Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Harry's answer was like an anchor stabilizing Cedric's turbulent emotions.

Cedric took a deep breath, his excitement barely contained. "Harry, you're really agreeing? I thought you'd refuse—you're busy, and—"

He didn't finish the sentence, but they both knew what he meant. Harry had far greater responsibilities than any ordinary young wizard should bear.

"And yet, here you are, asking me anyway," Harry noted.

Cedric waved his hands. "I had no choice but to try. Besides, Cho said that Ravenclaw can't stand Umbridge either. You know how Ravenclaws are—they crave real knowledge."

If simply reading books was enough, why even attend class?

Back when Lockhart taught, students had already revolted once. But this time, it was even worse than three years ago—because three years ago, they had never had a good professor. Now, they had experienced real teaching, and losing that was far more painful than never having it at all.

No student could tolerate falling from Professor Black to Professor Umbridge.

Not the diligent ones, nor the slackers.

Even slacking off in Umbridge's class was impossible. She forced everyone to sit upright and act serious.

"You should have Ravenclaw choose someone who can actually represent them—someone who can make decisions. Then we can have a proper discussion," Harry said.

Cedric nodded. "Of course. Tonight?"

"After curfew," Harry glanced at him. "Fourth-floor abandoned classroom."

Cedric hesitated. "The one rumored to be haunted by a monster?"

"Monster?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Cedric nodded. "A small rumor—after Lockhart's death, his lingering resentment supposedly turned into a monster that haunts the fourth floor at night. Filch stands guard to keep it from harming students."

Harry said nothing.

Cedric tried to read his expression, then hesitantly asked, "So... it's not actually a monster, it's you, isn't it?"

"Lockhart was useless when he was alive, let alone dead," Harry scoffed, waving him off. "See you tonight."

He turned and headed back to the common room.

Cedric chuckled and made his way to another tower.

—

After Curfew.

Fourth-floor abandoned classroom.

Cedric arrived with a short-haired, freckled boy.

"Harry, this is Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw Prefect," Cedric introduced. "He's a talented wizard, same year as you."

"Nice to meet you," Goldstein extended his hand.

Harry shook it. "Nice to meet you too."

Ron tilted his head, surprised. "I thought you'd bring Cho."

"It's Zhang Qiu. In her country, the surname comes first," Cedric corrected, emphasizing the pronunciation. "She's my girlfriend, yes, but she's not Ravenclaw's representative."

Goldstein nodded, his tone even. "Some seventh-years wanted to come themselves—they're far more skilled than I am—but they're too busy with coursework. As a Prefect, I understand Ravenclaw's situation better."

"Not everyone agrees with your methods."

"But in Defense Against the Dark Arts, we support you, Mr. Potter. Every student wants to learn properly."

Harry nodded. "I had Crookshanks gather a full schedule for all seven years, across every house."

He gestured.

Without a word or a wand, a thick stack of schedules floated from a desk into his hand.

Wandless, wordless magic.

Both Cedric and Goldstein flinched slightly.

Was this... really something a fifth-year should be capable of?

Goldstein's gaze darted around the room, curious about Crookshanks. He recognized everyone—Ron, Hermione, even Neville—but none of them seemed connected to the name Crookshanks.

"It's Hermione's pet," Harry said, noticing his confusion.

Crookshanks crawled out from under the table, a bag of owl treats clamped in his jaws. He let out an arrogant, self-satisfied yowl.

Goldstein instinctively took a step back. "He doesn't like me?"

Harry shook his head. "No, that's just how he sounds."

Crookshanks let out another low mrowl, then trotted over to Neville and smacked him on the leg. He didn't dare go after Harry, and swiping at Ron would start a fight, so Neville was the safest target.

Neville yelped and winced.

Harry continued. "There are too many schedule conflicts. So, first to fifth years together, sixth and seventh years together."

"Monday nights for younger students, in the Great Hall."

"Friday nights for older students, also in the Great Hall."

"Thoughts?"

Cedric nodded. The schedule was fair. First and second years might struggle, but at least they'd learn something. After all, Harry was still a student—he couldn't devote all his time to teaching like a professor.

Goldstein raised a hand. "I have a question."

Harry looked at him.

"Today, Weasley taught Defense Against the Dark Arts," Goldstein stated directly. "Will he be teaching all the classes?"

"Of course, we don't doubt Weasley—he's talented, ranked third in your year, and Hufflepuff gave positive feedback on today's lesson."

"But if it were you, Mr. Potter, that would be even better."

Harry shook his head. "No. First to fifth years—Neville. Older years—Hermione."

Cedric and Goldstein froze.

"...Longbottom?" Goldstein repeated, momentarily dropping his composed tone. He looked past Harry at Neville, who was still cradling a ginger cat.

Neville looked just as stunned.

Harry nodded.

Goldstein took a deep breath. "If I remember correctly, Longbottom ranked around 50th last year?"

"Herbology was an Outstanding, but barely passed everything else."

"Mr. Potter, I have serious doubts—"

Harry waved a hand. "People change."

"Trust my judgment."

Goldstein pulled out his wand. "Then allow Mr. Longbottom to prove himself."

"If he can't even handle me—"

He paused, then emphasized, "You know just as well as I do, Mr. Potter—Defense Against the Dark Arts is a highly practical subject."

"Please don't tell me he's only good theoretically."

"If he's just theory, we might as well stick with Umbridge's lessons."

Harry nodded. "I'm confident Neville won't have any problems."

He turned to Neville.

"Harry, I—I don't think I'm the right choice," Neville stammered, shrinking slightly.

Harry flicked his wand.

A Levitation Charm grabbed Neville by the collar and dragged him to the center of the room.

Goldstein stepped forward, raising his wand to his chest. "Mr. Longbottom?"

Neville took a deep breath, mirroring the stance. "If Harry believes in me... then I won't disappoint."

They bowed.

Ron counted down.

"Expelliarmus!"

The moment the last number dropped, Goldstein cast his spell.

Neville rolled aside, the Disarming Charm soaring over his head.

Goldstein was skilled—one of Ravenclaw's best. His spellcasting was fast and powerful—even hitting furniture sent shards of wood flying.

But it didn't matter.

The fight was over in seconds.

A Transfiguration Spell.

A Shield Charm.

And finally—a well-placed punch.

Goldstein dropped to his knees, gasping and dry-heaving. Anyone hit in the gut would react the same way.

It took him a while to recover. When he did, he looked at Neville in disbelief. "You're really Longbottom?"

"Of course," Neville nodded.

He looked at Goldstein, his expression complex.

The Goldstein family name was well-known in the wizarding world. Neville's grandmother and uncle often brought up Anthony Goldstein—praising him, hoping Neville would grow into someone like him or Percy Weasley.

And now...

The boy he had once seen as unattainable had just lost. Easily.

Goldstein shook his head. "Your Transfiguration... there's no way it was graded 'Poor.' You transfigured multiple objects instantly. That's an 'E' at the very least—probably an 'O.' Did you deliberately fail?"

Neville smiled sheepishly.

"He's always been talented—just lacked confidence," Harry said. "And his old wand didn't suit him."

Goldstein absorbed that, then finally nodded. He took a deep breath and said solemnly, "Mr. Potter, on behalf of Ravenclaw, we accept your proposal."

Then, after a pause, he pulled out a magically expanded pouch and handed over a bulging, heavy bag.

"This is Ravenclaw's contribution. Consider it payment for your... services."

"One hundred twenty Galleons."

Harry took it effortlessly, weighed it in his hand, and instantly calculated the amount—seventy Galleons, the rest in Sickles and Knuts.

Without hesitation, he tossed it back.

Neville caught it.

Cedric blinked. "You paid him? Why didn't I know?"

"Of course," Goldstein said matter-of-factly. "Mr. Potter's time isn't free."

"And you, of all people, should know—he'd never name a price himself. That's why we had to prepare one."

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Powerstones?

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