Harry Potter: From Baldur's Gate to Hogwarts

The next morning, Harry woke up an hour later than usual, the dormitory still filled with the sound of snores. After freshening up, he left the common room and made his way to the location of the Room of Requirement, pacing back and forth.

"I need a portal to Shadowheart and the others."

"I need a portal to Shadowheart and the others."

"I need a portal to Shadowheart and the others."

The wall showed no response.

After pacing for over half an hour without success, Harry was forced to accept the unyielding reality—he had no way to rejoin Shadowheart and the others.

Feeling dejected, Harry stumbled back to the dormitory. He woke the Fat Lady to climb inside, grabbed his books for the day, and woke her again to leave, ignoring her grumbling as he headed to the eighth-floor railing—where he promptly leaned against it in frustration.

So far, Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything, but he didn't blame her. After all, he hadn't been seen for days.

Today, however, was different. While Harry was finishing breakfast in the nearly empty Great Hall and preparing to head to Potions, Hedwig flapped down between his jam and toast, dropping a note onto his plate before tilting her head up expectantly, as if waiting for praise.

Harry extended his hand, channeling magic to trace a rune in the air with practiced ease. As the spell activated, he lifted his palm and cast a small protective charm—Blade Ward.

Then he took a pinch of owl treats from his pocket and held it out. Hedwig eagerly fluttered onto his hand, pecking at the treats while Harry gently stroked her feathers, feeling his mood lighten.

Sensing her master's melancholy, Hedwig didn't fly off after finishing her snack. Instead, she cooed softly and nuzzled Harry's cheek, her beak brushing against his face.

After playing with Hedwig for a while, Harry, now in better spirits, watched her take off before opening the note.

Dear Harry,

(The handwriting was scrawled and messy.)

I know you don't have classes Friday afternoon. Could you stop by for tea around three? I'd love to hear how your first week has been. Send Hedwig with a reply.

Hagrid

Harry glanced at the window Hedwig had flown through, then at the note in his hand.

"…Might as well tell him in person during lunch."

--

Arriving early at the Potions classroom, Harry picked a corner seat in the front row and began reviewing his textbook. (Yes, reviewing—he'd already read through Magical Drafts and Potions and One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi during the summer.)

Potions class was held in a dungeon, colder than the upper castle, with shelves of jarred specimens lining the walls. Harry found the preserved creatures fascinating.

After inspecting the jars up close, he returned to his seat, his wooden chair still cold to the touch. Raising his hand, he cast another minor spell—Prestidigitation—to warm the surface for an hour.

Settling into the now-warm seat, Harry shifted comfortably as he resumed his reading. His focus was only interrupted when a familiar voice rang out from the doorway.

"Harry! Where have you been these past few days? We've all been so worried!" Hermione dashed to his side, scanning him from head to toe anxiously.

"Relax, I'm back, aren't I?" Harry patted her shoulder, trying to reassure her.

"You don't know what it's been like—your disappearance caused such an uproar—" Hermione circled the desk to sit beside him, but leapt up a second later.

"This chair is warm!" Hermione exclaimed, patting the seat.

"It's just a spell. No need to make a fuss," Harry waved dismissively, but Hermione's curiosity was piqued. She bombarded him with rapid-fire questions, her words flowing nonstop.

During this, Professor Snape entered silently, arranging teaching materials with a sharp, probing glance at the pair. Hermione, too engrossed in her interrogation of Harry, failed to notice the looming presence of the Potions Master.

By 8:30, other students trickled into the room, and Hermione reluctantly ended their conversation, though she was frequently interrupted by greetings of "Harry! When did you get back?"

At nine, the bell rang, and the door slammed open with a bang.

--

Snape swept into the classroom, his black robes billowing like the wings of a bat. Instantly, the chatter ceased as Gryffindor students shrank under his intimidating gaze.

Like Professor Flitwick, Snape began by calling roll. And like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he murmured softly. "Harry Potter, our new… celebrity."

Across the room, Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, stifled laughter behind their hands.

Snape's dark eyes glinted coldly as he addressed the class.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, his voice barely above a whisper yet audible to all. "As there will be no foolish wand-waving here, many of you will doubt your abilities. I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of a simmering cauldron, its shimmering fumes, or its power to ensnare the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't the dunderheads I usually have to teach."

The room fell into a stunned silence. Harry raised an eyebrow, while Hermione perched on the edge of her seat, eager to prove herself.

"Potter," Snape suddenly called out, scanning the class before focusing on him. "What would you get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry hesitated. Beside him, Hermione's hand shot up like a rocket.

"Some kind of sleeping draught?" Harry ventured.

Snape sneered.

"And where, Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

"The stomach of a cow," Harry replied without hesitation. He'd used bezoars frequently in Faerûn.

"Well... at least that wasn't completely idiotic," Snape remarked softly, his black eyes gleaming strangely. "One final question, Potter. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Recalling the herbology textbook's illustrations, Harry scratched his head. "Professor, I don't think there's a difference…"

A few chuckles rippled through the Slytherin side of the room but quickly died under Snape's glare.

"Barely adequate," Snape concluded, his tone dripping with disdain. "Sit down, Potter, and stop blocking the view."

--

Potions class proceeded, and Gryffindor students faced a nightmare.

Snape paired them up to brew a simple cure for boils, prowling the classroom like a menacing shadow. Almost everyone—except Malfoy—earned a sharp rebuke as they chopped nettles and crushed snake fangs under his watchful eye.

As Snape motioned for everyone to admire how flawlessly Malfoy had steamed his pot of tentacled slugs, a sudden eruption disrupted the underground classroom. A puff of acrid green smoke burst from one corner, followed by a distinct hissing sound, the crash of a cauldron hitting the floor, a chair toppling over, and the chaotic yelps of young wizards.

Snape pushed through the panicked crowd and quickly strode to the scene. There lay Neville, drenched head-to-toe in potion, rolling around on the floor, howling in pain. His exposed skin was covered in a horrifying rash of swollen blisters.

Snape's eyes darted to the warped and misshapen cauldron lying on the ground next to Neville, then scanned the surrounding students. A flash of fury surged within him.

"You imbecile!" he roared, flicking his wand to vanish the spilled potion in one swift motion.

"I suppose you didn't bother to take the cauldron off the fire before dumping in the porcupine quills, did you?!" Snape barked, exasperation etched into every syllable as he glared at Neville, whose blistered face contorted with misery.

"Take him to the hospital wing immediately! And don't touch his skin directly!" Snape ordered Seamus, who stood frozen beside Neville, looking utterly lost. His voice then lashed out toward Harry, who sat nearby. "Potter! Why didn't you warn him to remove the cauldron first? What's the matter? Did you think letting others fail would somehow make you look better? Five points from Gryffindor—"

Harry remained unfazed, calmly continuing his potion brewing. Snape's temper boiled over.

"Make that ten points from Gryffindor!"

At lunchtime, Ron plopped down next to Harry, gnawing on two roasted chicken legs, muttering indignantly. "I'd bet my broomstick that greasy old bat only picks on you because he's jealous of your fame as the Boy Who Lived! There's not a single decent person in Slytherin!"

"You do realize I almost got sorted into Slytherin, don't you?" Harry said nonchalantly, popping a fried meatball into his mouth. "So, according to your logic, I'd be one of the 'bad ones' too, huh?"

Ron froze mid-bite, startled, but quickly shot back, "That's different! You ended up in Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat clearly knew you belonged with us!"

Harry shrugged.

The meal finished quickly, and Harry stretched as he stood. "Ron, I'm planning to visit Hagrid. Want to come along?"

"Hagrid?" Ron asked through a mouthful of food, but before he could respond further, a blur of bushy brown hair bounded over.

"Harry, you're going to see Hagrid? I'm coming too!" Hermione declared. Since their first meeting, she had spent an increasing amount of time with Harry—more than one might expect from someone her age, who would typically prefer the company of other young witches.

"Alright, once Ron finishes eating, the three of us can head over."

Ron blinked, still chewing, confused about when he had agreed, but resigned himself to being included.

Half an hour later, the trio left the castle, descending the grassy slope toward the wooden hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The cozy house, standing just over five meters tall, was flanked by a vegetable garden on one side and neatly stacked firewood on the other. By the door sat a pair of oversized rubber boots, nearly as large as Harry himself.

Harry knocked on the door, but after waiting for a while, there was no response.

"Let's wait here. Hagrid's probably patrolling in the forest," Harry suggested after pressing his ear to the door.

The three of them settled on the steps outside, chatting idly. Three minutes passed. Then six. Then ten. Ron grew restless.

"Harry," he said, "why don't we just go into the forest and look for him? Who knows how long he'll be gone?"

"The Forbidden Forest? Are you mad?!" Hermione shot back instantly. "Dumbledore explicitly told us on the first day that it's off-limits! If you sneak in there and get caught, you could be expelled—or worse, put in detention and lose house points!"

"How is losing points worse than being expelled?" Ron retorted, unwilling to back down.

The two were soon arguing heatedly, their voices rising as Harry sat between them, his patience wearing thin. Just as Harry was about to step in and put an end to the squabbling, a deep barking sound rang out. A towering figure emerged from the woods, accompanied by a massive dog.

Hagrid was finally back.

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