Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

"How is that possible?!" Hermione said, a bit exasperated. "How could a newborn child possi—Harry, is that even possible for you?"

Her tone suddenly shifted, and the young girl cautiously looked at Harry, doubt creeping into her expression.

Harry: "..."

"Impossible," he said firmly, shaking his head. "The only reason I survived eleven years ago was because of the magical protection my parents gave me. Don't overthink it."

No one knew better than Harry how pitifully powerless he had once been—hardly the image of a naturally gifted wizard.

"I knew it," Hermione sighed in relief. "Talent is important, sure, but hard work is just as crucial!"

"Oh, really?" Ron, ever the instigator, responded with a smirk that could drive anyone mad. "Then why has there only ever been one Dumbledore? Every other wizard pales in comparison, even You-Know-Who couldn't match him."

Strong argument.

"Alright, alright, enough of that," Harry interjected quickly, noticing the two about to start bickering. "So, Hermione, do you want to give it a try?"

Harry had already noticed an interesting trait in the young girl—before knowing his name, she hadn't believed a word he said. But the moment she learned he was Harry Potter, the famous figure of the wizarding world, she started to waver.

A child who deeply respected authority.

"Try... you mean divination?!" Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "You can do that?!"

"Technically, it's scrying. And yes, I can," Harry nodded. "Remember what I said earlier? If someone can't predict the future and provide actionable guidance, they're a fraud. Testing this is quite simple."

"I didn't know you had the gift of prophecy, Harry!" Ron exclaimed, growing excited. "Can you scry something for me?!"

At this point, Harry realized that Ron's enthusiasm was unshakable. If Harry claimed he was more powerful than Dumbledore, Ron would probably only hesitate for a moment—wondering not if an eleven-year-old could truly be so strong, but who between Harry and Dumbledore might be stronger.

Hero worship can be a dangerous thing, Harry thought with a sigh, retrieving a simple divination set from the small package Hagrid had given him.

A small wooden bowl, a larger stone bowl, and a handful of herbs. That was it.

"...That's it?" Hermione's expression was practically screaming doubt.

"Of course. Only those shamans who lack real skill rely on elaborate rituals to seem credible. If you truly have a gift for divination, much of the pomp and ceremony is unnecessary," Harry said casually, placing the herbs into the smaller bowl.

Hermione and Ron were too stunned to respond, for as soon as the herbs touched the bowl, they ignited.

The fire wasn't orange-red but a fine edge of flames tracing along the leaves, glowing a soft blue-green.

Thin, wispy smoke began to rise, but it didn't behave naturally. Defying the laws of physics, the smoke coiled and swirled upward, forming a distinct pillar that floated toward Hermione. It brushed past her ear, slipped through her hair, then poured into the stone bowl like a stream, rippling as if it had a life of its own.

Harry murmured a series of incantations under his breath—words that no one could understand, spoken in the language of the Tauren shamans he'd learned in Azeroth.

When the last of the smoke flowed into the stone bowl, it settled, looking no different from a bowl of water.

Hermione and Ron, holding their breath, stared at the bowl intently. The once-dense smoke had condensed into liquid, filling the bottom of the bowl and steadily accumulating until it was about half full.

Finally, the residual smoke dissipated, curling around the bowl's edges. What remained in the center was a glowing, pale blue liquid that shimmered faintly.

"It's ready," Harry said softly. "Treat your destiny with care, child."

This divination magic, perfected during his time in Azeroth with Jaina's guidance, was a blend of his unique talents and research. It was the very skill that had earned him the title of Shaman Prophet among the Tauren.

For Harry, the act of guiding someone's destiny was something he hadn't done in a long time—long enough to forget that he was technically still a child himself.

But for Hermione and Ron, such thoughts were irrelevant.

In the glowing water at the center of the bowl, an image began to ripple and take shape—it was Hermione, sitting on a toilet, sobbing uncontrollably. Her wizard's robe was askew, and though she clutched her wand, she looked utterly miserable.

"That's not me!!!" Hermione shrieked instinctively, her face flushed a deep red. She slapped the surface of the water, scattering the smoke and liquid in an instant.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Like an enraged lioness, Hermione leapt to her feet, one hand still pressed against the bowl as she glared furiously at the two witnesses to her supposed "future."

"What kind of magic is this?! It's utterly wicked!" Hermione protested indignantly.

"This is the divination you asked for. You simply saw a moment of your future. There's nothing wicked about it," Harry said, refusing to accept her accusations.

"That's not me!" Hermione's voice rose, more flustered than ever.

"I think it's you... right?" Ron scratched his head. "But look, the emblem on your robe—it's Gryffindor! Does this mean you'll be sorted into Gryffindor tonight?"

"It's an illusion! A hallucination! It's not real!" Hermione snapped, nearly shouting. "I won't—cry!"

She forced the word out, brimming with indignation.

"Really? But if it's predicting the future, we'll know for sure tonight when you're sorted into Gryffindor, right?" Ron said, a rare moment of insight flashing through his otherwise scatterbrained thoughts.

Hermione was at a loss for words. She sat back down with a huff, her face red and her posture stiff, looking every bit as puffed up as an offended cat.

----

you can read more advance & fast update chapter on my patreon:

pat reon.com/windkaze