harry suggested, staring at the flesh on the table.

Snape shook his head. "We are brewing a potion, Potter—not preparing a meal."

"Use your pea-sized brain for a moment. This is flesh. It has no inherent magical properties."

Harry's voice was calm. "But it has symbolic significance—it is a piece of the source that spreads lycanthropy. If we alter it, it might lose that meaning."

Symbolism was part of magic.

A complex, mysterious part.

Snape's expression darkened.

Harry's words bothered him—because he was right. From a magical perspective, adding the unaltered flesh was the best approach for a first trial.

But...

He glanced at the bubbling cauldron.

A perfect potion.

A flawless blue liquid.

And now, he had to throw in flesh and turn it into... soup.

"Professor Snape," Harry reminded him, "if you don't decide soon, the potion will set."

"Fine," Snape said reluctantly. "We will try it."

With a flick of his wand, the chunk of flesh levitated.

Waiting for the right moment—

It slowly descended into the cauldron's boiling liquid.

A rich, meaty aroma filled the air.

Snape's face twisted in disgust.

As expected—

The moment the flesh was added, the once-flawless potion took on the appearance of something straight from a house-elf's kitchen, its blue hue fading into a deep, murky brown.

Before long, the potion was complete.

Snape refused to acknowledge it as a potion, yet it retained its magical properties.

With a flick of his wand, he bottled the liquid.

"Which of you will test it?" Snape didn't even bother picking it up, merely tossing the vial onto the table and looking at the two werewolves.

They hesitated.

"One Galleon," Harry offered.

One of them shot up his hand. "M-Me! I'll do it!"

The other quickly followed. "I'll do it for fifteen Sickles!"

"I'll do it for fourteen!"

They began bidding against each other, and the price was about to drop below ten Sickles.

Harry pointed to the first one. "You."

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a Galleon, and tossed it to him.

"There's no need to undercut each other like that."

The chosen werewolf's face lit up. He clutched the coin, nearly tripping over himself as he scrambled to the table, grabbing the potion and downing it in one gulp.

Gulp.

Not even pausing to swallow his spit.

"Tastes like... meat broth with sugar." The werewolf smacked his lips, instinctively giving his thoughts—he had been trained by Snape over time to always report his immediate sensations, just in case the potion had unknown side effects.

"Warm in the stomach... a little salty in the aftertaste..."

The longer he spoke, the more it sounded like a culinary review.

Snape's face was dark enough to drip ink.

"Enough, food critic," he snapped, flicking his wand to silence him. "This is not the time."

"Let's see the results."

Snape turned to Harry.

Among them, no one was better at sensing magical changes than him.

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the werewolf before him.

"No change in magical aura," he said after a moment, shaking his head. Then, lifting his wand, he suggested, "Let's try a transformation?"

The werewolf nodded.

Harry took a deep breath and waved his wand.

A strange, luminous full moon appeared, casting its glow onto the walls.

On the table, the unconscious Greyback immediately began to transform—his body contorting, limbs stretching, fur sprouting in an instant.

The other werewolf, the one who hadn't taken the potion, transformed just as quickly, his form shifting in the blink of an eye.

Snape reacted instantly. With a flick of his wand, he cast a binding spell, restraining the transformed werewolf before he could cause chaos in the office.

But the one who had drunk the potion—

Collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

His fur erupted from his skin like sharp needles, piercing outward, speckled with blood.

His jaw elongated unnaturally, bones cracking and snapping forward—but the transformation wasn't smooth. His entire body trembled violently, ears bursting through his scalp in a slow, agonizing process, leaving trails of blood behind.

It was slow.

It was excruciating.

The werewolf fell to the floor, rolling and howling in pain.

The potion had failed.

Neither Snape nor Harry seemed discouraged.

"This means we're on the right track," Snape murmured, stepping to the desk and pulling out a quill, jotting notes onto parchment. He adjusted the potion's formula while speaking.

Harry flicked his wand, casting a soothing spell to ease the werewolf's suffering.

"Fascinating," Snape muttered, voice airy as he pondered. "The cure for lycanthropy comes from its source? How peculiar..."

"Why would that be?"

"Does the lycanthropic strain have a unique magical property?"

"Some sort of karmic cycle..."

"No, no," he quickly dismissed the thought. "If that were the case, a werewolf could cure itself simply by biting its own flesh—but there are no such recorded cases."

He became fully immersed in thought.

For him, this was a truly intriguing puzzle.

Once the werewolf's transformation was complete, Harry raised his wand, preparing to dispel the moon illusion.

But Snape stopped him. "No, Potter. Wait."

"Let's test this with blood taken after transformation."

"Split the room, separate them, let them return to human form."

Harry nodded.

With a wave of his wand, the room divided into two sections, creating an enchanted barrier between them.

The two transformed werewolves slowly began shifting back into human form—

But for the one who had taken the potion, it was still an agonizing process.

Bones shattered, realigned, muscles contracted painfully.

It was far from a smooth transition.

Soon—

A second batch of potion was brewing.

This time, it carried an even richer aroma of meat broth.

But Snape no longer cared.

Holding the vial, he turned to the werewolves and asked, "Who's drinking this one? Same offer—one Galleon." 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

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Powerstones?

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