Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World

The footprints near the entrance were faint, dust settling lightly over them.

At least two hours had passed.

Soft music drifted from within. Harry peeked cautiously inside, his gaze sweeping the room. A harp played itself in the corner, while a slumbering three-headed dog snored along to the melody.

The trapdoor on its back had been opened, revealing a passage leading underground.

Besides the dog and harp, there was no trace of other magical auras.

Harry drew his sword and stepped inside.

Reaching the trapdoor, he didn't jump immediately. Instead, he bent down and peered into the dark below. Despite the lack of light, his vision was unhindered.

Twisting vines and deep-blue tendrils resembling roots greeted him—it was Devil's Snare. Beneath it, there was no other plant life.

So, this is just… a cushion?

Satisfied, he leaped down. The Devil's Snare immediately coiled around him.

With a wave of his hand, he cast an Igni Sign. Sparks flew, and the vines recoiled at once, releasing him and letting him drop unceremoniously onto the ground, barely a meter below.

He continued forward.

A swarm of magical auras buzzed faintly in the air.

Harry could see them clearly—keys with wings, flitting about and humming like insects. Near the locked door leading to the next room, a broomstick was propped up.

The challenge was obvious.

Harry was a skilled flyer, but now wasn't the time for games.

Approaching the door, he pointed his wand and cast, "Alohomora!"

Nothing happened. A counter-charm had been placed.

"Open Sesame!" he tried next.

With a bang, the lock exploded, smoke billowing out. Harry pulled the door—still, it refused to budge.

The protections were thorough.

Harry clicked his tongue in frustration. Placing his hand on the door, he muttered, "Aard."

The magical blast sent cracks spidering across the wood. Harry raised his foot and kicked. The door splintered, wood shards flying everywhere.

Much faster than playing fetch with a broomstick.

The third room was an ornate sight.

A massive chessboard filled the chamber, the pieces towering as tall as Harry.

Harry groaned. He was good at cards, but chess? Not so much.

He circled the board, approaching the door on the other side. He grabbed the handle, but it wouldn't budge.

He decided to use the same method as before, preparing an Aard Sign to break through.

But the moment he cast the spell—

The room's magic roared to life, surging chaotically.

Crack, crack!

The chess pieces animated, brandishing weapons and moving toward Harry.

It seemed he would have to play their game after all.

Casting a Quen shield around himself, Harry dodged and rolled, darting past the pieces to reach the other side. Swinging his silver sword, he lopped off the bishop's head.

These constructs were simple magical automatons.

Annoying, but not dangerous.

In less than ten minutes, the room was littered with shattered chess pieces.

Harry stood unscathed, barely breaking a sweat.

Behind him, the room's magic began to stir again. The fragments of the chess pieces twitched and crawled back together, beginning to reassemble themselves. Within thirty minutes, they'd likely return to their original state.

Harry blasted open the next door and moved on.

A foul stench hit him as soon as he entered.

At the center of the room lay a troll's corpse.

Harry approached cautiously, inspecting it. The body was still warm—no more than an hour dead.

There were no visible wounds.

The Killing Curse…

He sliced off a clump of the troll's coarse hair, ignoring the grumbling protests of the Sorting Hat as he stuffed it inside. Without delay, he pressed on to the next room.

A table awaited him there, bearing seven bottles of various shapes and sizes.

The air around him thrummed with powerful magic, and as soon as he stepped fully inside, the magic was triggered.

Black flames erupted along the walls and doorways.

Not Fiendfyre.

These flames lacked the curses' corrosive malice, but their heat was intense and deadly. Charging through them, even with a shield, wasn't an option.

Approaching the table, Harry found a note beside the potions, written in a familiar scrawl.

It was a riddle—unmistakably Snape's handiwork. The man had a knack for creating challenges that were exasperating for fools and vexing for the clever, all so he could deliver his trademark sneer: "A brain the size of a troll's."

Witchers might favor swords and signs for problem-solving, but that didn't mean they lacked intellect. Efficiency was simply a higher priority—sometimes having a brain didn't mean others did too.

Quickly solving the riddle, Harry selected the correct potion and drank it. Passing unharmed through the flames, he entered the final chamber.

This room was starkly simple.

Empty save for an ornate mirror.

In front of it stood his target, gazing greedily at the reflection, his face flushed with a grotesque happiness.

He was lost in his delusions.

"Fool! Someone has entered!" a hoarse voice snapped, tinged with urgency.

Quirrell whipped around, but saw nothing.

"Invisibility Cloak—it's Potter!" the voice hissed again.

Quirrell brandished his wand. "Hurricane Sweep!"

Harry calmly pulled off the cloak and stuffed it into the Sorting Hat.

"Potter," Quirrell drawled, his tone dripping with disdain. "I thought it might be someone else. Snape, perhaps—always meddling."

"Nice to see you again," Harry said, nodding. "You're looking well. Has your kidney healed?"

Quirrell's expression soured instantly. "Such a sharp tongue. It seems you always appear where you're least wanted. Is this Dumbledore's backup plan? A first-year student? How insulting."

"Maybe I didn't need to come at all," Harry shrugged. "Looks like you haven't found the Philosopher's Stone yet, and it's been hours."

"Potter!" Quirrell trembled with rage, raising his wand. "Perhaps you haven't learned your lesson from our last encounter!"

Harry sneered. "A man who took a sword to the kidneys has no room to talk."

Quirrell began to cast a spell, but the hoarse voice interrupted, "Let me see him."

Quirrell froze, his face contorted with fear. "No, Master, you're not yet strong enough—"

"Do it!" the voice barked. "I'm not that weak!"

Reluctantly, Quirrell raised his trembling hands, unwrapping the turban around his head.

As the fabric fell, so did the illusion.

Harry saw the grotesque truth—a bald head with a face grafted onto the back. Snake-like slits replaced a nose, and cold, red eyes stared back at him.

"Potter. At last, we meet."

"Voldemort," Harry muttered, gripping his sword tighter and summoning another Quen shield. "You're as ugly as they say."

"You seem tense," Voldemort sneered. "Why? You're the 'Savior,' after all—the boy who defeated me, the greatest of all Dark Lords, reducing me to this shadow of myself!"

He chuckled bitterly. "Forced to share a body with my servant! Trapped inside this foul-smelling turban!"

Harry smirked, his tone dripping with mockery. "Explains why you don't have a nose."

Quirrell flinched, while Voldemort's face twisted into a hideous snarl.

"Potter, we can negotiate," he said, his voice laced with a sinister charm. "I see ambition in you, despite your placement in Gryffindor. Your eyes… they're as beautiful as my Nagini's, my most prized serpent."

"Together, we could share the Philosopher's Stone's power. It could even bring your parents back to life."

"People say these eyes look like a cat's or a lion's," Harry replied coldly. "Do you know what they have in common?"

Voldemort narrowed his gaze.

"They hunt snakes."

The Dark Lord maneuvered Quirrell toward the mirror. "Do you know why Dumbledore placed this here?"

Harry remained silent.

"It's the Mirror of Erised. It reveals one's deepest desires," Voldemort continued. "I see myself restored, invincible once more as the greatest Dark Lord."

"Don't you want to know what you desire most?"

Harry shook his head. "No thanks. Not interested."

With a flick of Voldemort's wand, the mirror swung to face Harry. Despite stepping aside, his reflection lingered.

It showed Harry pulling a crimson stone from his pocket, which he then tucked away.

Reality mirrored the vision.

Harry felt a weight in his pocket and knew instantly—it was the Philosopher's Stone.

His expression darkened.

Voldemort's laughter rang out. "

It's as I thought! Dumbledore underestimated me yet again. Hand over the stone!"

He raised his wand, and serpents spilled from his robes in an unending tide.

Harry responded with an Igni Sign, flames consuming the snakes, before casting a blue blaze with his wand to obscure their view.

The true danger wasn't the snakes.

As Harry moved, a serpent morphed into a wall, blocking his path. Shifting direction, he was forced to stop abruptly.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The Killing Curse shot toward him, aimed precisely where he'd intended to retreat.

Harry slammed his sword into the ground, propelling himself away just in time.

"Aard!"

The magical blast shattered the conjured wall, leaving a clear path.

With practiced agility, Harry closed the distance, his sword poised to strike Quirrell down.

But—

Shhh-thunk.

Two sharp sounds echoed.

Voldemort smirked, pointing his wand directly at Harry. "You're predictable, Potter. I've anticipated this."

"Goodbye, Potter."

"Avada—"

Before he could finish, Harry clenched his fist and swung, landing a solid punch.

A searing, blistering sound erupted as Voldemort's face bubbled like molten wax.

Harry's scar throbbed painfully.

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Powerstones?

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