Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

Just think about Harry's requirements for a moment.

First of all, the armor and weapons couldn't be too large, because Harry was at an age where he was still growing. As a result, the armor was a simplified version: enough to protect his chest, back, arms, and legs, but without gloves or bracers.

In fact, it was basically just a breastplate and greaves—adjustable to Harry's size, thanks to a flexible structure with gaps. This same design, however, lowered its protective capabilities, which explained its affordability.

Another reason for its low cost was that the armor and weapons weren't truly magical. In Azeroth, they'd be classified as white-tier equipment: utterly ordinary. Any Muggle blacksmith could make something similar, so naturally, they weren't worth much.

Until Harry could craft his own weapons and armor, he planned to make do with these simplified versions.

To Copperring, Harry Potter's peculiar, almost archaic request seemed like a child's whimsical fancy—a celebrity's little plaything.

But in Harry's eyes, these were no mere toys. Even if this gear was nothing more than basic white-tier equipment, wearing it enabled him to meet the criteria for casting certain spells.

As for the three cloth robes he'd bought at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions? Harry only planned to use them as cloaks to avoid attracting attention.

After all, in the wizarding world, he was already drawing quite enough of that.

The fitting process for the robes passed without incident. Although, there was one blond boy who, clearly bored, kept trying to strike up a conversation with Harry. Harry, however, ignored him.

The boy's tone and the subtle arrogance in his words activated Harry's internal alarms. Without a doubt, this was a poorly-raised child, and Harry had no intention of helping to rectify someone else's parenting mistakes—so long as the boy didn't cross him.

After the measurements were done, Harry requested a copy of his dimensions from Madam Malkin, planning to send them to Copperring via owl to commission a set of fitted armor.

Hagrid was waiting outside for him, holding a cage containing a snowy owl classified as a snow owl.

"Birthday present, Harry," Hagrid said with a broad grin. "Hope yeh like her—I figured yeh wouldn't be one fer toads or anythin', so I picked out this fine young lady. Ain't she beautiful?"

"She's wonderful, Hagrid," Harry said earnestly. "Thank you. I needed an owl to send messages, and she's perfect."

A friend's gift always lifts the spirits.

Returning to the world where he was born, Harry felt as though he'd made his first true friend.

A giant who pretended not to be a giant.

"Glad yeh like her," Hagrid said, scratching his unruly hair in delight. "Now, there's just one last thing—we need to get yeh a wand."

A wand!

Let me repeat: no one can resist the thrill of getting new gear. No one—not even Harry.

The wand shop where wizards purchased their weapons matched Harry's earlier imaginings perfectly. It had a distinct old-world charm but was meticulously maintained, without a speck of dust in sight.

Ollivander's Wand Shop felt incredibly cramped. Even though Hagrid didn't come in, muttering excuses as he stayed outside, Harry still found the space tight. Shelves lined with long boxes stretched to the ceiling on either side, and some open boxes revealed wands resting inside.

A room full of magical weapons. Harry judged them to be at least blue-tier in quality, with a few epic purple-tier ones mixed in.

Perhaps even more extraordinary, these wands seemed to have their own spirits, which made them all the more precious.

After all, shamans believe everything has a spirit—storms, fire, water, nature, animals, even ancestors. Shamans communicate with these unseen spirits, relying on them for guidance and strength.

Naturally, Harry quickly sensed the spirits of the wands. It was as if they were trying to communicate with him, but their voices were too faint.

Oddly enough, though he'd been in the shop for some time, no one had come out to greet him. Still, Harry thought that if all he had to do was choose a wand, he could handle that on his own.

Closing his eyes, Harry listened to the call of the spirits.

The countless wands displayed in the shop transformed into a multitude of leaping souls, each vying for his attention.

This one was too lively—Harry preferred something more composed.

That one was too passive—it barely stirred in response to his call.

Some were cool and reserved; others were agitated and reckless. Some surged forward boldly, while others seemed restless and uncertain. Frankly, Harry was overwhelmed by the variety.

Fortunately, after carefully sensing each one, Harry finally stopped in front of a particular shelf. Opening his eyes, he stood on tiptoe and deftly pulled down a box from the top row. Inside lay a wand, resting calmly in its place.

It was as black as obsidian, with a matte surface so smooth it resembled polished jade. Its understated elegance exuded a quiet strength that demanded attention.

Clap, clap, clap.

Harry looked up to see an old man with silvery-white hair standing on the mezzanine, gazing at him. The man's pale eyes shone like twin moons in the dim shop.

"Marvelous, simply marvelous," Ollivander said softly, his voice full of wonder. "It seems you've made your choice."

Harry had the distinct impression that Ollivander wasn't just speaking to him but also to the wand in his hand.

"Such remarkable talent, my boy," Ollivander said with genuine delight. "I always thought only members of the Ollivander family or those who've worked with wands for years could see their glow. Yet here you are, so young, and already able to perceive it."

"I only saw their spirits, really," Harry said modestly, noting Ollivander's choice of words for the wands and matching his phrasing. "You have an incredible gift too, sir."

The compliment was heartfelt. If Ollivander could sense and communicate with the wands' spirits, Harry thought, he was the most likely candidate for a shaman among all the wizards Harry had met so far.

"Spirit? That term sounds like something an African shaman might say," Ollivander chuckled a few times. "But as far as I know, many of the spells at Uagadou are cast using fingers or hand gestures."

Uagadou is Africa's premier wizarding school, holding the same esteemed status as Hogwarts and boasting a history of over a thousand years. It's an internationally renowned institution.

"If a wand can enhance the power of magic, then I think using a wand is the optimal choice," Harry responded.

"...That's a rare perspective, Mr. Potter," Ollivander gave Harry a surprised glance. "From what I know, most wizards aspire to silent or wandless magic because it represents both convenience and personal strength—even though the power of spells tends to diminish without the use of a wand."

"That sounds... self-defeating," Harry mused, carefully choosing a less confrontational term. "If there's effective equipment available, why not use it? Especially when it can amplify one's abilities."

After all, weapons should be the best you can find. Even guardians—who stand at the pinnacle of the magical profession—still rely on wands to stabilize their magical flow and enhance their power.

To Harry, deliberately foregoing a tool that clearly enhanced one's abilities to cast spells was an incomprehensible choice.

"Well, it does look impressive, and of course, it's convenient," Ollivander replied, increasingly fond of Harry's practical view on wands. "Mr. Potter, if you're truly interested in wands, I'd be delighted to take you on as an apprentice when you're in your seventh year. As I mentioned earlier, you have quite the talent."

"However, seven years is a bit far off, and it's too early to make such decisions," Ollivander continued without waiting for Harry's reply. "Right now, Mr. Potter, what you should be more concerned with is the wand in your hand."

"Yes, the wand," Ollivander's voice dropped to a somber tone as he seemed to drift into memories. "Your eyes are the same as your mother's, a lovely shade of emerald. She purchased her first wand here, ten and a quarter inches, willow wood… Your father, on the other hand, preferred a mahogany wand, eleven inches, pliable, with stronger power, particularly suited for Transfiguration…"

Harry found the old man's memory far sharper than he had imagined—or perhaps it was simply because his family was so famous?

"And now, Mr. Potter," Ollivander suddenly leaned closer, his gaze gleaming with a mysterious light. Harry noticed he was actually peering through the fringe of his hair at the scar on his forehead. "Everything is different now."

"I once thought you would end up with this wand," Ollivander muttered, retrieving a wand from the shelves. "Holly wood, phoenix feather core, eleven inches long—what's most important is the core. It shares the same core as the wand that left you that scar."

"What could this mean? Have you transcended your destiny? Broken free from its bonds? But why? What happened?" Ollivander fell into contemplative silence.

"...Voldemort's wand?" Harry ventured, piecing together what Ollivander seemed to imply.

"Oh, don't say that name, child!" Ollivander shuddered visibly, snapping out of his reverie. Pointing to the box Harry held, he added, "Take it up. Thirteen and a half inches, ebony, with a thunderbird tail feather core."

Harry hesitated not a moment before picking up the wand. He couldn't quite describe the sensation—it was as if his arm had extended, warm and perfectly under his control.

The air filled with a scent of fresh grass, reminiscent of what Harry had smelled on Thunder Bluff, mingled with the warmth of sunlight on his skin and the faint rumble of distant thunder.

Ollivander clapped his hands once more.

"Talent—pure talent," he said, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. "Only a rare few are able to find a wand truly suited to them."

"Ebony wands typically choose individuals with the courage to be themselves, those who defy convention and thrive as outsiders," Ollivander explained, speaking of wand materials with expertise. "You are someone who can ignore external pressures and hold steadfast to your beliefs, Mr. Potter."

"How extraordinary. Why did I ever think of pairing such an unconventional wand with a thunderbird tail feather core? Though it does enhance the wand's power, especially in Transfiguration, it also makes it far more challenging to master—I truly thought this wand would remain here forever."

"You will accomplish great things, Mr. Potter. Great things."

Amid Ollivander's cryptic ramblings, Harry left the shop, seven Galleons lighter. To be honest, Ollivander's eccentricity made Harry think he'd make an excellent shaman.

A traditional shaman.

"Got your wand, eh?" Hagrid, waiting by the door, looked relieved. "Took you long enough—how's the new wand feel?"

"Perfect," Harry replied eagerly, his new "equipment" in hand. "I can't wait to test it out."

It was this sense of discovery and novelty that had driven Harry's love of adventure during his time in Azeroth—a thirst for the unknown.

Under Hagrid's guidance, Harry gathered all his supplies, including books beyond the required reading list—anything that piqued his interest.

This prompted Hagrid to mutter something about Harry being sorted into Ravenclaw, while earning him a 50% discount at Flourish and Blotts. Don't ask why—just know that Harry Potter shopping for books was an event worth commemorating.

The price for the discount? Leaving a signed copy of his name for the shopkeeper—a small perk of fame.

But for Harry, the most important thing upon returning to Number Four, Privet Drive, was performing a ritual.

A traditional shamanic ceremony, ancient and reverent, paying homage to the elements and spirits.

Harry planned to attempt his first true invocation of the elements in this world.

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