Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

This house wasn't far from the old Potter home—just four houses away, across a narrow alley.

The yard was overgrown and neglected. Wild grass choked the ground, and a lone ornamental tree twisted grotesquely, its branches sprawling without grace.

Fresh footprints led to the front door—whoever had arrived earlier hadn't even bothered to knock off the slush from their boots, leaving the entrance a muddy mess.

"Looks like Madam Bagshot's final years weren't exactly pleasant," Harry observed, surveying the scene.

One could tell a lot about someone's life from their garden.

Weeds, crooked trees, scattered stones—these things didn't appear overnight.

If Bagshot had retained any pride in living, she wouldn't have let her surroundings become this unkempt.

For Muggles, yard work might be a challenge. But not for witches and wizards.

Ornamental magic was a standard class. One swish of the wand could accomplish what might take Muggles days. And even if not, there were always house-elves.

The truth was...

Bagshot likely didn't have a single soul left who cared enough to visit her. If anyone had, this yard wouldn't be in such disarray.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Once, when I was young and so was Madam Bagshot, she was quite popular. Suitors lined up past Godric's Hollow."

"But, dear Harry, most weren't chasing her, really."

"Even if no one advertised it, most people eventually learned she was Grindelwald's aunt."

True love is like gold hidden in the desert.

And despite the fortune her book A History of Magic must have brought her, Madam Bagshot never found that gold.

Grindelwald's familial connection undeniably tainted her life.

Creak—

The front door opened.

Tonks peeked her head out, fully shielded behind a protective armor charm.

Three familiar faces.

But the Auror didn't relax. She drew her wand and, with a flick and a shake of her sleeve—clack!—something dropped into her hand.

Only after the spell-check revealed nothing unusual did she breathe a sigh of relief and open the door completely. "Harry, Professor Dumbledore, and Mr. Geralt—you're fast. Minister Scrimgeour thought you'd arrive closer to noon."

Harry spotted what was in her other hand: a sneakoscope, lying silently in her palm.

"The Wild Hunt isn't something the Ministry can handle," Harry said, stepping forward. "What did you find?"

Tonks shook her head. "Nothing, really."

She added, "We got a call from Scotland Yard at 3 a.m. Something seemed off in the wizarding part of Godric's Hollow."

"We reviewed the Muggle police report."

"A few Muggle eyewitnesses said the weather suddenly turned bitter cold, and they saw a group of knights in armor, leading black dogs—" she paused, hair flashing silvery gray "—sorry, it's just, that fits the Wild Hunt legends perfectly."

"But Muggle police investigated and found nothing amiss besides the strange cold."

"So, we had them hand the case over to us."

Harry nodded, walking toward her. "Why are you handling it?"

Tonks gave a long-suffering look. "Because Remus went to Hogwarts!"

"I was bored at home—figured I might as well take on extra work. Earn some future baby formula money."

Harry blinked at her.

"Ma'am, you're not even pregnant yet," Geralt noted, seasoned eyes reading her instantly.

Hands on her hips, Tonks grinned. "It's only a matter of time."

"I've already proposed to Remus. Once this is all over, we're getting married—I'm not letting Harry beat me to the altar."

Harry stopped at the doorstep and glanced at the snow. "How long were people standing here?"

"No idea," Tonks replied. "But don't worry—we've collected the footprints. Six individuals. And three sets of dog prints—"

"Not just that," Harry interrupted. "I want to know if anyone visited before the Hunt came."

"You can tell that?" Tonks asked, surprised.

Dumbledore remembered what Harry did in fourth year, outside the Riddle house.

"This snow's been falling heavily. It settles in layers," Harry explained. "Disturbances leave patterns."

Geralt looked at Tonks. "I thought Sirius once told me Aurors are supposed to specialize in crime scenes?"

Professionalism should come with expectations.

This was basic knowledge.

"Don't expect too much from the Ministry," Harry sighed.

"Harry!" Tonks' expression darkened.

"I'll rephrase," Harry offered. "Aurors are still wizards. Wizards have spells to solve problems most of us struggle with. So, they tend to rely on magic, not their eyes or ears."

He didn't finish the sentence, instead glancing meaningfully at her head.

Tonks felt very insulted.

Before she could lash out—

"For example?" Geralt asked calmly.

Harry side-eyed him. "You shouldn't ask questions that make others uncomfortable."

"Your answers just made it worse," Geralt chuckled.

"Enough!" Tonks snapped, gripping her wand.

"Alright, let's head inside," Harry said, deciding the yard held no further secrets.

Geralt waved them off. "You go ahead—I'll check outside one more time."

Tonks cooled down quickly. "Sorry. I'll remember that."

"And once we sort out Thicknesse, I'll make Kingsley write that into the staff manual."

They entered the house.

The Aurors present stiffened slightly at Tonks' words but quickly lowered their heads and pretended to work harder. Best not to provoke her.

Not just because of her current status.

But also because of her skill—an innate Metamorphmagus was not someone to cross.

Tonks flicked her wand. Two bundles of files flew over. "This is the Muggle report."

"And this is ours."

To their credit, the Auror report was fairly thorough.

No signs of struggle inside the house—just a spell mark on the bedroom wall, likely from a Shield Charm, Stunning Spell, or Disarming Spell.

Most of the house remained untouched, but the study had clearly been ransacked. Most books had been taken.

While Harry reviewed the files, Geralt came in.

"Find anything?" Harry asked.

Geralt shook his head. "No. It's a mess. Two people smoked by the door and kept stomping to stay warm."

Tonks shot a sharp look at the Aurors, who started bustling again.

"At least they protected the crime scene," Harry said, trying to comfort her. "The only problem is how large it is."

He set the files down. "We'd better check upstairs."

Harry double-checked everything himself.

Then they followed Tonks toward Gosharck's house.

"I checked Bagshot's study," Harry murmured. "The books that were taken were all about modern wizarding history—none of the ancient stuff. Some were just general magical creature guides, like Fantastic Beasts."

Dumbledore halted slightly.

"That's... bad," he muttered.

"As for everything else," Harry concluded, "the Aurors did a decent job. Their report matches reality."

They arrived at Gosharck's home.

It was the opposite of Bagshot's.

Clearly elegant when she was alive. Her garden bloomed with color—frozen in place by a magical frost that stopped time at its last moment.

But it wasn't White Frost.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been more careful than Tonks. As personal guard to the Prime Minister, he had extensive contact with Muggles—and had picked up their forensic skills. The scene was fully secured. No one had walked the path from garden to door. All Aurors had Apparated inside.

Those less accurate with Apparition had been side-alonged in.

Tedious, yes.

Two Aurors had already injured themselves and been sent to St. Mungo's.

Harry and Geralt leaned in to inspect the pathway, then sighed in unison.

"But the scene's protected, right?" Tonks asked, confused.

They hadn't liked the first crime scene because it was contaminated.

But this one was pristine—what was the problem?

"Madam Gosharck received lots of visitors," Harry said. "There are too many overlapping prints—we can't tell which belong to Crouch's accomplice or the Wild Hunt."

He turned to Kingsley. "Do we have a report?"

Kingsley nodded and summoned a stack of parchment. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

Harry read carefully.

Madam Gosharck was still relatively young—only in her seventies—and a master of charms. She had some fighting ability.

"A strange but powerful freezing spell covered the garden," Kingsley explained. "Is this the White Frost you mentioned?"

"No," Harry shook his head. "That's the Hunt's magic."

"A frost spell."

"It reminds me of someone—Caranthir. The Hunt's navigator. A sorcerer who specialized in frost and teleportation."

Ciri had once described several key members of the Wild Hunt.

Caranthir was one of the most dangerous.

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Powerstones?

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