Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

While Snape was still dazed, Harry knocked on Slughorn's office door.

Slughorn opened it, flustered at the sight of his visitor. "Oh, Harry, what brings you here?"

He immediately realized how rude that sounded and hastily corrected himself: "I mean—it's only Friday."

Detention was scheduled for Tuesdays.

It was only October, and Slughorn already regretted agreeing to Harry's request.

Ha... now he understood why Professor McGonagall had so enthusiastically recommended him. Why all the other professors had looked so eager to get Potter into his care.

They were all waiting to watch him suffer!

Detention was supposed to last only until curfew, yet sending Harry off by midnight was already considered early. Most nights stretched into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, they even worked till dawn.

Looking at Harry now filled Slughorn with unease.

Was detention going to become a Friday thing too?

This old man—over a hundred years old—simply couldn't keep up.

"I'm not here for detention," Harry said gently, shaking his head.

Slughorn exhaled in relief.

"I've found a cure for lycanthropy," Harry said.

Slughorn nodded vaguely, still basking in relief from not having to endure another sleepless night. "That's wonderful, congratulations, Ha—"

He didn't finish "Harry."

He blinked in shock, finally registering what was said. "What? You cured lycanthropy?"

Harry nodded.

"Truly?" Slughorn asked in disbelief.

Another nod.

"How did you do it?" Slughorn opened the door wider. He hadn't wanted Harry to step into his office even a toe—every time he did, it felt like contamination.

But this was different.

Harry, defile me all you want tonight.

"It was the magic of love," Harry said simply, walking in to explain.

With Snape, he had emphasized love.

With Slughorn, he leaned into the magical theory. But love wasn't something easily explained by a few theories.

By the end of Harry's explanation, Slughorn seriously wondered if Harry was drunk and there to play a joke.

Until Harry brought him to the infirmary, where under the moonlight, Lupin chatted cheerfully with Madam Pomfrey—then he truly believed.

That night, no one in Hogwarts slept.

Tonks and Lupin spent the whole night talking, exchanging every thought they'd stored for years, completely unaware of the passing hours until Madam Pomfrey forced them into bed.

Harry and Slughorn didn't sleep either.

They were busy drafting the paper.

The word love was both too simple and too grand—Slughorn found it maddeningly difficult to phrase correctly.

He felt complicated emotions.

Joyful at witnessing the rise of a new potions master.

Bitter at how little he had contributed. Most of the groundwork had been laid by Snape, and the key "tear of a loved one" had nothing to do with him.

His biggest contribution was simply helping Harry polish the paper.

By morning, they sent it off for publication.

Harry then returned to North Yorkshire.

Scrimgeour, yawning, heard the sound of Apparition from afar and perked up, alert. He turned—and saw Harry and Professor Flitwick.

He relaxed and approached. "Harry, you're back?"

Harry nodded, eyes shifting to the cages. "They haven't turned back into humans yet?"

Scrimgeour shrugged. "Not sure why."

"We had a Healer from St. Mungo's examine them. The potion seems to have triggered something—psychologically and emotionally. They're taking longer to revert. But give it another hour—they'll collapse from exhaustion and revert."

"How are Tonks and Lupin?"

Harry smiled. "Madam Pomfrey scolded them all night. Said their romantic babbling was keeping the younger patients up."

Scrimgeour chuckled.

"Have the werewolves been identified?" Harry asked, watching the cages.

He noticed some were starting to shift, fluctuating between man and beast.

Scrimgeour's smile stiffened. "The Ministry only recorded their human identities. Nothing on their wolf forms. They all look similar to us."

"Teeth, coat color, tail length—all those features vary widely," Harry said.

Scrimgeour pouted.

Not everyone was a Potter with that level of detail-oriented perception.

"Let's move on. How's the Ministry holding up?" Harry asked, withdrawing his gaze.

Scrimgeour looked grim and shook his head. "Not great."

"I was hoping Thicknesse would make a fool of himself with you here, but he's not that dumb. Half an hour ago, he preemptively made up an excuse to return to the Ministry."

Harry nodded.

"Give it a month, maybe two. We'll get this sorted," Scrimgeour sighed. "Those pureblood families are a tough nut. They're doing everything to evade accountability."

He glanced at Harry, tone probing.

Harry remained impassive. "They're adults. Time to own up to what they did."

"We're down to two remaining objectives, and one small nuisance. If the system doesn't work, I'll use my own way."

His stance hadn't changed.

Scrimgeour nodded. "I'll do my best, Harry."

They talked as time passed. The werewolves began turning back, one by one. Naked, pale, and exhausted, they collapsed in their cages. The potion had boosted their instincts—and drained their energy.

The Ministry got to work verifying identities.

Before long, most were confirmed—these had already been registered with the Department of Werewolf Control, and were considered generally law-abiding. Twenty still remained unverified.

Harry flicked his wand.

The iron cages dissolved, returning to earth. Two modest buildings rose up from the ground.

"Pull out the ones connected to the Death Eaters. I'll deal with these twenty. You handle the rest," Harry instructed Scrimgeour.

He herded the twenty into one building.

Simon was jolted awake by a cold stream of water.

He opened his eyes to blurry vision. Slowly, only his left eye cleared; the right remained blind and aching.

His whole body ached with deep soreness—he didn't want to move at all.

A nightmare.

He vaguely remembered one.

Then he caught sight of a man—definitely not a fellow werewolf. His robes were finely made—not luxurious, but definitely high-end wizarding wear. Not something "sub-humans" like him could afford.

He was handsome, black-haired. Simon had seen him somewhere.

Golden, slit pupils—

Slit pupils?!

He snapped fully awake.

It was Potter. The Harry Potter.

"You awake?" The man's voice matched his looks—icy.

Simon turned his head. Around him lay twenty others, all naked, battered, and sprawled on the floor.

"I'll ask one question," Harry said calmly. "Who among you has had contact with the Death Eaters?"

Silence.

"Or more specifically—Barty Crouch Jr.?"

Still no reply.

Harry frowned and flicked his wand, sending out sparks. "Don't make me use Legilimency or Veritaserum. Speak up."

"Was it you who attacked us last night, Potter?" a man snapped. "We could've turned back—"

"You should be grateful I was there," Harry cut in coldly. "Otherwise, you'd all be dead. Rotting in the woods."

The man fell silent.

Simon and others stared in stunned silence.

They didn't doubt it. Their wounds said it all—they knew the difference between injuries from werewolves and from magic.

"The potion Crouch gave you—it boosted your instincts," Harry continued. "Drove you mad. Turned you on each other."

"I don't know what his goal was. But the outcome was inevitable."

Several werewolves fell quiet.

Others cursed, shouted, raged.

"I've now created a potion that can reverse lycanthropy," Harry said, conjuring a chair and sitting down. "No combination of ingredients or spells can cure it. Only true love can. Nothing else."

"Think about it."

"Crouch might've promised you things. Voldemort might have promised you a kingdom."

"But that creature—born of lust and dark rituals—could never give you love."

"Come clean now. Or I'll dig it out of you."

His words fell with eerie softness.

And silence followed.

After a long pause, one werewolf raised a trembling hand. "I... I once followed the Dark Lord. No, the Dark One."

"But I wasn't the contact."

Several others raised their hands too.

"Who was it?" Harry asked.

They glanced around—then shook their heads.

"He's... he's not in this room."

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Powerstones?

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