"The consequences of elemental resurgence are simply my own conclusions based on what I know," Harry shook his head and said. "I have no teacher, Headmaster Dumbledore. To be precise, my teacher does not exist in this world."

"Then, how did you learn?"

"It was as if I were dreaming—venturing, studying, and growing in another world. Yet, when I woke up, I found myself still here," Harry explained earnestly, adhering to his principle of never lying. "It was those dreamlike experiences that taught me everything, allowing me to become a true shaman."

Learning in dreams—within the magical world, such a notion, though initially absurd, actually felt quite reasonable. It was, after all, undeniably magical.

Harry had read about such phenomena in magical texts, particularly regarding a legendary figure who left his mark in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds—Merlin.

According to records, Merlin was the offspring of a nightmare spirit and a human woman. Throughout ancient magical history, there had been numerous instances of individuals growing and learning through dreams.

—Harry suddenly realized that he seemed to be straying further and further down the path of innate mystical power.

"I see," Dumbledore nodded, his gaze deep and contemplative. "As I said before, I am more than willing to believe you, Harry—to believe everything you have said and to try to understand it. For now, let us set aside the matter of elemental resurgence, as, by your account, that will be an extremely difficult process."

"Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore said seriously, "So, you discovered something abnormal about Professor Quirrell because you are a shaman?"

"Yes. I saw that his soul was withering, his aura dimming to the brink of extinction..." Harry stated calmly.

From the unique perspective granted by his shamanic abilities, to noticing the anomaly in Quirrell’s soul during class, to his well-intended attempt to examine and heal the professor—only to be met with fierce resistance and even ending up in a direct confrontation.

"That was indeed Legilimency, Harry," Dumbledore affirmed after hearing Harry describe the strange visions he saw when making eye contact with Quirrell. "Your judgment was correct... I never expected that he truly..."

Dumbledore let out a deep sigh.

"Sounds like you knew something was wrong with him all along," Harry said coolly. "If you knew he was a problem and still let him become a professor, then, as Headmaster, you have been negligent."

Harry’s words were rather blunt, but Dumbledore showed no sign of anger. He simply stared at Harry, silent for a long moment, before suddenly breaking into a bright smile.

A truly radiant smile.

"You know, Harry," Dumbledore stood up from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked to the window. "In the past, I would have told you that what you did was incredibly dangerous, or that you must have been too tired, distracted... In any case, I would have insisted that your priority should be to return to your dormitory and rest properly."

"Then you’d best not do that, Headmaster," Harry said evenly. "I know exactly what I’m doing, and I understand my own situation."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore nodded repeatedly. "I once thought that way, but then I recalled the Sorting Hat’s advice."

"The Sorting Hat’s advice?" Harry asked, puzzled. Before Dumbledore could respond, a loud voice came from the cabinet behind him.

"That’s right! It’s me!" The Sorting Hat twisted and wriggled atop the cabinet. "Long time no see, kid!"

"It’s only been a few days, Hat," Harry waved casually. "But I did enjoy our chat."

"I feel the same, kid! If only I could jump down and give you a hug—but alas, I am just a hat," the Sorting Hat declared cheerfully, twisting its brim as if dancing. "I’d love to hear how your adventure is going, but I suspect Albus wouldn’t be too thrilled to listen in. So, wear me sometime, and we’ll talk in secret!"

"Indeed, as the Headmaster of Hogwarts... Hmm, even if I am currently under accusations of negligence, I still cannot sit idly by while a student details his Forbidden Forest adventures before me. Otherwise, I’d have no choice but to regretfully deduct points from Gryffindor," Dumbledore remarked humorously as he turned back around.

"In any case, it was the Sorting Hat’s advice—it urged me not to treat you as an ordinary child, but as an adult wizard," Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "If others knew about this, more people would call me senile... I already receive several letters a day about it."

"That’s only because that reporter, Rita, is slandering you, and you’re acting as if you don’t see it, Dumbledore!" Phineas Nigellus Black finally broke free from his frame’s restraints and complained indignantly. "If I were you, I’d make sure she understood the true authority of a Hogwarts Headmaster!"

"Oh, Phineas, I believe Rita has long since graduated and is no longer under the jurisdiction of Hogwarts’ Headmaster," Dumbledore waved his hand dismissively. "Now, let’s return to our topic."

"Harry, perhaps in your eyes, this is negligence on my part. But I must tell you—Professor Quirrell was our Muggle Studies professor last year. He was not like this before," Dumbledore sighed. "This year, he applied to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I never expected that in just one summer, things would change so drastically."

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"Then remove him now and hire a new professor," Harry suggested. "Surely, hiring Hogwarts professors isn’t that difficult."

"Yes, hiring professors for Hogwarts isn’t difficult—except for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position," Dumbledore looked even more troubled. "There is an unofficial yet widely acknowledged fact: this position is cursed, Harry."

"No professor has been able to hold this post for more than a year. Every single one has encountered some misfortune that prevented them from continuing."

"As a result, each year, I have to find someone... courageous enough to take the job. And it’s only getting harder," Dumbledore joked. "You wouldn’t believe how many beard hairs I lose over this every year, Harry."

A sudden crackling sound of flames echoed in the room. Harry turned to see a bird perched at the doorway, watching him.

"That’s a phoenix, Fawkes," Dumbledore introduced. "Looks like she’s back from her meal."

The phoenix let out a melodious cry in greeting, and Harry nodded in return.

Not impressive.

At least, not compared to the phoenix in his memories. That one, "Ao," was far more magnificent. It didn’t just burn—it shone.

A mount that doesn’t glow is just trash.

"So, we’re just going to let such a dangerous person remain at school?" Harry turned back and asked. "I don’t believe a good-natured professor would use illegal spells on students."

"I don’t know how to explain it to you, Harry," Dumbledore looked tired. "But the truth is—well, I believe... he is not dead yet."

“Him?”

“Voldemort,” Dumbledore said briefly. “Although many in the wizarding world believe he is dead, I have reliable evidence that he is still alive.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” Harry said cheerfully. “That means I can personally avenge my birth parents, doesn’t it? Along with all the suffering I’ve endured over the years.”

“...Hatred is not a good thing, Harry,” Dumbledore said in a low voice. “But I can’t find a compelling reason to persuade you otherwise—truthfully, I believe these past grudges should be borne by those of us from the past.”

“So Quirrell is Voldemort?” Harry skipped past the point entirely, as if the decision had already been made and there was no need for further discussion.

“Stay rational, Harry,” Dumbledore shook his head, giving Harry a deep look. “Don’t forget what I just said—Professor Quirrell was still a Muggle Studies professor last year, and back then, he was completely normal.”

“So you’re saying Voldemort possessed Quirrell?” Harry mused. “I may not be able to manipulate and harness soul energy like a warlock, but pure destruction is much simpler.”

“I’m not sure,” Dumbledore sat back down and sighed. “I don’t know much about Dark Magic, and as for Voldemort… he has walked this path with unwavering determination.”

“I don’t even know what kind of magic he used, nor whether his current fragmented existence can still be called a soul, or if he’s become… some kind of unknown remnant.”

“And Professor Quirrell… I believe he was merely deceived by Voldemort. Perhaps he can still be saved… After all, he was once my student, Harry—just like you, your senior.”

Dumbledore meant that he still wasn’t certain how exactly Voldemort existed—whether as a broken soul, or as some unknown Dark Magic entity. After all, magic was an unpredictable force, and no one could make absolute claims so easily.

And before Harry actually attempted to test Quirrell, he wasn’t entirely sure either—yes, shamans wielded the power of spirits, but was Voldemort even a soul anymore?

Dragging both Voldemort and Quirrell together to deal with them wasn’t an issue for Harry at all—killing was killing, after all.

Back in the Astral Realm, Harry had only seen Quirrell’s astral projection—a chaotic smear of colors, an oil painting so muddled it was impossible to discern its original hues. Thinking back now, that must have been the overlapping astral projections of both Voldemort and Quirrell, merged into an indistinguishable mess.

And before extracting Quirrell’s soul from his body, Harry wouldn’t be able to tell what form Quirrell’s soul had taken—nor what exactly Voldemort had done to him. Was it direct possession? Fusion? Or was there some magical artifact involved?

After all, shamans weren’t warlocks. Shamans wielded spirit energy primarily by summoning souls and channeling ancestral power—they were mere summoners, intermediaries, unlike those who treated soul fragments like candies to be consumed.

Amplification, curses, distortion, extraction, fragmentation, fusion… Warlocks were the true masters of soul manipulation.

Yet despite having saved Azeroth so many times, they were still forced to skulk in the sewers, unable to show their faces—there was a reason for that.

Their very existence reeked of corruption, and there were always a few soul shards drifting around them. Every time Harry interacted with them, he had to stay on guard—no one knew when a warlock might finally step over the line and truly fall into darkness.

By comparison, shamanic use of soul energy was far kinder and much more restrained. After all, they summoned the spirits of ancestors and loved ones—who would dare to recklessly tamper with that?

This situation left Harry in a bit of a bind, but he could understand Dumbledore’s concerns now, as well as what he was trying to do.

“So, the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor?” Harry thought for a moment before continuing, “And that little package Hagrid retrieved from Gringotts? He was so proud when he told me that only someone Dumbledore completely trusted would be sent on such a task.”

“Oh, but Hagrid is trustworthy, isn’t he?” Dumbledore blinked. “And just as you’ve guessed—I need to confirm his state, to see exactly how far he can go now.”

“Because you’re Dumbledore. Because you’ve defeated the Dark Lord not once, but twice. Because you believe that, in the entire wizarding world, only you can stand against him,” Harry continued Dumbledore’s words.

Harry felt he had mostly figured out the mind of this legendary wizard—plain and simple, Dumbledore had laid a trap.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Dumbledore said sincerely, his gaze steady. “As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I have more authority than you can imagine—no one will come to harm.”

“It better be that way,” Harry stood up. “I’ll keep an eye on things too. I hope you fulfill your responsibilities, Headmaster Dumbledore.”

“Of course.”

With that, Harry turned to leave the Headmaster’s office.

“Harry?”

Dumbledore suddenly called out, his voice soft. “You said that shamans can summon ancestral spirits, that they can converse with lost loved ones… Is that true?”

“Yes, Headmaster. You’ve witnessed it yourself, haven’t you?” Harry turned back to answer. “And my promise to you has never changed. If you need it, I can perform the ritual for you.”

“No, what I meant to say is…” Dumbledore hesitated, his expression wavering. “Do you think… I could become a shaman?”

“At your age, it might be a bit late, but we can still try,” Harry gazed into Dumbledore’s eyes. “I would need to find the right materials to reconfigure the Soul Pact Potion—then you’d be able to perceive the elements beyond the reach of ordinary people. Do you want to try?”

“…I think I may still need some time to consider it,” Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Forgive my hesitation once again, Harry.”

He took a step forward, but in the end, he stopped.

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