Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Yorkshire is the most radiant pearl of the British Isles.

Though modern Britons still struggle with its division into five regions, they continue referring to North Yorkshire by names from decades past—marshlands and moors.

Once, the light of civilization shone here.

Wizards, magical creatures, and various non-human species once called it home. But without exception—except for those magical beings that thrive in swampy terrain—they abandoned this land. Muggles gradually encroached, occupying every habitable patch of British soil.

Yet this land remains among the most livable in Britain: scenic and temperate.

Tonks, ever the restless young woman, dragged Lupin all around town—though, according to her, it wasn't just Ministry-sanctioned slacking off. She insisted it was reconnaissance, a precautionary measure to familiarize themselves with the environment and prevent any unforeseen incidents.

She was very adamant about it.

But each destination turned out to be places like York Minster, Castle Howard, or even the National Railway Museum.

Lupin seriously doubted werewolves would congregate at such sites.

The 25th arrived quickly.

Early that morning, Lupin took his potion along with breakfast. Unlike traditional Wolfsbane Potion, which required a full week of dosing, the new formula—researched by Snape and Harry—only needed to be taken once on the first day of the full moon. The effects would then last until the cycle ended.

"Tonks," Lupin said gravely after downing the final drop, "I must remind you one more time."

Tonks nodded, ticking off fingers. "I know. They're werewolves."

"They may not be as smart as you, or as skilled. But they are werewolves. Don't let them touch you, and avoid any injuries."

Lupin said nothing further.

Tonks concentrated hard, shifting her appearance. Her hair faded into a dull brown-gold, her features becoming plain and unremarkable—nothing like the vibrant Tonks of before.

She conjured a mirror and muttered, "This looks so not cool."

"But very safe," Lupin said approvingly.

With a flick of his wand, he retrieved some cosmetics from his pocket and applied them with practiced ease.

He thickened his eyebrows, padded his nose, deepened his laugh lines...

Tonks burst into laughter. "Remus, you look ridiculous."

"Like one of those salesmen hawking Comet model broomsticks."

Lupin replied solemnly, "So, miss, may I interest you in one?"

"It's miss, not madam," Tonks retorted with mock sternness, emphasizing that she was far from the age—or social status—where madam would apply.

They left the inn.

The werewolf gathering was set in the heart of the marsh—a near-forgotten village dating back to the Middle Ages.

They were guided there by someone—but no one checked their identities. The Ministry was overwhelmed, and no sane wizard would willingly join a werewolf gathering during a full moon.

Once transformed, werewolves recognized no one—not even family.

A single bite could ruin a life.

Lupin and Tonks arrived early. From noon to dusk, more than two hundred people showed up.

"There are this many werewolves in Britain?" Tonks huddled close to Lupin, whispering sharply, her shock raising her pitch.

Lupin's face remained calm. "Not all of them are British."

Tonks nodded.

"But even so, this isn't the full count of British werewolves," Lupin added, voice tinged with complexity. "In fact, Britain has the highest number of registered werewolves in Europe—two hundred eighty-four."

Registered.

Tonks, though naïve, had worked at the Ministry long enough to grasp what he meant.

Being a "werewolf" was a stigma. Even someone as accomplished as Lupin, a top Hogwarts graduate, had faced a life of hardship because of that word—werewolf. Without a few good friends, a decent Headmaster and House Head, and a caring godson, his situation would've been far worse.

Not every werewolf wanted to be registered with the Ministry.

If there were 284 registered, that meant at least that many—if not more—had gone unregistered.

The number was staggering. Tonks' heart quivered at the realization.

"Most of them can thank Fenrir Greyback for that," Lupin said softly. "Harry did us all a favor by taking care of that monster."

Tonks said nothing, clinging tightly to Lupin's sleeve.

The crowd murmured and shifted.

Some stared anxiously at the sky—dusk had come. Darkness was near, and with it, moonrise.

A ragged man stepped forward, holding an ancient wand so worn the core nearly peeked through. He clumsily raised it, muttering under his breath.

The ground beneath him quivered—barely. He tried to reshape it.

But his magic was too weak, his spell too poorly cast, and the wand was subpar. Panicked and desperate, he finally turned to ask for help.

Several others pulled out their wands. Together, with great effort, they managed to transfigure a crude platform.

Tonks stifled a laugh. "They're terrible at casting spells."

"I'm an outlier," Lupin said quietly. "I studied at Hogwarts—one of the best wizarding schools. I'm the only one here who did."

"Most of these werewolves have never even taken a basic spellcasting course."

They were barely more skilled than Squibs, unable to cast even basic magic properly.

The man climbed the platform, cleared his throat, and pointed his wand at his throat. After much hesitation, he gave up on the Sonorus spell.

"Friends, I'm glad you could come. Thank you for accepting our invitation. Today, we—those abandoned by wizarding society—have gathered."

He was desperately imitating speeches he remembered—Fudge, Voldemort, Scrimgeour—trying to deliver a rousing call to action.

But his tone was dry and unconvincing.

"What do you want, calling us here?" someone shouted impatiently.

"The moon's about to rise!"

Once transformed, conversation was impossible. Werewolves didn't attack each other, but they lost all rationality.

Traveling here was no small feat.

Lacking powerful magic or Apparition, lacking standing in both wizarding and Muggle society, most of them were poor.

This journey had cost them dearly. They hadn't come to be fed vague, uninspired rhetoric.

The man froze, then coughed dryly. "Then I'll keep it brief."

"My master, the great Dark Lord—he's developed a potion that can return us to normal humans."

The noisy crowd instantly fell silent.

Lupin and Tonks stared at the man in shock.

What had they just heard?

A cure for lycanthropy?

Impossible.

Tonks was in disbelief. Lupin, thinking of Snape's face, grew suspicious. Much as he appreciated the man in some ways, his first instinct was: Snape stole our research and gifted it to his master.

"The Dark Lord is dead! Killed by Potter!" someone shouted from the crowd—clearly even more skeptical.

The man grew flustered. "The Master isn't dead!"

He attempted to cast the Cruciatus Curse in dramatic defiance—but though the motions were there, he didn't even know the incantation.

"The Master will return!"

The werewolves murmured among themselves, unimpressed. Even those who did believe the Dark Lord might return weren't particularly moved.

Even if he came back—so what? Potter would just kill him again.

"Is the potion real?" someone else asked before Lupin could speak.

The man nodded. "Of course."

"Got a sample? Or someone cured by it?" the skeptic continued. "Potter hasn't produced anything yet."

The man pulled out a bottle, crouched, and set it carefully on the ground.

"This is it. A sample."

"Crafted by my great Master—the supreme Dark Lord. It can cure lycanthropy."

"As for proof..."

"This potion only works under the full moon. That's why I gathered you all tonight."

He uncorked it.

"This doesn't need to be consumed. As long as it's burned before moonrise, the ritual will rid us of our curse."

He struck a match and dropped it in—he couldn't cast fire spells; those were advanced Hogwarts material.

With a hiss, an eerie crimson flame burst forth, casting flickering shadows on his face like a decaying oil painting.

Tonks sniffed. Her expression changed. "Remus—is it just me, or..."

"I smell catnip and dragon's blood," Lupin said, frowning.

"And leap-leaf... and leech juice..."

"None of these were in Harry's formula."

"Then that's not a cure for lycanthropy."

Everything they detected had either euphoric or hallucinogenic properties.

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Powerstones?

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