Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

Harry's last month at the Dursleys' was exceptionally enjoyable.

He could study magic freely, wield spells to his heart's content, and indulge himself in the thrill of being a true wizard.

This time, even if Jaina jumped up and down mocking him for being nothing more than a borrower of elemental power, Harry could confidently retort, "Laugh all you want! I'm a wizard too!"

Wizardry! Thrilling!

Magic! Fantastic!

Harry also grew accustomed to the wand, a wizard's signature tool. To him, it was like the warblades of a demon hunter—specialized equipment that significantly amplified a wizard's spellcasting power. It helped regulate and channel magical energy, improving both control and endurance.

A purple epic!

Ollivander's wand: purple quality, seven Galleons apiece, guaranteed genuine with a tenfold refund for counterfeits, limited supply—hurry while stocks last!

The wizarding world was downright extravagant.

Before Hogwarts reopened, Harry finally received the equipment he had been waiting for: a warhammer paired with a shield and a set of half-body chainmail.

The moment he donned the chainmail, even though some parts were still missing, an invisible sense of security filled his heart. Yes, this was the right feeling!

Picking up the warhammer, he gave it a test swing—neither too heavy nor too light, just perfect. Goblin craftsmanship truly lived up to its reputation, and the size suited Harry's current age. Of course, he'd need to commission a new one as he grew older.

"Whew, my work here is done. Time to settle the bill," Copperring said, wiping nonexistent sweat off his forehead. "Honestly, it's a good thing this was your order and just a toy; otherwise, we'd have landed in big trouble."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow at Copperring. "I've read your history. Goblins are only forbidden from using wands, right?"

"Technically, magical weapons—especially enchanted armor—are also off-limits," Copperring replied with a dismissive wave. "The Ministry got wind of something and came sniffing around. Luckily, what we made for you isn't in violation. Even a Muggle blacksmith could craft this."

"I see," Harry nodded. "That makes sense. Armor is indeed more critical."

After all, once someone donned magical armor, many spells would struggle to harm them. That wouldn't bode well for wizards trying to control goblins, who had previously staged multiple rebellions.

Harry had already noticed that wizards in this world were generally quite frail physically.

"Oh, you've no idea what we goblins endure," Copperring grumbled.

"I do—you lost," Harry replied mercilessly. "Here's your payment."

"Ha, fair enough. We lost… but at least we're getting paid," Copperring muttered under his breath.

"Stop complaining, Copperring," Harry said as he turned to leave. "Among goblins, at least you're one with a good reputation. That counts for something."

"What's the use of a good reputation?" Copperring yawned. "At the Gringotts annual meeting, I can't even get a seat at the table. Most days, I'm just stuck guarding the door to make a living."

"Your time will come," Harry said earnestly. "I have an idea—though it's not something I can act on right now. But when the time comes, if you're willing to trust me, you might just get a shot at striking it rich. Then maybe you'll earn that seat at the table."

"…Are you serious?" Copperring paused, scrutinizing the famous wizard before him.

Harry, clad in matte-finished chainmail, had his warhammer strapped to his side and a shield slung over his back. He was now wrapping himself in a cloak to avoid drawing too much attention.

"Of course. I'm Harry Potter," he said, leaning into his notoriety.

"Well then, big shot," Copperring extended his hand after a moment of thought, recalling the newspaper articles about this boy. "I'll wait. Goblins live long enough, after all."

"The friendship of a Tauren will not disappoint you," Harry said, shaking the goblin's hand.

"Yeah, a Tauren," Copperring muttered, eyeing the small horns protruding naturally from either side of Harry's forehead.

Compared to other children his age, Harry's greatest strengths were his patience and a level of understanding far beyond his years.

At eleven, few kids could sit still and work through dense, text-heavy books with no illustrations.

After thoroughly reading Hogwarts: A History, A History of Modern Magic, Significant Magical Events of the Twentieth Century, and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, Harry had a rough grasp of the wizarding world's history and current state. He also understood what had happened eleven years ago and why he was so famous and well-liked.

"Studying history makes one wise"—though, unfortunately, humanity's greatest lesson from history seemed to be that humans never learn from history.

At least Harry now knew what topics were taboo among wizards.

Ignoring the peculiar looks others gave him, Harry dragged his luggage to King's Cross Station, searching for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters as Hagrid had instructed.

There were platforms nine and ten, but no sign of nine and three-quarters. Was this another of the wizarding world's little jokes?

Harry began examining the walls, thinking of how the brick wall at the Leaky Cauldron led to Diagon Alley.

"…Excuse me?" A tired voice suddenly spoke from behind him. "Could you hurry onto the platform? Keeping Muggles from noticing anything unusual here is exhausting—and you, of all people, are particularly conspicuous! What's with those horns?"

The voice turned to a frustrated growl by the end.

Turning around, Harry saw a witch glaring at him, wand in hand.

"A Ministry official?" Harry asked curiously.

"Obviously—though I'm only an intern," the witch said with a proud toss of her hair before clenching her teeth again. "I don't want to get fired over something as trivial as helping first-years board unnoticed. So could you kindly move those legs of yours and step onto the platform?"

As she spoke, her hair shifted from black to fiery red, then deepened to a dusky crimson.

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