Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World

Ron stared at the vial in Snape's hand, visibly trembling.

Was Snape really handing over poison this time?

"Drink it." Snape shoved the bottle into Harry's hand with an expression as firm as his tone.

Ron's fear grew.

Without hesitation, Harry twisted off the cap and downed the contents in one gulp.

The surrounding students gasped audibly.

He actually drank it? From Snape, who despises him the most?

"It tastes terrible," Harry remarked, grimacing. "Like something steeped with a troll's beard for two months."

Snape sneered. "I see you've sampled that before?"

"Just heard it described by the Sorting Hat," Harry replied casually, while the hat under his robes wriggled uneasily.

"Did you take an antidote beforehand?" Snape ignored the topic, his face stern as his tone.

Harry shook his head. "No need to worry, Professor. Let's be blunt—I haven't used antidotes because I don't need them. It's my constitution. Apprentice-level poisons don't affect me."

Antidotes were a significant category in potion-making.

Second-year students had just begun learning the basics of creating them.

However, unlike specialized antidotes tailored to counteract specific curses, spells, or poisons, universal antidotes capable of neutralizing a wide range of toxins required advanced knowledge.

This involved deconstructing the composition of curses and toxins to develop a potion that could counteract all their effects.

Testing the antidote?

That was the most basic and dangerous part of the process.

Even master potion-makers couldn't guarantee they'd avoid harming themselves while experimenting. The list of potion masters who had succumbed to their own brews was long enough to fill an entire book.

"Constitution?" Snape's expression softened slightly. "I didn't expect such an ability to come from the Potter line."

He flicked his robe and turned to leave.

"Professor, what was that potion you used earlier?" Harry stopped him mid-stride.

Snape responded impatiently, "That was a fluid potion—my own invention. You're far from capable of understanding it…"

"I wasn't asking about that one," Harry clarified, cutting him off. "I meant the one that amplified your magical power during the duel."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "So the poison did affect you? Clouding your judgment, perhaps? A young wizard shouldn't meddle with such things."

"I'm only curious about the hurricane spell you cast," Harry countered. "It wasn't ordinary—it seemed to channel external magic."

Snape was taken aback. He turned to Dumbledore and explained, "If it's the effect you're curious about, ask Albus. That was just a basic magic-boosting potion."

"To tap into external magic requires a substantial reserve of internal magic as a base. I only managed it through the potion's effects."

Harry nodded in understanding.

Snape exited swiftly.

"How could you, Harry!" Ron exclaimed, flailing his arms uncertainly, torn between patting Harry's back or forcing him to vomit. "Spit it out now!"

"Spit what out?" Harry looked at him, puzzled.

"The poison!" Ron shouted in panic.

Hermione, unable to watch any longer, sighed. "That wasn't poison—it was an antidote."

"Given all the potions Professor Snape used during the duel, even if Harry didn't seem affected, some of them might not show immediate effects."

Ron's expression shifted as he processed her words. Still, his tone carried lingering suspicion. "So, it was an antidote?"

Harry nodded.

Ron remained half-convinced. Trusting Snape's kindness wasn't easy for him.

The students paired off, ready to begin their practice duels.

Ron and Hermione quickly became the envy of others—they had Harry as their guide.

Meanwhile, Lockhart sashayed between groups, correcting their "errors."

Not their technique, but their lack of flair.

"No, no, no—dueling is about poise! You can't just wave your wand so clumsily!"

Even Professor Flitwick couldn't stand it anymore. Abandoning his chat with McGonagall, he jumped down from the staff table and personally started correcting the students' real mistakes.

Half an hour later—

A house-elf appeared at Dumbledore's side.

Harry's sharp senses caught the movement, and he turned just in time to see the panicked creature whispering something.

The professors' expressions darkened immediately.

Dumbledore stood, raising his wand.

In an instant, all the spells in the hall dissipated.

Clang, clatter— Various objects fell to the ground.

"All students, return to your common rooms immediately," Dumbledore ordered, his expression grave. "Follow your Heads of House and stay together—no straying from your group."

The students' anxiety spiked.

Another attack?!

Who was it this time?

They looked around, checking their friends. Relief swept over those who found everyone accounted for, but others who realized someone was missing turned pale and restless.

The Slytherins, however, remained calm and smug.

They prided themselves on their pureblood heritage.

Whoever was attacked, it certainly wouldn't be one of their own.

The Gryffindors followed McGonagall back to their common room. After ensuring everyone was safe, she left in haste.

"Who was it this time?" Seamus asked, scanning the room as if trying to rule out anyone from Gryffindor.

Neville frowned, visibly nervous. He still worried he might be next.

Some students had already begun writing letters home, desperate to share their fears.

Harry snapped his fingers, uttering the name of the house-elf he'd noticed earlier: "Crow!"

With a soft pop, the elf appeared before him.

The other students gathered around curiously.

It was Hermione's first time seeing such a creature. Wrinkled, poorly dressed, and resembling a goblin yet uglier in detail, she quickly turned her head away, opting to focus on Harry's profile instead for some relief.

"Who was the victim?" Harry asked.

Crow nervously replied in a tiny voice, "It was a Slytherin student, petrified. His name is Marcus Flint."

Seamus cheered, pumping his fist. "Ha! Let's see the Slytherins brag now—"

He stopped mid-sentence, realizing the somber mood.

A Slytherin had been attacked, yet the Gryffindors weren't celebrating. Neville, in particular, looked ghastly pale, trembling.

"What's wrong?" Seamus asked hesitantly.

Ron swallowed hard, his voice uneasy. "Don't you know Marcus Flint? He's Slytherin's Quidditch captain."

Seamus nodded. "I know who he is. So what?"

"He's pureblood!" Ron emphasized. "Flint belongs to one of the sacred twenty-eight families—those 'most pure' bloodlines."

A pureblood.

Seamus' realization hit like a bucket of ice water.

"But—but the Chamber of Secrets legend says the basilisk only attacks non-pureblood students!" stammered a frightened fourth-year pureblood, his voice shaking.

He turned to Crow, suddenly hostile. "Did you make a mistake?"

"Crow never lies to young wizards!" the elf wailed, clutching its ears. "Crow doesn't mistake young wizards either!"

"The basilisk doesn't know who's pureblood and who isn't," Harry interjected, his brow furrowed. "Only the heir chooses the targets."

"And clearly, the Heir of Slytherin doesn't entirely agree with Slytherin's ideology."

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Powerstones?

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