"......Joratox.......kambokem....... Farastu.....Ginnalka cens Whutless......"

Chanting the incantation passed down among witch doctors in the Troll tongue, Harry paused in stirring the potion, watching as the deep green glow spread outward from the droplet falling from his fingertip, sinking and diffusing into the liquid below.

"Trust me, Hagrid, I am Harry Potter." By now, he had become quite adept at using this line as a convenient shield. Soaking in the potion, he could clearly feel the heat radiating from the fire lizard’s blood as it dissolved into the mixture. "And don’t forget, I can divine the future too."

That, of course, was a lie—though brewing something of this level hardly required Harry to divine its fate.

To be honest, the concoction in this barrel barely qualified as alchemy (Azeroth-style) or even a proper potion. It was more appropriate to categorize it as troll witchcraft.

Compared to conventional potions, troll witchcraft stood out for its bizarre ingredients, unorthodox brewing methods, and the necessity of incorporating eerie magical rituals—something Harry had picked up from Vol’jin, son of Sen’jin, during a bout of curiosity within the Darkspear Tribe.

Although troll witch doctors and tauren shamans differed significantly, they still broadly fell under the same "shaman" classification. Harry could only learn a bit—any more, and it would be beyond his capability to handle.

Troll witch doctors focused heavily on the path of spirits, honoring all things, especially the Loa (the animal demigods). And as for their potion ingredients… well, that was where Harry drew the line.

Trolls were truly savage! The Darkspear were already considered among the more civilized troll tribes—they at least didn’t eat people—but even so, their customs and rituals still made Harry’s skin crawl, especially their potions!

Dead toads, dead bats, beast hearts, snake blood… practically a witch’s cauldron straight out of Muggle fairy tales—purely sinister.

Many witch doctor brews were outright toxic in their final form, curing one ailment while causing another, a perilous balance between healing and harm.

That being said, sometimes their concoctions achieved effects that no other potion could replicate—not even the witch doctors themselves could fully explain how they worked.

Like now. After completing the magical ritual, even the half-baked witch doctor that was Harry had no idea how the potion had stabilized, but it had.

"Ah, right, you can see the future… I never would have guessed you had a Seer’s gift, Harry." Hagrid sniffled, his stomach churning slightly from the pungent stench filling the room. "Mind if I open a window?"

"Go ahead."

Right now, Hagrid’s hut was steeped in the heavy, metallic scent of blood. If not for Hagrid’s help, gathering all these ingredients would have been a real headache for Harry.

Beyond that, there was also an indescribable stench—something between a musky and rotten odor—that overpowered even the herbal fragrances.

Taking a few deep breaths by the window, Hagrid finally returned, dragging a chair over and plopping down next to the wooden barrel.

Even seated, he still towered over Harry.

Frowning at the dark, semi-coagulated liquid in the barrel, Hagrid seemed on the verge of speaking several times before stopping himself, his features scrunching together in hesitation.

"Whatever’s on your mind, just say it, Hagrid." Harry turned his head and, upon seeing the half-giant’s comically conflicted expression, couldn’t help but chuckle. "Holding it in doesn’t suit you."

"Alright, alright." Hagrid shook his head, muttering, "Sharp as ever, aren’t ya? To be honest, Harry, neither James nor Lily had any talent for prophecy. Lily was quite good at Potions, sure, but James? Ha! All his talent went into mischief!"

"Maybe one of the Potters’ ancestors married a Seer," Harry mused offhandedly, closing his eyes.

He could distinctly feel the potion’s essence being absorbed into his body, replenishing lost nutrients and strengthening his physique.

"I suppose that makes sense… The Potters are an old family, after all." Hagrid seemed satisfied with this reasoning and stood up. "But no matter how I think about it, this potion makes me uneasy—damn, I just remembered what we put in it. I must’ve been mad to agree to help you."

"Hahaha, don’t be like that, Hagrid." Harry laughed, looking at the good-natured half-giant. "Aside from being a wizard, I’m also a shaman. Professor Dumbledore already approved my Shaman Club application—I can start as soon as I’m ready."

"Shaman… now that’s a word I’ve heard before. The centaurs in the Forbidden Forest have a shaman; he’s their tribe’s elder." Hagrid rummaged around for a bottle of mead before sitting back down. "They’re always speaking in riddles. But how did you become a shaman? Oh, Harry, you don’t mind if I have a drink, do you? This smell is something else."

He swirled the golden liquid in his glass.

"Of course, suit yourself—it’s your home, after all." Harry nodded and then—"Accio mead."

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With a snap of his fingers and a whispered spell, the bottle of mead in Hagrid’s hand flew into Harry’s grasp. A second snap, and a cup soared over from the cupboard. As the bottle tipped in midair, the golden liquid poured smoothly into the cup, filling it with a rich, honeyed aroma.

"… Not bad at all, Hagrid." Harry took a sip, savoring the taste. "You have excellent taste."

Harry was growing increasingly fond of Hagrid’s hut.

The mead was mild in strength, more of a beverage than a strong drink, with a uniquely sweet-and-sour flavor, a faint bitterness, and a lingering honeyed aftertaste.

It was now officially added to the tauren’s recommended beverages list.

"Oh! Thanks, I’m glad you like it, Harry!" Hagrid beamed. "By the way, was that the Summoning Charm? That’s a fourth-year spell! I didn’t expect you to learn it so fast. And that trick with the mead—wait a minute! You did that without a wand and without speaking?!"

Hagrid’s eyes widened as the realization hit him.

"It was still spoken," Harry lamented. "The Summoning Charm is a fourth-year spell? I didn’t know—I found it in The Hundred Most Useful Spells. I must say, it’s incredibly handy."

He was no longer the clueless newcomer who had once stumbled into the wizarding world. Looking back, he had to take back something he had once said—that wizards were foolish for believing that casting without a wand was the pinnacle of magical prowess.

In Azeroth, enemies either had high armor, high magic resistance, or rapid regeneration. Given these challenges, spellcasters there had to maximize their magical output—essentially, dealing the highest possible damage in the shortest amount of time to secure victory.

Under such conditions, a staff that could enhance one’s magic, channel ambient magical energy, and amplify spell potency was indispensable.

But in this world, things were different.

In this world, everyone is just an ordinary human being—cut their skin with a blade, and they will bleed; stab them in a vital spot, and they will die on the spot. That’s why, when any spell you cast can effectively harm your opponent, the real key is casting faster and more discreetly than they do.

For that reason, even sacrificing a bit of a spell’s power is worthwhile. After all, as long as your opponent’s spell doesn’t hit you, while you can cast yours faster and more covertly, you gain the upper hand. You prevent your enemy from predicting your attack or discerning which spell you are about to cast.

Over the past couple of days, Harry had been reading Wizards and Duels. He discovered that, in the beginning, wizards were obsessed with chanting incantations and unleashing more powerful spells. But those who followed that path ultimately met crushing defeat at the hands of those who could cast faster, with precision and ruthlessness. Over time, such spells were gradually eliminated.

No demand, no evolution.

In the end, what remained were the spells Harry now saw—requiring only a quick flick of the wand to guide the magic and release it. Incredibly efficient.

As one’s magical power grew and their understanding and proficiency with spells improved, even the wand movements could be simplified—eventually, the incantations could be omitted entirely.

It was difficult, no doubt. Achieving this required immense willpower and precise control over one’s magic. Fortunately, Harry lacked neither.

"Alright, so this is what being a genius feels like, huh?"

With a joking tone, Hagrid slapped a newspaper onto the edge of a wooden barrel. "Here, this is what I promised to show you back in Diagon Alley."

Glancing at the paper, the first thing Harry saw was a photo of himself standing amidst the ruins of a house, locking eyes with Dumbledore. Above it, in bold, oversized print, was the headline:

"Harry Potter—The Next Dumbledore?"

With a loud crunch, Harry crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it aside.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Hagrid roared with laughter at Harry’s reaction, his booming voice shaking the very roof of the hut. "Oh, Harry, don’t do that! I was planning to keep it! Who knows, maybe one day you could show it to your kids!"

Grinning, he retrieved the crumpled newspaper, carefully smoothing it out before placing it back on a shelf.

"What’s the point of keeping something like that? And wizarding reporters… are they all this exaggerated?" Harry regretted his reading speed the moment he accidentally skimmed a few lines.

"Exaggerated?" Hagrid snorted heavily. "You should see what that woman has written before—that was exaggerated! If there was even a single truth in her articles, I’d—I'd—I'd eat my own slipper!"

Something clearly set Hagrid off, and he launched into a grumbling tirade about a certain journalist named Rita. Harry didn’t catch most of it.

"Alright! Alright, enough about them!" Growing more agitated, Hagrid abandoned his honey mead in favor of a few swigs of brandy from the corner of his hut. "So, Harry, where are your friends? I thought you’d bring them along for a visit."

"Are you even thinking straight, Hagrid?" Harry deadpanned. "I came here for a medicinal soak."

"Ah! Right, my bad." Hagrid smacked himself on the head with an audible thwack. Then, suddenly, he pointed at the window. "Well, in that case… did they just find their way here on their own?"

Harry turned to look—three heads were squeezed against the window.

Who else could it be but Ron, Neville, and Hermione?

Ever the hospitable host, Hagrid immediately opened the door to welcome his new guests. "Harry’s friends are my friends," he declared cheerfully.

Hermione sat on a chair, offering a polite but nervous smile. Neville, predictably, looked even more anxious. Ron, on the other hand, was the boldest, curiously inspecting the oddities scattered around Hagrid’s hut.

"How’d you know I was here?" Harry asked curiously.

"Bloody Baron told us you went this way," Ron answered easily. "You remember him, right? The Slytherin ghost—honestly, I thought a Slytherin ghost wouldn’t help us. Or worse, he’d give us the wrong directions!"

"Hey, Hogwarts ghosts wouldn’t do that," Hagrid quickly defended them. "Students may get sorted into houses, but the castle’s ghosts have a duty to help all young wizards. If you ever get lost on your way to class, just ask any ghost—you’ll be fine."

"Bloody Baron…" Harry frowned, recalling Slytherin’s resident ghost.

Sunken eyes, gaunt face, and a tattered robe with splotches of silvery blood.

Exactly the kind of ghost little wizards feared the most—he certainly looked like bad news.

"Forget about ghosts, Harry," Ron suddenly pinched his nose, inching toward the wooden barrel with a mix of excitement and revulsion. "What are you doing in there? Ugh, it stinks! Oh—oh, that’s disgusting!"

To clarify, by this point, Harry was submerged in a potion bath. The murky, dark-brown liquid covered everything except his head.

"A medicinal soak. Just think of it as a treatment," Harry explained. "It’s not something I can do in the dormitory, so I asked Hagrid for help."

Seeing Ron’s morbid curiosity, a mischievous thought crept into Harry’s mind.

"You want to try, Ron?" he asked innocently.

As he spoke, Harry casually scooped something from the barrel—a bloated, potion-soaked spider carcass. It was so swollen that it dwarfed his entire palm, its limp body sagging in his grip.

The next second—

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH—!!!"

An indescribable shriek of pure terror.

Two screams rang out simultaneously—one from Ron, the other from Hermione—so sharp and piercing they drilled into Harry’s eardrums.

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