Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Snape doesn't cut it.

To hear such a blunt statement from a student—outright criticizing a professor—was something even a seasoned educator like Slughorn had never encountered.

And to say it so confidently?

Rumors had long circulated that Harry and Snape didn't get along, often clashing or even fighting outright.

With that one sentence, Slughorn fully believed it.

"Harry, Severus is quite excellent," Slughorn offered delicately. "Of course, he may still be young—only in his thirties. Many brilliant and great Potions Masters were still humble apprentices at his age. Compared to them, Severus is already ahead by a large margin."

Harry nodded. "Perhaps he'll be as great as you one day, but right now, he's still young."

He meant in age.

Slughorn interpreted it as "skill in potions," smiling deeply enough to wrinkle his face. "No, not perhaps—certainly. Both Severus and you, Harry, will be far greater than I ever was."

That incident on the train must've been a misunderstanding!

Yes, a misunderstanding.

Harry likely didn't know that Riddle had become the Dark Lord. And it was unlikely he knew about young Barty Crouch either. His earlier remarks couldn't have been digs—they were probably just sincere praise.

I've been too sensitive, Slughorn thought.

Dumbledore clearly exaggerated. Harry was perfectly polite.

His compliments were sweet as honey—just like Riddle used to speak...

"Do you have any thoughts on the potion?" Harry asked, snapping him back to the present.

Slughorn dove into enthusiastic inquiry. He asked why Harry used certain ingredients, what inspired his ratios. Many of the components were entirely different from Wolfsbane Potion, even though Harry claimed his brew had a similar effect.

It looked like something from outside the known canon of potion-making.

"This works on werewolves?"

"This one too?" 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"Merlin's beard—this one as well?"

The unusual combinations stunned Slughorn.

After Harry explained it all, Slughorn nodded slowly. "It's a very interesting concept, but Harry, you're still young. Some of these ideas are underdeveloped."

"Why pair it this way? Why not try this instead..."

"Will you revise the recipe and bring it to me later? Or should we..."

He stopped mid-sentence.

Because Harry had already, wordlessly, begun pulling ingredients from the Sorting Hat.

"We can try now," Harry said, only looking up once everything was laid out. "I brought all the materials."

Slughorn's stomach sank, but he nodded. "Oh. Of course. That's—yes, that's ideal."

They worked until midnight.

An hour past curfew.

"Harry, if you don't head back now and another professor—or Filch—catches you, you'll lose house points," Slughorn warned, glancing at the clock.

"I can Disillusion myself," Harry said without looking up, preparing the next batch.

Slughorn blinked.

That's not what I meant...

"I mean it's getting late," he said more bluntly.

"I'm not tired," Harry replied.

He really doesn't get it!

Slughorn gave up, discarding all subtlety. "It's bedtime, Harry. I'm almost a hundred years old. I don't have your stamina."

Harry sighed with disappointment. "But we got nothing done tonight. Three failed attempts."

Not complete failures.

The modified recipes had produced functioning potions—but they didn't outperform Harry's original version. From a Potioneer's perspective, they had failed to create progress.

Slughorn looked at him and softened.

Such diligence. Such brilliance. Could he really say no over something as trivial as sleep?

He sighed. "Maybe it's my ideas that need work. I'll study them this week. Let's revisit this next Tuesday."

Harry nodded. "Thank you, Professor. Truly."

Slughorn finally saw him out. He rubbed his sore neck, summoned the house-elf to tidy up, and stumbled off to bed without even washing up.

But Harry didn't return to his dormitory.

Instead, he went downstairs—straight to Snape's office.

He knocked.

The door creaked open.

Snape glared. "Mr. Potter, I trust you know it's nearly one in the morning. Barging in on a professor at this hour—what exactly are you after?"

"Five points from Gryffindor for wandering at night."

Harry handed over Slughorn's notes. "Professor Slughorn says you're too young. Your ideas lack maturity. These are the notes I got during detention."

"My ideas are immature?" Snape raised a brow and took the notes.

He skimmed them.

Slughorn had dismissed over half his theories—offering entirely different ingredient combinations.

"This is the old slug's thinking?" Snape snorted. "He dares call me immature? He's far less mature than I am."

"Moonwort? Maidenhair fern? These flashy ingredients do nothing but improve taste. What's the point?"

Harry stayed silent.

Snape paused. "Still... he has some clever angles here. I'll admit, they're not bad. But he's still just the old slug. These approaches—interesting, sure—but he hasn't gotten a single working result?"

"Good thing he didn't dismiss my methods outright, or he'd have no right to call himself a Potions Master."

He waved his wand, storing the notes, and looked at Harry.

Harry looked back.

"It's bedtime, Mr. Potter," Snape said knowingly. "I have classes tomorrow. I won't stay up all night fixing the old slug's mess."

Harry nodded and turned to leave.

Snape closed the door.

He headed for bed—but the notes nagged at him. Eventually, he pivoted, returned to his desk, and started reviewing them. Slughorn was still a veteran master. His reasoning was worth exploring.

In the Potions office...

Slughorn, freshly in bed, closed his eyes—and all he saw was Harry and those confounding questions.

He was old.

But the challenge of curing lycanthropy was fascinating.

He tossed and turned, unable to sleep, and finally got up and went back to work—back to analyzing the formula.

The next morning...

Students noticed that both the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and the Potions professor had massive dark circles, yawning constantly like they hadn't slept at all.

By Saturday...

The grueling first week of term had ended, and students welcomed the long-awaited weekend.

At Hagrid's hut—

Harry, Hermione, and Ron paid him a visit.

"Oh, Harry, Hermione, Ron—come on in!" Hagrid welcomed them warmly.

The hut looked different—neatly tidied, the bed replaced with a beautiful oak frame.

Harry sniffed. "Hmm. Smells like Madame Maxime."

Hagrid froze.

Just as he was about to speak—

"Madame Maxime?" Ron's face lit up. "Hagrid, I heard you went traveling with her this summer. How'd it go?"

"Faint scent, but strong presence," Harry added. "She was here recently, wasn't she?"

Hagrid shook his head. "No—what are you talking about? Olympe's the headmistress of Beauxbatons. She went back already."

"Olympe!" Ron grinned wider.

That was Madame Maxime's name.

Hagrid blushed and scowled. "Ron!"

Harry flicked his wand. "Accio!"

A tattered skirt flew from Fang's dog bed and landed before them.

"Olympe's clothes?" Hagrid blinked. "Ah, that's where it went! No wonder I couldn't find it..."

"A skirt!" Ron gasped. "Hagrid—you and Madame Maxime are that close already?"

Blushing furiously, Hagrid stuffed it into his wardrobe with a wave of his wand. "Nonsense, Ron! Don't be so nosy—you're still a kid."

"I'll be seventeen in under six months," Ron said proudly. "Hard to believe. We all thought you'd get rejected. When's the wedding?"

"Not now!" Hagrid snapped. "Harry—there's something I need to talk to you about. I might need your help."

Harry nodded, conjuring three chairs with a flick. As he sat down, he asked, "Is it about fireworks for the wedding? You should talk to George and the other Weasleys for that."

"If it's wedding advice, maybe ask one of the professors, or..."

He stopped short.

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Powerstones?

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