Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

"Are you alright?" Harry asked as Percy walked up beside him, fresh from a duel. "Sorry about that."

"Merlin, don't apologize, Harry, really, don't," Percy sighed. "I didn't think much of it at first, but the moment you apologized, it just felt... strange."

Harry burst out laughing. He had to admit, apologizing as the victor did come across as rather ironic—almost as if he were apologizing for going too hard on his opponent.

"You're really impressive, Harry," Percy said earnestly. "Both in Transfiguration and in your dueling performance. If you're interested in dueling, you might want to ask Professor Flitwick for some pointers—he was a dueling champion in his youth."

"That sounds fascinating," Harry said seriously. "I'll definitely ask him."

Harry rather enjoyed dueling—it felt like being in an arena, satisfying his itch for competition and keeping him from growing complacent in this peaceful world.

Despite the students' lingering excitement, the Transfiguration Club session eventually came to an end.

As Harry watched Professor McGonagall bid farewell to the last student, she waved her wand. Within seconds, the office returned to its usual state, the desks neatly arranged, books stacked, and a few student essays lying atop them.

"Sit down, Harry," Professor McGonagall said. "Let's talk about your issue."

"Alright, Professor." Harry took a seat, considering where to begin. "Before becoming a wizard, I first became a shaman."

Previously, Harry had explained his innate magical abilities to McGonagall. But after re-evaluating his situation, he had decided to be completely upfront.

He spoke at length—about the existence of the Astral Plane, the unique perspective of shamans, what the world looked like through an astral viewpoint, the shamanic belief in the spirits that inhabit all things, and the ethical duty to respect and protect those spirits.

Harry explained everything in thorough detail. He needed Professor McGonagall to fully grasp the challenges he faced and the reasons behind them. Only then could they find a solution.

"So, your shamanic spells rely on requesting the aid of elemental and spiritual entities, is that correct?" McGonagall finally asked. "No wonder you said that Transfiguration—magic that imposes one's will upon external objects—feels uncomfortable to you. It's fundamentally a different worldview."

"Exactly," Harry nodded. "You might think I'm just being overly sensitive, but for a shaman, these principles are crucial. A shaman who crosses that line too easily will find it difficult to stop."

Harry could, if he wished, forcefully bend elements or spirits to his will. He had the capability. But he would never do so.

A shaman worked with the spirits and elements as equals. Sometimes, he would be refused, and that was fine. He never got angry or took offense.

Often, the line between human and beast lay in that single step—once you crossed it, there was no stopping the descent.

Some things should never be done.

Especially in a world filled with scheming conspirators, tempting demons, and the whisperings of eldritch gods, holding firm to one's bottom line was the only way to safeguard one's soul and integrity.

"Oh, Harry, I would never think of it that way," McGonagall said, her gaze softening. "Anyone with strong principles is worthy of respect, and yours are particularly... righteous."

She hesitated for a moment before settling on the word "righteous."

Righteous and kind.

"I must admit, everything you've told me is unlike anything I've ever encountered," McGonagall confessed. Then, with a small smile, she added, "If this is what you plan to teach in your Shaman Club, I'd be quite tempted to enroll as a student myself."

"Then, Professor, I would be more than honored to have you," Harry replied, grinning. "And just so you know, I wouldn't take points from Gryffindor for poor performance."

McGonagall chuckled, her lips curling in amusement.

"I do believe I've outgrown the age where I worry about losing House points," she said wryly. "But let's get back on topic. Harry, I've noticed you borrowing quite a few books from the library. How far have you gone in your study of Transfiguration?"

"Not very deep, Professor," Harry admitted honestly. "My reading has been broad rather than focused—I'm trying to gain a general understanding of the magical world as quickly as possible. I've only delved into Transfiguration up to the point relevant to my current problem."

"Until I resolve this issue, I don't think I should bypass it and dive into deeper Transfiguration studies. That could be dangerous."

"That's a very mature and prudent approach," McGonagall praised. "Honestly, I should have some of the more reckless students learn from your attitude toward unfamiliar magic and unknown knowledge."

Harry's caution was understandable. In Azeroth, those who approached power carelessly didn't tend to live very long—and they often died in gruesome ways.

"Let me put it this way, Harry," McGonagall said seriously. "As you advance in Transfiguration, you'll eventually learn that upper-level courses focus not just on changing one object into another, but on the theory and fundamental principles behind it."

"There's one unbreakable rule in Transfiguration, known as Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," she continued. "This law outlines five major limitations of Transfiguration. The first and most well-known is that a wizard cannot conjure food from nothing. However, if food already exists, Transfiguration can be used to increase, decrease, or alter it."

"Is that change permanent?" Harry asked. "If so, wouldn't that mean wizards have access to an endless food supply?"

"It sounds unbelievable, doesn't it?" McGonagall smiled. "But yes, it is permanent—though in practice, few wizards rely on this method. Fresh food is simply better."

"I know it's hard to wrap your head around, but magic has a way of defying expectations," she said, her tone turning serious. "Now, the second rule is particularly important: the boundary between the living and the non-living cannot be permanently altered."

"A wizard can transfigure objects into animals or vice versa, but such changes are temporary. Once the magic fades, the transformed object will revert to its original form."

"So if you turned a cat—" Harry hesitated, catching McGonagall's sharp glance, "—alright, a dog—into a chair and then smashed it to pieces, would it still be alive when it reverted?"

"If you can restore the chair fragments back into a complete chair before the magic dissipates, then the dog is still alive," Professor McGonagall replied.

"What if a piece is missing?"

"Then the dog will be missing a part."

"So magic isn't omnipotent after all. I mean, it can't turn the impossible into reality," Harry said with a chuckle. "In some ways, it exceeds my imagination, but in others, it has its own set of limitations."

"Magic was never omnipotent, Harry," Professor McGonagall sighed. "If it were, then wizards wouldn't have so many regrets… Now, back to Transfiguration. The third rule of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration states that wizards cannot conjure magical items. For instance, the self-stirring cauldrons or automatic quills you see in Diagon Alley."

"The fourth rule is that you cannot alter the quantity of objects. That is, you can't turn one object into multiple. However, if two objects are connected, they can be transfigured as a whole—if you transfigure a person wearing clothes into a dog, then when they change back, the clothes will still be there separately; they won't become a permanent part of the dog."

Professor McGonagall spoke rapidly.

"Apart from that, the last and most important rule is that Transfiguration can never create something from nothing," she said with particular seriousness. "You might have heard of or seen spells from upper-year students, such as 'Avis' or 'Orchideous.'"

"These spells don't actually create birds or flowers out of thin air. Their nature is that of summoning spells—they call birds or flowers from elsewhere and then leave them behind or send them away."

"I see," Harry nodded. "So according to the fundamental laws of Transfiguration, if a living being is transfigured, as long as it isn't damaged before the magic fades, it won't suffer any physical harm."

"Then… during this transfiguration process, will its spirit be affected or tainted by the magic?"

"The best way to answer your question is through an experiment," Professor McGonagall said, glancing around her office. "From your perspective as a shaman, Harry, is there anything in my office that possesses a spirit?"

"Yes, Professor, quite a lot, actually. For example, that hairpin in your hair," Harry answered.

Professor McGonagall froze. She reached up, took the hairpin from her hair, and let her locks fall loose.

"You mean this?"

"Yes." Harry nodded, staring at the hairpin in her hand. "Its glow is very strong—gentle, warm, and filled with blessings. May I ask… where it came from?"

"…It was a gift from my late husband," Professor McGonagall said softly, her fingers brushing over the hairpin with a complicated expression.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry said, understanding at once.

Generally speaking, relics of the deceased or gifts given during their lifetime often carried spirits.

"It's alright," McGonagall's breath hitched slightly. "According to what you've said, this hairpin has a spirit? My husband's…?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry interrupted her. "For gifts given by the deceased during their lifetime, the spirit usually forms from the recipient's long-term use and emotional attachment rather than anything directly tied to the deceased."

"…I see." McGonagall took a deep breath.

And Harry… Harry started wondering if he had been a little too blunt.

"Maybe we should pick something else for the experiment, Professor," Harry said sincerely. "That clock over there would work—it carries the weight of history."

That was the magic of Hogwarts—you could always find old objects brimming with history anywhere. Harry often enjoyed strolling through the castle in his free time, searching for ancient spirits.

"No need. We'll use this," McGonagall said decisively. She waved her wand, and a string tied her hair back once again, restoring her usual neat and efficient look.

"I am not a shaman, nor do I know what this astral plane you speak of looks like. So you'll need to observe carefully with your unique perspective, Harry." She pointed her wand at the hairpin on the desk. "I'll count down. Three, two, one."

At the end of the countdown, the hairpin on the desk suddenly transformed into a cat—a plump, fluffy, orange tabby. It stretched out a paw, scratching deeply at the student essays nearby before arching its back in a lazy stretch. Then, it sat down on the desk and started licking its fur, looking very content.

"Harry?" Professor McGonagall's voice was quiet. "From your perspective… has its spirit changed?"

It might have been his imagination, but Harry thought he detected a trace of… barely perceptible anxiety in her voice.

Unfortunately…

"…It has changed, Professor," Harry said regretfully. "Though some of its previous traits remain, its spirit has become livelier, more active, and filled with curiosity—just like a real cat."

The office fell into silence. No one spoke.

Harry truly regretted it, because from his perspective, this meant that transfiguring an object with a spirit—whether turning an inanimate object into another inanimate object or into a living being—was ultimately a distortion of its original essence. It was an act of forcibly altering and controlling a spirit with one's own will, a practice that went against the path of a shaman.

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