Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

Don't blame Dumbledore for being overly cautious with a child—especially one like Harry, who was exceptionally gifted. In a world where magic existed, a wizard with immense talent who strayed from the right path could bring about unimaginable destruction—far more devastating than the mistakes of the average person.

Great power combined with unmatched ability could render others utterly incapable of resisting their will.

Many families destroyed, countless tragedies...

In Dumbledore's earlier years, he had misjudged a child once before. His mishandling of the situation had contributed, in part, to that child veering off course. The regret lingered in his heart.

Voldemort.

What if he had approached things differently back then? What if he had been more patient? Could things have turned out differently?

So, when another immensely talented child appeared before him, Dumbledore became exceedingly cautious—extraordinarily cautious.

After all, the weight of the British wizarding world, and even the International Confederation of Wizards, rested squarely on his shoulders. He was, quite literally, Britain's heavyweight champion. And he was growing old.

He was like a banner, a symbol. If Dumbledore fell, there was no replacement in the wizarding world capable of holding the sky aloft.

This seemingly strong yet inherently fragile magical world could no longer endure another Dark Lord's reign of terror.

But none of this had much to do with Harry—or at least, not the Harry of now.

The schedules for new students at Hogwarts were rather relaxed, likely designed to accommodate their curiosity and desire to explore. On the first day after their arrival, the morning was free for them to wander the castle. There was only one Herbology class in the afternoon and a History of Magic class in the evening.

Despite having no morning classes, Harry's routine wasn't disrupted. He was already up before dawn while Ron and the others were still snoring away in their beds.

As a mature shaman, one should be adept in divination and prophecy to guide their people, capable of handling tribal affairs, and skilled enough to wield a warhammer and lead in battle. Harry couldn't bear his current weak state—it left him feeling insecure.

His first goal was simple: rebuild his strength and regain his muscle.

"Why are you here?"

Blocking Harry's path was Filch, a frail-looking man who served as Hogwarts' caretaker. He glared at Harry with suspicion, as if he'd caught a petty thief.

By his side was his cat, scrawny and gray-furred.

"I'm going outside to train, Professor," Harry replied. Filch's appearance was a bit unnerving, and Ron would probably be too scared to speak in this situation. But Harry remained calm. "I didn't realize the castle gates were locked. Luckily, you showed up."

Filch's eyes widened in disbelief.

Professor?

Had he just been addressed as "Professor"? By the Harry Potter?

Caught off guard.

As the caretaker tasked with patrolling the castle at night—essentially its enforcer—Filch wasn't well-liked. Students rarely respected him.

He wasn't used to it. Not at all. It felt awkward.

"...Hogwarts has a curfew," Filch grumbled, turning away. "I'm the only one allowed to unlock these doors, to prevent those troublemakers from sneaking out at night… It's my job to patrol and catch students breaking the rules, then send them to detention." Muttering under his breath, he pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the gate.

"Harry Potter… A first-year, awake this early?"

"I've made a habit of early training. A strong body is essential for combat," Harry explained as he followed Filch outside. "By the way, Professor, your cat doesn't look very healthy—she's far too skinny. Are you sure she's getting proper nutrition?"

"Combat…? Professor McGonagall wouldn't like the sound of that," Filch muttered, suddenly tense. "You mean Mrs. Norris?"

"She's called Mrs. Norris?" Harry knelt, extending his hand toward the infamous cat, who was equally unpopular among students. "Let me take a look."

As Filch's pet, Mrs. Norris was instrumental in helping him catch rule-breaking students. Naturally, she was disliked.

"No, Mrs. Norris doesn't warm up to strangers—"

Filch stopped mid-sentence, stunned. To his amazement, Mrs. Norris actually approached Harry after he beckoned her and allowed herself to be picked up.

She was indeed too thin. Her fur was dull, and there wasn't an ounce of fat on her.

But Harry had another reason for picking her up. Behind Filch, two red-haired figures were sneaking toward the castle gates. Who else could they be but Fred and George?

Noticing Harry's gaze, Fred gave him a wide grin, raising his hands to mimic horns above his head. George, on the other hand, crossed his arms and made a heart shape in Harry's direction.

Those troublemaking twins—were they already heading into the Forbidden Forest on their first night?

Harry sighed silently, deciding to pretend he hadn't seen them.

"You should let her get more sunlight, Professor. Her coat is in poor condition," Harry said seriously. "Feed her chicken, fish, and beef. A daily egg would help too. Oh, and there are Muggle supplements like fish oil specifically for pets. It's great for a cat's health."

"What's that?" Filch asked, growing even more nervous. "Muggle things? They're not poisonous, are they?"

"Of course not. The Muggles have an entire pet industry," Harry replied. "If you'd like, I can write to my aunt and ask her to buy some for you. You can try them out—there are even specific foods designed to plump pets up. Mrs. Norris is already beautiful, but a fuller figure would make her even more appealing."

"Really? Oh, yes! Absolutely!" Filch exclaimed, his face lighting up. "I'll pay for it, as long as you can guarantee it won't harm her."

"It won't," Harry assured him. "It's safe for humans to eat too."

Harry and Filch chatted amicably—a sight that would undoubtedly make any passing student question if they were still dreaming.

After parting ways with Filch, Harry decided to jog along the edge of the Black Lake before heading to the Forbidden Forest to find Hagrid. He hadn't had a proper chat with his first wizarding friend due to Hagrid's work the previous night.

"I didn't expect you to be up so early, Harry. You're nothing like a kid. Even your father—lively as he was—would still be in bed at this hour back in the day," Hagrid remarked, looking sleep-deprived as he hung an enormous bow on the wall.

Hagrid's hut was small but cozy—it gave Harry a familiar sense of warmth.

The crackling fireplace, the animal pelts and bones adorning the walls, and the herbs hanging to dry…

"Can I move in with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, picking up a bundle of herbs roasting by the fire and giving them a sniff. "If it's too cramped, I could build a hut next door. We'd be neighbors."

He'd been seriously considering this since the previous night, ranking it quite high on his priority list.

There was a loud crash as Hagrid knocked something over.

"Why would you think that, Harry? Don't you like staying with your friends in the dormitory?" Hagrid stammered, turning around. "I don't have much here!"

"No, you have everything," Harry said firmly.

Following Harry's gaze, Hagrid looked over—only to see the wall—but he quickly realized what Harry was truly saying.

"Ah-ha! The Forbidden Forest, right? I knew it!" Hagrid exclaimed. "I've spent half my life chasing students out of there, Harry!"

"Clearly, it's too difficult for you, Hagrid, since you're just one person," Harry shrugged. "I just saw Fred and George sneaking back from the direction of the Forest."

"Did you now?! I knew it! I knew it!! Someone snuck into the Forbidden Forest last night, didn't they!" Hagrid now looked even angrier.

"Good grief! Can't they take a break on the first day of term? I could practically replace the word 'students' in my sentence with those twins!"

"Maybe it's because they've been pent up for the entire holiday," Harry offered unhelpfully. "Like I said, Hagrid, you're too busy to handle it all alone. But it'd be a different story if you had some help."

"Oh, you're not about to suggest that help would be you, are you, Harry?" Hagrid chuckled. "You're still too young, Harry. The Forbidden Forest isn't a place for you. Forget it. I won't agree to it, Professor Dumbledore wouldn't agree, and Professor McGonagall—well, she'd certainly never agree!"

What was that supposed to mean?

Why did he list Professor McGonagall after Headmaster Dumbledore?

What are you up to, Hagrid?

No matter what Harry said, Hagrid wouldn't budge. It always came back to Dumbledore and McGonagall. Even when Harry tried to argue that he was technically a shaman who needed his own space to commune with the elements and ancestral spirits, it was no use.

Fine, then. Harry decided to bring this matter to Dumbledore directly. He trusted the open-minded old man to understand.

---

Harry's first class at Hogwarts was his favorite: Herbology. The subject was taught by Professor Sprout, the head of Hufflepuff House.

A truly knowledgeable person—or, rather, as one would expect from a professor at Britain's one and only school of witchcraft and wizardry.

Unfortunately, as a first-year, Harry and his classmates didn't get to encounter any of the more dangerous magical plants, which he found quite disappointing.

The evening's History of Magic class, however, provided Harry with a refined nap. He couldn't understand how Professor Binns' voice could be so soporific. Truthfully, when Harry first learned that the teacher of this subject was a thousand-year-old ghost, he had been quite excited.

He'd imagined the ghost narrating hidden histories in a firsthand, vivid manner... but instead, it was like listening to a cow lull itself to sleep.

---

It wasn't until Tuesday afternoon that Harry finally attended another class he was eagerly anticipating: Transfiguration.

Magic in this world was fascinating. It encompassed every aspect of life, and its manifestations were steeped in an otherworldly charm—a charm so magical it could even exist in Azeroth.

The best example of this was Transfiguration.

Harry couldn't figure out what category this type of spell should fall under. After all, he wasn't one of those magic scholars from Dalaran.

Transfiguration allowed an object to freely change into another object, even turning inanimate things into living, breathing creatures—creatures that could roar, move, and growl. It was like something out of a dream.

Perhaps to open the eyes of the more restless young wizards and put some fear into them, Professor McGonagall—the teacher of the class—began with an impressive demonstration.

With a flick of her wand, she transformed the lectern into a pig that ran, jumped, and snorted its way around the classroom. She then sternly warned the students that anyone misbehaving might find themselves turned into a pig.

Harry, naturally, didn't believe such a threat for a second. What truly puzzled him was what happened before the lesson began: Professor McGonagall, in cat form, had been sitting on the lectern. She waited until everyone was present before suddenly transforming back into a human.

A druid?

Harry was perplexed. Did this mean that every wizard proficient in Transfiguration was essentially a potential druid? Able to transform into anything they desired?

Being a mage was hard enough, and now he couldn't help but want to unravel every mystery.

This question haunted Harry throughout the lesson. No matter how he thought about it, he couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer. All he could do was focus on his wand, pointing it at the needle in front of him.

According to Professor McGonagall, the needle would be their practice object for the week—possibly even the next few weeks. Their task was to use Transfiguration to change it into something else.

For Harry, this wasn't particularly difficult.

The needle felt as malleable as clay in Harry's hands, transforming effortlessly under his guidance—first into a blade of grass, then into a ribbon, and then into a piece of twine.

Harry couldn't understand how the needle became other materials, nor could he figure out where the additional substance came from. From a purely visual perspective, even fifty needles couldn't have been enough to match the thickness of that twine.

Yet, by simply following the instructions in the book and Professor McGonagall's teachings, he could make it happen.

Lost in thought, Harry began to understand why Jaina sometimes fell into a frenzy of magical study. The process of exploring the nature and principles of magic was undeniably delightful.

So much so, in fact, that he didn't even notice when Professor McGonagall had walked over and was now standing by his side, watching him fiddle aimlessly with the needle.

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