Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Hermione looked rather pleased.

Aside from Professor Sprout, she had never seen anyone actually enjoy detaining Harry—no, more precisely, enjoy the process of assigning Harry detention. Not even Snape could manage that.

It was visible to the naked eye. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Ever since Harry entered Hogwarts, Professor Snape's hair had been thinning every year. Especially in the past year or two, he looked increasingly like a standard middle-aged British man—aside from his still-slender figure.

"How can you call it detention?" Harry shook his head, gently interrupting. "I'm just an ambitious student aiming for new heights in potions. A professor like Slughorn should be thrilled about that, don't you think?"

They laughed as they chatted.

The train came to a stop.

The weather was poor this year—thick fog everywhere. Hagrid came to greet them, holding up a massive oil lamp, lighting a small path through the haze.

He raised his staff-like wand and boomed, "First-years, over here!"

"Oh, and Harry," he added.

"If you're free this weekend, could you stop by the hut?"

Harry nodded. "Of course."

Hagrid let out a breath. "That's wonderful."

He waved his enormous lantern, conjured silk from his wand, and began tying it around the wrists of each little witch and wizard—he had originally intended to tie it around their necks, which was his usual method when handling magical creatures like thestrals, unicorns, or centaur foals. Only as the silk approached a young wizard's neck did he remember—these were human children, not beasts.

Foggy weather was the most dangerous.

In the rain, the kids would stay close, knowing the danger of losing sight of the lamp. But fog lulled them into false security.

There had been multiple occasions when first-years wandered off in fog, and the professors had to scramble to find them—ruining the Opening Feast.

Older students led their groups. Younger ones followed behind.

Ron had just gotten the second- and third-years sorted when—

An uproar broke out.

"Malfoy! What the hell are you trying to pull?!" Blaise Zabini shouted. They'd just seen each other in Slughorn's Compartment C.

"Do you really think being Slytherin Prefect lets you boss us around?"

"You telling us what to do now?!"

Everyone turned to look—even some first-years, tugged along by silk cords, peeked curiously. But not even all the little first-years together could pull Hagrid off his path.

The Gryffindors paused too.

In the fog, Malfoy's face wasn't clear, but the emerald eye glittered brightly.

"Ha... You can actually say something that stupid?" Malfoy's voice was cold as the mist.

"Really makes me wonder how you managed five years in Slytherin."

He slowly raised his wand.

"Zabini, you really should've been a Gryffindor."

Ron cursed aloud. What the hell? Gryffindor was clearly the best house in Hogwarts now! Of the ten top O.W.L. scorers, four were Gryffindors—FOUR! Slytherin barely scraped together two. They were nearly down with Hufflepuff.

Before he could finish ranting—

Malfoy cast a spell.

Fast and sharp. In a flash, white light shot out.

Ropes wrapped around Zabini, binding him.

A second spell, cast almost simultaneously, hit without a sound—just a surge of malicious magic. Zabini's skin cracked open, blood pouring down his face.

"Malfoy, you fatherless bastard!" A seventh-year whipped out his wand and aimed.

He roared, ready to cast.

But what was a bully with no combat experience compared to someone who'd survived multiple death matches over summer?

He didn't even finish the incantation.

Malfoy struck first.

A prank spell—Engorged Tongue Hex. A favorite of Slytherin bullies in second and third year, one that inspired Fred and George's Ton-Tongue Toffee. But they'd abandoned it later—not out of guilt, just because small bodily changes weren't entertaining enough anymore.

Now, the seventh-year realized just how useful that old prank spell really was in a duel.

He couldn't speak.

"My father died protecting his family," Malfoy said coldly, his emerald eye gleaming.

"But what about yours?"

"I've heard things..."

"They're running themselves ragged, desperately trying to hold onto their positions."

"How disappointing. Did Dumbledore's softness give them such false confidence that they think it still works now?"

"I can't wait for the day our fathers meet again in Hell."

He flicked his wand.

The seventh-year's robe twisted and turned into a long rod, hooking under both Zabini and the other boy's wrists, hoisting them into the air.

"Anyone else have a problem with what I said?" Malfoy scanned the Slytherins—especially those who had crossed him the most in the past two years.

No one dared speak.

After a beat—

Malfoy nodded slightly. "Good. Then we proceed as I said. Older students lead. Younger students follow."

The Slytherins dispersed in silence.

Malfoy walked at the front, steps firm.

The other three Houses watched in stunned silence.

Ron smacked his thigh. "Harry, he's copying you! No wonder he felt so familiar."

Harry said nothing.

Luna suddenly popped up beside them. "That's normal. Malfoy needs to protect himself. Naturally, he'll imitate the best of his peers."

Ron jumped. "Luna, where did you come from?"

"Ginny and Neville—and another couple—sent me. They're planning something and want you," Luna said sweetly, her carrot earrings swinging.

"Did Neville meet a Crumple-Horned Snorkack over the summer?"

They collectively ignored that last part.

"Mum reminded me to look after you before term started," Ron sighed, opening the carriage door and climbing in first.

"Little Ronnie can see thestrals now?" Luna asked as she followed.

Ron blinked. "What?"

"Wrackspurts," Luna said, waving over his head. "They're all around you. I've only seen that many around Hermione during fourth year."

Ron batted them away instinctively before realizing, "There are no Wrackspurts!"

"There are," Luna insisted.

Ron sighed, looking at the thestrals pulling the carriage.

Before this year, he hadn't been able to see them.

But after witnessing Neville and Bellatrix's brutal fight... after seeing Neville decapitate her...

Now he could.

It left him with complicated feelings.

Before, he had been jealous that his friends could see them while he couldn't.

But now...

These creatures weren't majestic. They were thin, bony, like black-skinned corpses—not even the glossy black of Sirius' hair, but dull, lifeless.

Thestrals weren't nearly as cool as he'd imagined.

And death—wasn't graceful at all.

Luna chattered about her summer, mostly about her dad. Mr. Lovegood had become quite the popular bachelor, with a steady stream of ladies visiting—including the infamous Mrs. Zabini.

A woman of refined taste.

At only thirty-five, she'd already had seven husbands.

She kept the surname from her first. The money came from the rest.

Each died tragically, yet all had adored her to the end. The Ministry had long suspected foul play, but no proof ever turned up.

Now she had her eyes on Mr. Lovegood.

Luna wasn't pleased, but thankfully, her father was immune to feminine charm.

After inviting Mrs. Zabini to hunt Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the Amazon three times, even she had enough.

Ron laughed all the way.

Luna was just starting on her father's fourth suitor when the carriages stopped at the castle.

They headed to the Great Hall and sat at the long tables.

Professor McGonagall rushed over. "Oh, no—Harry, I only just realized! The Sorting Hat was still with you!"

Harry removed the hat. "Sorry. I needed it over the summer for some important things."

She shook it out. "Can you call it back?"

Harry tapped his wand lightly.

The hat shimmered back, grumbling, "Harry, I was having the time of my life. Haha! You'll never guess where I was just now!"

"Haha, and you'll never guess what time it is now," Harry said, cold and sharp.

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Powerstones?

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