Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World

Lupin's gaze was extremely sharp.

They obediently opened the car door and got in. Wizards always had a way of making things look different from what they really were—the inside of the car was exceptionally spacious.

Sirius stretched comfortably, spreading his arms wide without hitting anyone's face.

He could even pull out a small bar table and set up a wizard's chessboard.

Arthur had driven the flying car many times. His driving experience was in complete contrast to his lack of knowledge about cars. Even as he chatted with Sirius about car brands, models, interiors, and even the differences between steam engines and internal combustion engines, keeping most of his attention on Sirius, he still drove with remarkable steadiness.

The drinks on the table didn't spill a drop.

The transparent car glided through the clouds, occasionally startling flocks of birds. They flapped about in panic but seemed unaware of anything unusual.

More than an hour later.

Amid Lupin and Tonks' completely disjointed conversation, they landed smoothly.

Sirius was about to push open the door.

"Wait, not so fast. If we step out now, we'll scare the Muggles," Arthur quickly stopped him, rummaging through his pocket before pulling out a silver lighter.

He rolled down the car window and stretched his hand out.

With a click—he struck the flint, and the nearest streetlight looked as if its soul had been extracted. Its light curved in an arc and disappeared into the lighter.

Harry watched, eyes full of surprise.

It wasn't just turning the light off.

It was the concept of light itself being devoured.

"This is something I borrowed from Dumbledore," Arthur muttered, still clicking the device. "He said it's a very powerful magical tool, but apart from turning off lights, it doesn't seem to have any other use."

In no time, the entire square was plunged into darkness.

Arthur wanted to click it again.

"You shouldn't," Harry pressed down on his hand. "Any more, and you'll start turning off the lights inside people's homes."

Arthur sheepishly put the Put-Outer away. It looked plain enough, but pressing it was oddly satisfying.

He raised his wand, about to cast a spell.

Sirius reached out and flicked a switch, lighting up the inside of the car.

"Harry, Remus, take a look at this," Arthur pulled out a piece of parchment and unfolded it.

On it was Dumbledore's signature, flamboyant handwriting:

"The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at 12 Grimmauld Place, London."

The paper looked completely ordinary, as did the writing.

Yet from this apparent normalcy, a wave of magic emerged, wrapping around Harry and Lupin, twining around their wrists before sinking into their bodies.

"The Fidelius Charm," Harry reached out, trying to grasp the magic, but failed.

"Yes," Sirius reassured him. "But don't worry, Harry, this time I didn't suggest anything on my own. The Secret-Keeper is Professor Dumbledore—no one can pry the location out of him."

Harry shook the parchment in front of him.

"No, this is an exception. You had to be told. Otherwise, even if we brought you here, you wouldn't be able to enter," Sirius muttered, frustrated, gritting his teeth.

He rubbed his hands together, and a flicker of Ignis Fatuus ignited, reducing the parchment to ashes.

Then, with a Vanishing Spell, even the ashes disappeared.

Only then did they step out of the car.

The square was pitch black as they carefully navigated their way forward. By the dim moonlight, they could make out vague shapes.

Grimmauld Place had perhaps once been a wealthy area of London, a landmark district. But now it was filthy and decayed, piled high with trash. The air reeked of rot and staleness. The bricks on the houses had crumbled, overgrown with moss and ivy.

It was old.

The house written on the parchment seemed not to exist.

They stood between two houses: to the left was "11," to the right was "12a"—though labeled as "12," it actually represented "13." The British loathed the number "13," often replacing it with other words or numbers.

Arthur didn't need to remind him.

Harry thought to himself: Between 11 and 12a, there is 12 Grimmauld Place.

What was envisioned in the mind became reality.

11 and 12a slid apart, silently retreating to either side. From between them, "12" emerged—a dirtier, more decrepit house. The walls were covered with a rare magical plant that only grew in places almost never cleaned. Professor Sprout had spent quite some time trying to find them.

The door was grimy, its once elegant black lacquer almost entirely peeled away, leaving only a few patches in the corners.

Deep scratches marred the surface, carved into the wood like scars.

Families from Slytherin heritage seemed to have a fondness for snakes. The Black family home was no exception—on its door, a gleaming silver ouroboros serpent coiled into a loop, serving as a knocker.

No one besides those present witnessed this transformation.

The neighbors at 11 and 12a noticed nothing. Even the curious occupant of "8," who had their face pressed against the window, peering outside, remained oblivious.

Sirius pulled out his wand and tapped the knocker.

The silver serpent twisted. Clank—clank—mechanisms shifted, and aged chains grated, producing an ear-piercing, laborious sound. After a long moment, the door creaked open.

"This needs some oil," Sirius sighed.

He ran his hand over the ancient door, his voice tinged with an unexplainable melancholy.

This had once been his home, even if he had never had a happy childhood here.

"Let's go," he shook his head. "Quickly, and be careful."

They stepped across the threshold.

Arthur was the last to enter, holding the Put-Outer. He released the captured lights one by one, and the streetlamps flickered back to life.

Once he stepped inside, bang! The door shut heavily behind them.

The air inside was dark and damp, filled with the mustiness of years long past. Harry raised his wand and cast a Cleaning Charm, slightly improving the air quality.

"How do you turn on the lights?" Harry cast Lumos, illuminating the surroundings.

Sirius grumbled, "I think it's here?"

He walked over and fumbled around. Soon, an eerie glow emanated, lighting up the narrow entryway. The wallpaper was peeling, hanging in lifeless strips. The carpet had been worn smooth from years of footsteps, its original patterns barely visible.

Everywhere, ancient, dust-laden ornaments were shaped like snakes—as if the Blacks were the true heirs of Slytherin.

Harry's senses were the sharpest.

He could hear at least five or six distinct clusters of living things in this house. Cockroaches, doxy swarms, house-elf-sized creatures that shouldn't be here, carnivorous slugs—this place was so neglected it was worse than the Forbidden Forest. At least the air in the forest was fresh.

In the distance, hurried footsteps approached.

Molly appeared at the far end of the hallway, hurrying toward them, keeping her voice low: "Arthur, Harry, you're finally back. You're over ten minutes later than we expected."

"Old friends catching up. We chatted a little longer," Arthur carefully explained. "But don't worry, we didn't run into any trouble."

"Harry." Molly ignored her husband, warmly embracing Harry. "It's so good to see you again. How was your summer? Ron kept talking about you. You look like you've lost weight. But dinner will take a little longer—some doxy swarms started acting up earlier."

Arthur cut in, "You were the one talking about Harry all summer. Ron, George, and Fred have been too busy having fun."

Molly shot him a glare.

Arthur shrank back.

"Do you want to go upstairs? Ron and George are there," Molly suggested. "Hermione hasn't arrived yet. You or Tonks might need to fetch her later."

Arthur grabbed Harry's arm. "I'm afraid not. Harry needs to come with us to the meeting."

"But he's only in his fifth year!" Molly whispered in a small gasp.

Arthur held her shoulders. "But Harry is mature, and far more capable than most adult wizards. The heart of the Order of the Phoenix is Dumbledore and Harry."

Molly sighed, eyes glistening, struggling to accept that a boy no older than her own children bore such a heavy responsibility.

"Dear Aunt Molly, don't worry, I'll be fine," Harry reassured her with another hug.

Molly nodded. "Alright then, if Dumbledore thinks this is necessary, there must be a good reason."

With hurried steps, they left the hallway.

Arthur's voice returned to normal volume. "Sirius, now that you're finally here, after the meeting, we should discuss how to clean up this place."

"I've already said, do whatever you want with it," Sirius waved a hand indifferently, then suddenly paused. "But leave the books for Harry."

Arthur shook his head. "No, this is still your house. We're already feeling bad about borrowing it, so we can't just clean it up however we like. Besides—"

He lowered his voice. "That house-elf is not easy to deal with."

"Kreacher?" Sirius said the name with a sneer.

Arthur nodded.

Sirius gritted his teeth. "Don't worry, I'll deal with him."

The Black family home had been abandoned for years. Though a house-elf remained, it seemed that all it had done was use magic to keep the structure intact—because even such a dutiful creature had given up on maintaining cleanliness and hygiene.

They stepped onto the creaky stairs, which groaned under their weight, sounding as if they might collapse at any moment, and ascended to the second floor.

They walked down a long, dark corridor to the parlor at the end.

The room was spacious, featuring a massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the square and the street outside. One wall had a large fireplace carved into it, with glass cabinets on either side—once elegant but now broken and covered in dust.

The scent of various creatures filled the space.

Live doxy swarms, a trembling boggart that had been played with and discarded, a nest of dead puffskeins, and other non-magical creatures—spiders, cockroaches, centipedes—all huddled in dark corners, clustered together in disturbing numbers.

The parlor had been barely tidied up; at least, the long table was clean, with a brand-new candelabrum placed on it. Several people were seated around the table.

Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, and even Rita Skeeter.

"Why is she here?!" Sirius bristled, staring at Rita in disbelief.

"And why shouldn't I be here?" Rita placed her hands on her hips, looking indignant. "For Mr. Potter, I have risked my life! Even if I haven't earned any merit, I've certainly put in the effort!"

"Got fired from the Daily Prophet, nowhere else to go?" Harry said concisely.

Rita stiffened, tilting her head back. Her square glasses slid down her nose, and she scrambled to catch them and push them back up. "Mr. Potter, how did you know?"

"Because since the start of summer, you haven't published a single article," Harry answered as he took a seat. "I thought you'd been arrested again, but now that I see you here, you're clearly safe and sound."

Rita sighed and slammed her hand down on the table. Crack! A fracture appeared, splintering off a few wooden chips.

She froze, her voice turning panicked. "I-I barely used any strength! That was very light!"

She fumbled for her wand, attempting to cast a repair spell, but the moment the spell hit, the crack only widened.

"I forgot to mention," Sirius said slowly, "this table has been enchanted against magic. Spells won't work on it."

"You Blacks—" Rita's face turned red. She swallowed the curse words she was about to utter, glancing at Harry. "Enchant the furniture against magic?"

"The Black family is insane, one and all," Sirius nodded, helping her say what she dared not. "How should I know what my ancestors were thinking? Maybe they did it to stop the house-elves from using magic to slack off."

"Magical cleaning is far more efficient than manual cleaning," Harry reminded him.

Sirius remained expressionless. "But it's not noble, nor elegant, and it doesn't highlight the difference between master and servant."

Buying a bag of chips from a street vendor wasn't noble at all.

But if you ordered a servant to cross all of Britain on foot, then travel to France to buy a bag of chips, by the time they returned—soggy, cold, and stale—the chips would still be considered noble.

"I'll try to fix it. If I can't, I'll buy you a new one," Rita sighed, resigning herself to her bad luck.

"This table is from the Middle Ages," Sirius reminded her. "Over six hundred years old."

Rita's breath caught.

History meant value—a lot of Galleons.

"Could we, um, wait a bit? Until I find a new job?" Rita asked pitifully, looking miserable. "I just lost mine, and I don't have much money right now."

Sirius placed his hands on his hips, feeling an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction. This wretched woman had caused him so much trouble. Now, at last, she was getting a taste of her own medicine.

"Why were you fired from the Daily Prophet?" Harry asked her.

Rita lifted her hand again, hesitated, then clenched her fist and thumped it lightly against her thigh instead. "Minister Fudge ordered it. No one is allowed to speak in your defense. At first, for the sake of so-called 'freedom of the press,' they grudgingly tolerated a few of my articles."

"But they wouldn't even let me publish photos!"

"The moment the public stopped paying attention, they found some random excuse to fire me—without even severance pay!"

"Bloody Daily Prophet."

"What photos did you want to publish?" Sirius asked her. "Harry's?"

Rita shook her head. "Of course not. The three scraps of parchment from the Triwizard Tournament. Professor Dumbledore allowed me to photograph them."

She paused. "And a few pictures I secretly took in the Auror office. Their corpses—nowhere near as dramatic as they claimed. The key point is that they all had the Dark Mark on their arms. That's the most critical, the most important fact!"

"And the Daily Prophet reported none of it!"

"If those things were made public, it would be obvious that Mr. Potter wasn't being threatened!"

The more she spoke, the angrier she became.

"They're all a bunch of hyenas!" Rita cursed.

Sirius cleared his throat twice.

Rita faltered, then quickly corrected herself. "They're all a bunch of thieving wolves!"

Harry coughed twice.

Rita didn't know about Harry's Animagus form, but she did know about Lupin being a werewolf. She hastily corrected herself again. "They're all a bunch of troll-brained idiots!"

Snape gave a small nod of approval at her choice of words.

"They've completely forgotten journalistic integrity. They don't care about the truth at all! They grab onto rumors and spin the most disgusting lies!" Rita was getting fired up, even standing on her chair. "As journalists, we must always remember to report only the facts to our readers!"

Everyone in the room was giving her an odd look.

Most of them could make that statement.

But Rita Skeeter, the wizarding world's most notorious scandal-mongering journalist, had no right to say it.

The people she was scolding… were only doing exactly what she had done best.

Rita caught their expressions but stubbornly placed her hands on her hips. "I'm different now!"

"Under Mr. Potter's guidance, I've corrected my ways. From now on, I'll be an honest journalist."

Harry remained expressionless. "You just got stuck on a sinking ship with no way off."

Rita's confidence immediately deflated. She slumped back into her chair. "Mr. Potter, you didn't have to say it that bluntly. At least let me believe in myself."

"If you're looking for a job, I might know a place that suits you," Arthur said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Rita's eyes lit up. "Mr. Weasley, that would be wonderful! What paper or magazine?"

"The Quibbler?"

"Wizarding Weekly?"

"Or—"

Arthur cut her off. "No, The Quibbler."

"The Quibbler?" Rita's brain stalled for a moment. Her eyes went blank as she searched her memory. After a long pause, she finally recalled something.

"That magazine that prints all sorts of nonsense that isn't even worthy of being called rumors?"

Arthur nodded, making no effort to refute her description.

"I—I wouldn't even use it to line my garden," Rita shook her head, her face full of resistance.

Arthur spoke earnestly, "But if you want to publish what you've uncovered—like the photos of the Dark Marks on those Death Eaters or the Goblet of Fire spitting out three names—then I'm afraid The Quibbler is the only magazine in Britain with the courage to print them."

"Mr. Lovegood is an exceptionally brave man, at least compared to ordinary folk. He's a romantic idealist through and through."

In other words, he was almost as mad as Dumbledore.

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Powerstones?

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