Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

The sudden appearance of people on the street caught Harry's attention, especially the way they materialized silently and without warning.

Most of them seemed shocked as they landed, many pointing directly at him. Harry keenly noticed that their focus was actually on him—or rather, it seemed these people already knew of him and were aware of his existence.

Yet, Harry had no recollection of them at all.

Was it because of his biological parents? Or was there some other reason?

Harry felt he might finally uncover the truth—something connected to the peculiar magical power within him.

A house collapsing in a thunderous crash was undoubtedly an attention-grabbing event. By now, the other residents of the street had started poking their heads out, curious to approach Number 4, Privet Drive, to see what had happened.

However, under Harry's watchful gaze, a portion of the people who had appeared out of nowhere on the street began moving. They waved small wooden sticks, each about the length of a forearm, at those approaching to investigate.

Almost immediately, it was as if the curious onlookers had forgotten about the commotion altogether, turning back naturally—even cars stopped passing by the area.

Unlike the usual attire of the people in Harry's memory of this world, these sudden arrivals wore long robes, and some even had pointed hats, reminiscent of the wizards in fairy tales.

Harry didn't have much time to observe or reflect. Soon, an elderly man with white hair and a matching beard appeared out of thin air. His arrival noticeably eased the tension among the crowd.

Before his appearance, many of these strangers had been glancing at Harry with fear in their eyes, their nerves taut like strings about to snap.

A man wearing a bowler hat hurried over to the old man, his face filled with unease.

"...Not a Muggle-born incident, Dumbledore, thank goodness it isn't..."

"...Calm down, Cornelius... Leave this to me..."

The ever-present wind carried their words to Harry's ears. Noticing the oddity of the breeze, Harry observed that the white-bearded man seemed to notice it too. He turned briefly toward the air before walking toward Harry.

"May we have a chat, child?" the bearded man said with a warm smile. "Don't be afraid, we mean no harm—in fact, it's wonderful to see you're unharmed."

The man carefully examined Harry from head to toe, his gaze lingering on the concrete giant that had shielded Harry and his relatives from the collapse. His eyes sparkled with amazement.

"Of course, sir," Harry replied softly.

At his words, the concrete elemental began to curl up, and within seconds, it crumbled into an unremarkable pile of rubble, indistinguishable from ordinary debris. It looked as if it had always been just that.

The faintly settled dust rose into the air again, but this time, the old man waved his wooden stick, and the dust vanished completely, as though it had never existed.

So this was the magic of this world?

Quite discreet... It should prove useful.

Harry's eyes flickered with thought.

It seemed the world he was born into wasn't as mundane as he'd remembered. The power of magic had hidden itself for reasons unknown.

"Amazing magic," the old man marveled. "Please forgive my curiosity—how did you do it?"

"I don't know, sir," Harry lied without a flicker of emotion. "I didn't expect it to happen."

Well, it wasn't entirely a lie. After all, Harry truly hadn't anticipated that casting shamanic magic in this world would draw directly from the surrounding environment instead of from the elemental realms of wind, fire, earth, and water. This peculiarity had caused the Dursleys' house to be destroyed.

To be honest, Harry felt a bit guilty about it.

"Fascinating magic... Truly fascinating," the old man said with a kindly smile. "At the very least, I've never seen anything quite like it—could I trouble you to demonstrate it again?"

As he spoke, he playfully winked. It was clear this man was skilled at dealing with children. An average eleven-year-old might have been flattered by such praise, forgetting their fear and hesitation, and eager to show off.

Unfortunately, Harry was no ordinary child.

"I'm afraid I can't, sir," Harry said, lowering his head to look at his hands. "They're not responding anymore."

This was the truth.

The elemental energy in this world was even less active than Harry had imagined. His earlier act of conjuring the earth elemental had apparently drained the area's energy further, rendering it inert for the time being.

The elements hadn't told Harry why this dormancy occurred, but he planned to investigate after regaining more of his strength.

For now, he was too weak to do anything recklessly.

"I see," the old man said, sighing in genuine disappointment. He seemed to fully believe Harry's explanation. "What a pity—but life is long, and it's always a joy to witness something new. If you ever—"

"Monster!!"

It seemed that, after some time to recover, Vernon had finally regained his senses. He let out a short, piercing scream.

"Gone! My house is gone!"

"The house turned into a monster! The monster protected me from being crushed by the house—all of it is monstrous!!"

Overwhelmed, Vernon's words tumbled out in a jumbled mess before abruptly stopping—not because he had calmed down, but because the old man waved his wooden stick again.

In fact, it wasn't just Vernon. Petunia and Dudley also collapsed into unconsciousness in an instant.

Without a word, Harry quickly turned to check their breathing. After confirming they were merely asleep, he faced the old man once more.

"Don't worry, child," the old man said kindly, his smile radiating warmth. Harry's actions seemed to please him. "They just need some rest. When they wake up, all the bad things will be gone."

"What... do you mean?" Harry asked, glancing around with a sigh. "I doubt my uncle will forgive me... And I'm afraid it'll take some time before he can receive my compensation."

Just looking at the ruins was enough for Harry to know his aunt and uncle would be furious, especially Petunia. The mere thought of their neighbors gossiping behind their backs would likely make her faint, to say nothing of the financial loss.

"Oh, oh, it's not as serious as all that," the old man with the white beard chuckled heartily at Harry's words. "You're family, after all, connected by blood. There's no such thing as an eternal grudge between relatives—like I said, things haven't reached the point of no return."

"You've already shown me a fascinating bit of magic, haven't you?" The white-bearded old man blinked playfully, like a child. "Now it's my turn."

With that, he waved his peculiar, jointed little wand once again—a weapon Harry now recognized as the trademark of this world's mages, all of them with a similar design.

A little wand.

Yet, for now, the nature of the weapon wasn't the main point. What mattered was what happened next: under Harry's gaze, the surrounding rubble and ruins began to move again—not driven by elemental power but as though they had come to life.

No, more precisely—it felt as though time itself was reversing.

Collapsed fragments of walls reassembled themselves into their original positions, shattered concrete and bricks molded by elemental forces reverted to their prior forms. The walls turned pristine white again, even restoring the childish drawings Dudley had once scrawled on them. Stains and marks of time reappeared exactly as they had been.

The furniture, the tables and chairs, the broken bowls and plates, the ruined television and appliances—everything Harry could see seemed to rewind from its damaged state back to how it had been before.

Finally, what stood before Harry was a complete, undamaged house, just as he had seen it when he stepped out of the cupboard under the stairs that very morning.

The street outside was empty of passersby. The fireplace crackled warmly, its flames snapping and popping. Everything seemed utterly normal, as though nothing had happened.

Nothing at all.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

Harry couldn't help but applaud. Honestly, even with his experiences in another world, the magic this old man displayed was so astonishing, it was like... the magic of all magic!

Back in Stormwind, if the mages had been capable of such feats, the city wouldn't have needed rebuilding, and there wouldn't have been all those issues with unpaid stonemasons leading to the Brotherhood's rebellion.

"Amazing!" Harry exclaimed, clapping enthusiastically. "Truly amazing."

The old man, who was far livelier than his age suggested, placed one hand on his stomach and spread the other outward, bowing to his sides and forward as though taking a curtain call at the end of a performance.

"Thank you, thank you."

His poor old back must've been suffering for it.

"Well then, Harry," the old man chuckled as he put away his wand, gesturing toward the sofa. "Forgive this old fellow for meddling—just now might've been a bit beyond my usual stretching exercises. If you don't mind, why don't we sit down and have a chat?"

Harry noticed the old man seemed oddly familiar—either in personality or because he knew one of Harry's relatives very well.

As Harry watched, the fridge door in the kitchen swung open on its own, and out floated a few desserts Dudley hadn't liked and left behind. The kettle filled itself with water and hopped onto the stove, boiling within seconds.

Teacups danced their way to the table hand in hand, already holding tea leaves. When the hot water poured in, the fragrant aroma of milk tea wafted into Harry's nose.

"Incredible," Harry said sincerely once again. This display of magic was even more refined than anything the Kirin Tor could manage in Dalaran.

"Have a seat, Harry," the old man said warmly. "Oh, don't worry about your relatives. When they wake up, it'll be as if nothing ever happened—all the unpleasant memories erased. Just like a bad dream."

"...You tampered with their memories?" Harry frowned.

Memory was always a sensitive topic. Harry wouldn't want anyone prying into his cherished recollections, nor would he want anyone meddling with them.

"Do you think they'd want to remember any of this?" the old man countered.

Recalling Vernon's panicked meltdown, Harry hesitated for a moment before nodding, deciding not to pursue the matter further.

"Although it's a bit late for this now, I think basic introductions are still in order—don't you, Harry?" The old man smiled kindly. "Allow me to introduce myself: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Leaning forward slightly, Dumbledore extended his hand.

"...Harry Potter, as you already know." Though taken aback by the old man's perceptiveness and the respect he offered despite his age, Harry responded with proper etiquette, shaking the extended hand. "A magic school?"

Was it like Dalaran at its inception? A place for teaching magic? Or was it more akin to the Kirin Tor?

"Indeed, a magic school," Dumbledore said, leaning back into his seat with a playful wink. "Although it sounds a bit boastful, I must say that Hogwarts is undoubtedly the finest magic school in all of Europe."

The finest in Europe... which meant there were other schools. So, unlike Dalaran, it wasn't tied to political alliances?

Harry pondered this silently but betrayed no reaction outwardly.

"Oh, right!" Dumbledore exclaimed, as if suddenly recalling something. He began rummaging through his robes.

To be honest, Harry had been holding back a comment for a while—Dumbledore's attire, a purple robe adorned with silver moons and stars, was certainly... striking. Was this the standard aesthetic for wizards in this world?

But no, that couldn't be. The people he'd seen earlier on the street hadn't been dressed like this.

"Aha! Found it!" As Harry mulled over this, Dumbledore finally produced what he'd been searching for.

From a hidden pocket inside his robe, he pulled out a letter sealed with red wax and handed it to Harry.

"Good thing I had one with me, or it would've been a shame for a young wizard to miss out."

"...Wizard?" Harry raised an eyebrow as he took the letter.