“What?” Quirrell’s eyes widened in shock at Voldemort’s command. He spoke urgently, “But, my Lord, your body is far too weak. I fear you won’t be able to sustain it for that long—”

“Enough!” Voldemort impatiently cut him off, his voice frail yet commanding. “Of course, I know my own weakness… To think that even a mere child could resist my magic. Ha!”

Voldemort attributed Harry’s escape from his Legilimency to his own diminished power and the magical attenuation caused by casting spells through Quirrell’s body. He would never admit that it was because Harry’s soul was stronger than his, or that Harry’s will was more resolute—those were explanations he refused to accept.

“Of course, that child does have his merits,” Voldemort murmured. “His childhood experiences have forged a strong will, but in the face of a serious me, even the strongest will is nothing more than an illusion.”

“I’m tired,” Voldemort said wearily. “Do not stop, Quirrell. My loyal servant, continue searching.”

Voldemort’s voice grew fainter and fainter until it finally dissipated. But before it vanished completely, Quirrell had at last understood his instructions.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts office fell into silence. After a long moment, in the darkness, a few barely audible sobs could be heard.

--

Voldemort’s ambitions, Quirrell’s ambitions, and his fears—Harry knew nothing of them. Or rather, even if he did, he wouldn’t care.

Out of caution toward his enemy, Harry had already investigated Voldemort’s history. To him, the so-called Dark Lord was nothing more than an insignificant figure—someone who, in Azeroth, wouldn’t even make it onto the main stage.

No matter how much he exaggerated his evil, darkness, and terror, Voldemort, at the peak of his reign, had killed only a few hundred wizards. Even including the Muggles who died as collateral, the number would barely reach ten thousand.

In Azeroth, someone like Voldemort would be akin to a bandit leader gathering a few followers to raid nearby villages and passing caravans. At best, he’d be considered an elite-tier foe, one that adventurers would quickly dispose of. Compared to the world-ending threats Harry had faced, Voldemort was laughably insignificant.

As for Voldemort’s so-called ideology—his doctrine of pure-blood supremacy—Harry found it even more ridiculous.

As a hero who had saved Azeroth multiple times, Harry did believe that in any society, a privileged class was inevitable. But privilege should be earned through contribution to one’s people.

This was true for both the Horde and the Alliance. Because individuals had different abilities, those who possessed power should stand at the forefront during times of crisis, protecting the weaker ones behind them.

In return, during times of peace, those who had risked their lives and shed blood at the frontlines deserved respect and the best treatment.

That was how the world ought to function.

Yet, Harry saw none of that in Voldemort. The man claimed he would lead the wizarding world to a new future, yet his actions consisted of terrorizing and slaughtering his own kind.

Such a man wasn’t even worth debating with. The only reason he was still alive was because of Dumbledore’s insistence—and because Harry had yet to fully understand the nature of magic in this world, making it unclear in what form Voldemort truly existed.

For now, what mattered more to Harry was that Professor McGonagall had finally sent someone to deliver his invitation—his first lesson at the Transfiguration Club was about to begin.

--

Harry left the Gryffindor common room under the weight of an intense gaze. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Who else but Hermione?

From the moment an upper-year student delivered his invitation, Hermione had been watching him with red-rimmed eyes. She had repeatedly begged him to take thorough notes and show them to her afterward.

Naturally, Harry had no reason to refuse… He didn’t even dare to joke about it. After all, with the stress Hermione had been accumulating recently, she was like an unstable goblin bomb, ready to explode at any moment. A highly volatile and dangerous presence.

Ignoring the burning stare behind him, Harry made his way to the location written on the invitation—Professor McGonagall’s office.

Despite being called a "club," the Transfiguration Club was more like an advanced study group. It was where McGonagall provided extra instruction for students with a talent for Transfiguration. Nothing particularly secretive about it.

Unlike regular classes, where students sat neatly behind their desks, Harry now faced a round table. There were only a few students present, scattered around the table. Among them, he spotted a few familiar faces—such as Ron’s older brother, Percy, who was waving enthusiastically at him.

“Welcome. This new semester, we have two new members joining us.” McGonagall’s tone was noticeably more relaxed than during regular lessons. There was even a trace of humor in her voice. “This is Mr. Ront, a third-year. And this one—well, I don’t think I need to introduce him, do I?”

“Of course not, Professor!” Percy said eagerly. “Harry Potter!”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“No, Percy, I think you forgot three words—‘The Seer of Prophecy,’” a pretty girl beside him laughed. She turned to Harry with a warm smile. “If you don’t mind, come sit with us, O great prophet.”

“That’s right, Harry! Come join us here,” Percy beckoned.

“If possible, just call me Seer. I’m more used to that title,” Harry joked, naturally accepting the invitation. He had always gotten along well with the Weasley children.

As he approached, however, he noticed something amusing—the chairs where Percy and the others sat were lavishly crafted, some even adorned with gemstones. In contrast, the empty chairs were all plain and simple.

In an instant, Harry understood what was going on.

“So, this is the first lesson of the Transfiguration Club?” he mused aloud with a chuckle. He drew his wand and gave it a wave.

The next moment, the empty chair in front of him transformed into a broad, high-backed wooden seat, lined with a layer of fur—a chair that suited his tastes, one with a tribal aesthetic.

“Brilliant Transfiguration, Harry!” Percy immediately praised. “Professor McGonagall was right, you really do have a knack for it.”

“Conjuring a proper chair for oneself hardly counts as the first lesson,” McGonagall said, studying Harry’s work with satisfaction. “As I’ve told you before, we generally don’t encourage younger students to join the official club—it’s too soon for them. But you, Harry, are an exception.”

“There’s no need for formality here. Unlike in class, the Transfiguration Club is meant to expand your thinking, to help you see different aspects of Transfiguration. Think of it more as a gathering of like-minded individuals.”

McGonagall truly seemed at ease. She wasn’t even addressing him as “Potter” or “Mr. Potter” anymore—just “Harry.”

Incidentally, her outfit today reflected that relaxed attitude as well. She was wearing a light gray sweater, which made her look at least ten years younger.

"Got it, Professor, I'll keep that in mind." Harry shifted slightly in his seat, as if savoring the familiar comfort of the chair. Turning his head toward Percy, he added, "To be honest, the only transfiguration I’ve truly mastered is converting one inanimate object into another. If you asked me to turn this chair into something that moves and roars, I wouldn’t be able to do it."

"You still haven’t overcome that mental block?" Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

"It’s difficult, Professor," Harry admitted sincerely. "I’ve tried many times, but I just can’t seem to do it. Perhaps Headmaster Dumbledore has mentioned it to you—aside from being a wizard, I’m also a shaman. That gives me a very different perspective from most witches and wizards."

"A shaman?" The girl beside Percy interjected. "I thought you were a Seer? Oh—sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Penelope Clearwater, from Ravenclaw. Hope you don’t mind."

"We all belong to Hogwarts; there’s no need to make distinctions like that. Just call me Harry." He shook his head slightly. "As for being a Seer, that’s just one aspect of shamanism. If you’re interested, you can drop by my Shaman Club sometime and give it a try."

Advertising for his own club while in the Transfiguration Club was a risky move. Even though Penelope was clearly curious about the fact that Harry had a club of his own, she wisely held back her questions before Professor McGonagall had the chance to become dangerous.

"Since you might have some personal matters you’d rather not discuss in front of everyone, let’s save this topic for after the session, Harry." McGonagall nodded. "Now, let’s begin our journey into Transfiguration."

Unlike regular classes, the Transfiguration Club did not separate students by year. After all, members came from different levels of study. But once things got started, no one felt particularly out of their depth.

Part of that was due to the club’s entry requirement—only third-years and above could join. Most students who made it in were already ahead of their peers in magical ability, well beyond the standard curriculum designed for the average student.

But the real reason, as Professor McGonagall had pointed out, was that this wasn’t a formal lesson—it was an expansion of their thinking. More accurately, it was an exploration of Transfiguration’s applications.

Which made sense. No one expected a bunch of students to sit around dissecting the fundamental nature of Transfiguration or predicting its future developments, let alone producing groundbreaking research—that would be completely unrealistic.

Those kinds of deep, theoretical topics were the kind of lifelong pursuits scholars might take up after graduation, if they were interested.

If Hogwarts actually had a class like that, it would probably be called something like the "Century Wizard Society" or "Dark Lord Fast-Track Program," where only the likes of Dumbledore, Grindelwald, or Voldemort would be allowed in—prodigies who considered inventing spells by their second or third year to be mere child’s play.

Clearly, McGonagall’s club wasn’t aiming for that level of prestige.

The theme of today’s session was Transfiguration in wizard dueling. According to McGonagall, this topic might last the entire year, depending on their progress.

After a brief introduction, she gave her wand a casual flick, and the round table in the office vanished without a trace. Then, the entire room seemed to shift—the walls moved as if they had grown invisible hands and feet, making space for a larger dueling area.

"Come on, Miranda, show your younger housemates a demonstration." Once the space was cleared, McGonagall gestured for a sixth-year Gryffindor student to step into the center.

"Er… alright, Professor. Just… go easy on me?" Miranda hesitated before stepping forward.

"Don’t worry, child, it’s just a demonstration." McGonagall’s expression held a hint of excitement as she encouraged the student. "You may use any means at your disposal to attack me, while I will only use Transfiguration to counter. Any questions?"

"No questions, Professor."

"Good. Then—three—"

"Two—"

"One—!"

"Stupefy!"

The moment McGonagall finished counting down, Miranda raised her wand and fired a Stunning Spell. Using spells directly was certainly fast, but unfortunately, McGonagall had anticipated it and sidestepped with ease.

No wonder she could turn into a cat. Harry noticed that despite her age, McGonagall was incredibly agile. It was no surprise, then, that she had chosen not to wear her usual long robes today, instead opting for a sweater and trousers—clothing more suited for movement.

As she leaped aside, McGonagall flicked her wand, and two chairs that had been pushed to the sides of the room suddenly transformed into soldiers. With a blast of their trumpets, they charged straight at Miranda.

"Reducto!"

Startled, Miranda quickly cast two consecutive Blasting Curses. They were powerful—both chair-soldiers shattered into a spray of wooden debris. But unfortunately for her, she soon realized that she could no longer speak.

Her hairband had somehow transformed into a rope, which snaked around her arms and legs, binding her tightly. Within moments, she toppled to the ground, completely immobilized, and had no choice but to concede defeat.

"Your focus was too scattered, Miranda," McGonagall said sternly, slipping into her usual strict tone. "Just because two Transfigured objects appeared, you completely lost track of your real opponent. Did you really think two transformed objects could be more dangerous than a skilled witch?"

"Sorry, Professor. I got too nervous," Miranda muttered, rubbing her arms where the ropes had been digging in.

"You must learn to adapt, my dear." McGonagall offered a rare note of encouragement before addressing the rest of the group. "I trust you all saw it for yourselves—a wizard proficient in Transfiguration holds a tremendous advantage in dueling. It allows us to control the tempo of the fight in a crucial way."

----

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