Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World

"Rowena always had her ways. She was incredibly clever," said the Sorting Hat, recounting ancient stories. "The forest next to the castle was far too dangerous back then."

"There were even dragons living here."

"Godric and Salazar wanted the Forbidden Forest to serve as a trial ground for young wizards, but they couldn't convince Rowena and Helga."

"So Godric added a condition to his heir's trial—only the most exceptional Gryffindor would be able to truly conquer this forest."

Harry, expressionless, continued collecting the venom from the dead Acromantulas.

"Scared by the trial?" the Sorting Hat teased.

Harry shook his head. "No. I'm relieved, actually. It means George and Fred likely won't face any real danger in here."

The Sorting Hat hummed an old tune, lost in nostalgia.

Harry didn't stop it this time. When he finished collecting the venom—nearly three-quarters of a pint—he sealed the bottle and tucked it into the Sorting Hat.

"Time to move on," he said quietly. "And stop singing. I don't need you drawing attention to me."

The Forbidden Forest grew more perilous the deeper he went.

Harry encountered lurking Devil's Snare, Red Caps hiding in the shadows, and swamps filled with mosquitoes, Boggarts, and Fire Crabs. These creatures were far more dangerous in the wild than in any classroom.

By the time the second night fell, he was still far from his destination.

Consulting the map under the moonlight, Harry realized he was only halfway there. He sighed, knowing he wouldn't make it back to Hogwarts in time for Monday's classes.

He found a small hill, checked thoroughly for any lurking creatures, and set up camp beneath a tree.

Reaching into the Sorting Hat, he pulled out a thick dragonhide pouch. He opened it to reveal another, smaller dragonhide pouch, and then shook out several solid, dry lumps onto the ground.

The Sorting Hat groaned in disgust. "If it weren't for this trial, I never would've let you put that in me."

"It's useful in the wild," Harry said, waving his wand to gather dry branches and leaves into a makeshift campfire.

With a snap of his fingers, the fire roared to life.

Harry broke off a chunk of the dry substance and tossed it into the flames.

A strong, pungent odor wafted through the air, carried by the wind.

It was dragon dung.

Obtaining dried, clumped dragon dung wasn't easy. Sirius had spent two days tracking it down. Burning such powerful creatures' waste was one of the best ways to ward off lurking magical beasts in the wild.

Harry leaned back against the tree, laying the Gryffindor sword across his lap. He closed his eyes and entered a meditative state.

In the wild, there was no luxury of deep sleep. He remained vigilant, occasionally tossing more fuel or dragon dung into the fire throughout the night.

By dawn, Harry was refreshed and ready to continue.

"Harry, did you really rest properly?" the Sorting Hat asked, puzzled.

Harry stuffed the dragon dung back into the hat, causing it to hiss in annoyance. "I'm fine. In the wild, you can't expect perfect conditions."

He pressed onward.

The deeper regions of the Forbidden Forest, untouched even by centaurs, were far more treacherous.

Finally, just before the third sunset, he reached the marked location—a small, ruined garden.

It wasn't large: a pavilion stood at its center, surrounded by moss-covered walls and vines creeping over stone columns adorned with intricate carvings.

At the garden's entrance, a stone gate lay in ruins, showing signs of a Blasting Curse.

Harry knelt to inspect the gate.

"It must've been the previous trial-taker," he muttered.

"A hidden garden, deep in the Forbidden Forest," Harry said, looking around with a blank expression. "Was this Godric's secret meeting spot with his lover?"

The Sorting Hat bristled. "How would I know? It's my first time here too. The last person to take this trial wasn't bold enough to carry me off from the Headmaster's office like you did."

"So, you admit Godric had secret lovers?" Harry teased.

The hat jabbed him with its pointed tip, denting itself in the process. "Hey! Godric would never! At least… not that I know of. And he certainly wouldn't bring along a chatty hat to a date!"

Harry pulled the dented tip back into shape. "So, you admit you're chatty?"

"I'm not chatty!" the hat huffed indignantly.

Ignoring it, Harry waved his wand. A fallen branch twisted into a small cat, which padded cautiously toward the garden.

The conjured cat stepped through the broken gate, across cracked stones and mossy paths, its paws leaving faint prints in the dirt.

There were no signs of life—no disturbances in the vegetation or traces of magical creatures.

Harry frowned. That was strange.

Calling the cat back, he pointed his wand at the broken gate. The stones twisted into small humanoid figures that scuttled into the garden, poking around every corner and crevice.

Still, nothing stirred.

"Godric wasn't the type to set traps," the Sorting Hat said defensively.

Harry wasn't convinced. He cast protective spells on himself, layering Quen and Shield Charms, before stepping carefully into the garden.

Inspecting every detail, he found nothing unusual. Time had eroded most of the garden's features.

But as he approached the pavilion, something caught his eye.

The columns holding up the pavilion were etched with delicate patterns, faint traces of magic lingering on them. It was these enchantments that had kept the structure standing for over a thousand years.

Harry's gaze stopped on the last column. Amid the intricate carvings, one symbol stood out sharply—a bird in flight.

A swallow.

Harry's eyes widened.

"That symbol… how did it get here?"

"Oh, a bird carving," the Sorting Hat remarked. "It's a bit crude. Perhaps it's worn down?"

But Harry wasn't listening. His mind raced as he searched the other columns and the garden for similar symbols.

None.

Only that one column bore the swallow mark—ancient and weathered, but unmistakable.

It was Ciri's mark.

The symbol of the Elder Blood, representing her power to traverse time and space.

"She was here?" Harry whispered, astonished.

The Sorting Hat, oblivious to his thoughts, suggested, "I doubt you'll find more clues out here. See that stone table in the pavilion? It's cracked. Care to guess what it's for?"

Harry shook off his distraction and approached the table.

Pulling out the Sword of Gryffindor, he slotted the blade into the crack.

A surge of ancient magic flared to life, wrapping around the sword.

Even after a thousand years, the enchantments had not faded.

The stone table glowed briefly before the magic subsided. Harry grasped the sword.

Suddenly, he felt a hook pull at his navel, and the world spun wildly around him. He hurtled through a swirling void, his body flipping as though trapped in a giant washing machine.

When he finally landed, he staggered and immediately cast Aard to steady himself.

"Easy there, little Gryffindor!" a voice called out, nervous yet warm. "It's just a Portkey. Didn't they teach you about those in Charms class?"

Harry lifted his head, taking in his surroundings.

He stood in a sealed room—no windows, no doors, but the air was dry and warm, suggesting it wasn't underground. The room was bare, devoid of furniture or decor.

The voice had come from a portrait.

A red-haired, green-eyed man stared back at him, tall and regal, exuding an air of authority.

"Godric," the Sorting Hat exclaimed, startled.

"Ah, my old friend!" Godric Gryffindor smiled warmly. "I thought our reunion would've happened five centuries ago."

"You should visit Hogwarts more often," the hat muttered, its point drooping in sadness.

Harry translated, "It's been lonely. It misses Hogwarts—though mostly it misses being a scratching post or chatting with Fawkes."

"Harry!" the Sorting Hat gasped, scandalized.

Godric burst into laughter. "The trial's terms prevent me from leaving here. But I've longed to see Hogwarts again. What's it like now?"

"It's thriving," Harry replied. "Though it's had its share of trouble. In my first year, a Dark wizard broke in. In my second year, the Basilisk wreaked havoc. Last year, we were surrounded by Dementors. But other than that, it's been great."

Godric stared in disbelief. "Sounds like the current Headmaster is a bit… inadequate."

"Albus is exceptional," the Sorting Hat snapped defensively. "This mess started after Harry arrived. It's clearly his fault."

Harry, deadpan, asked, "So what exactly am I doing wrong?"

The Sorting Hat fell silent.

Godric's gaze lingered on Harry. "Wait… you're only in third year?"

Harry nodded.

"Godric, he's exceptional," the hat boasted. "He pulled the sword from the Sorting Hat during his first year. And look at his eyes—like a lion's!"

Harry flinched at the mention of his eyes.

Godric frowned. "Lion's eyes? Come closer."

Harry stepped forward, heart pounding.

Did Godric know something?

After a long moment of scrutiny, Godric shook his head. "Dear hat, lions don't have slit pupils. They have round ones."

The Sorting Hat froze in shock.

Harry's voice was calm but direct. "These eyes… do they remind you of anything?"

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Powerstones?

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