Flames erupted from every inch of its body, as if part of its skull had been blasted away, molten fire spewing forth like a volcano. Its entire form was wreathed in heavy, lava-like flames, and even the mere illusion radiated an oppressive heat.
Using Ragehorn's current form as a base, Harry roughly simulated what a fire elemental version of her might look like... It was only a simulation, of course. He had no idea what Ragehorn would truly become if she transformed into an ascended dragon.
"What do you think?" Harry asked. "Right now, you'd just be a fire-breathing dragon. But if you accepted the infusion of fire elemental essence, you'd become fire itself—a force to be reckoned with, even in the Firelands."
Ragehorn snorted, clearly intrigued, but her attention quickly shifted to another illusion nearby.
This one barely resembled a dragon anymore. Its form was a vague outline of limbs, wings, and a tail, entirely composed of stone, moving like a living mountain range.
Ragehorn swatted the illusion, shattering it into fragments.
"Alright, looks like earth elemental isn't your thing," Harry said with a nod, letting the illusion dissipate without reforming.
It wasn't surprising. Ragehorn craved greater power and was willing to endure pain to achieve it, but she was, after all, a dragon who prided herself on her pristine, beautiful scales. An earth elemental dragon, covered in tumorous rocks or jagged stone spikes, was hardly appealing to her.
Harry moved on to the next vision, another imagined ascension, this time as a wind elemental. As expected, it was cloaked in storms and lightning, parts of its body transformed into elemental essence. But just like the earth version, Ragehorn dismissed it without a second thought—no scales, no appeal.
The water elemental was an even quicker rejection. Swirling currents of water enveloped the dragon's form, and Ragehorn's disappointment was palpable. Soft, fluid, and utterly unappealing. Sure, Norwegian Ridgebacks could hunt underwater, but as a fire dragon, water was far from her preference.
She was picky, to say the least. Harry didn't stop at the four primal elements. He even tried mercury or magical metal ascensions. The gleaming magical metal version caught Ragehorn's eye for a moment—she lingered on its shimmering surface—but the others were dismissed with a glance.
At first, it was amusing, but as the process dragged on, it became exhausting. Harry tried to reason with her. "If you choose something rare like adamantine for your ascension," he said, "you'd need to consume more of it to grow stronger. Where are you going to find that much adamantine in this world?"
Eventually, perhaps tired of the endless options, Ragehorn circled back to an element she'd initially rejected—ice.
The ascension ritual required a place rich in the chosen element. Unlike the four primal elements, ice was a hybrid of water and wind. Even in Azeroth, ice elementals didn't have their own elemental plane; they resided within the plane of water.
Given Ragehorn's massive size, fully transforming her into an elemental creature would demand an immense amount of elemental essence. Anything less would result in an incomplete ascension.
Harry wasn't about to half-ass this. His goal wasn't just to fulfill Ragehorn's wish but to bolster his own forces. Cutting corners now could spell regret later—especially if death knights came knocking.
So, he chose a low-lying valley in the Mulgore region of his suitcase world. He placed runecarved elemental stones throughout the valley to gather the necessary energies and cast a weather charm to shroud the area in a perpetual blizzard.
With Mulgore's high elemental activity, Harry estimated it wouldn't take long for ice or blizzard spirits to naturally form in the valley. Once the elemental concentration deepened further, it would be time for Ragehorn's transformation.
Things had taken an urgent turn. Just last year, Harry had thought this world was peaceful. Sure, Muggle and wizard wars had scarred the past few decades, but without the chaotic powers of Azeroth or individuals wielding godlike strength, even someone like Voldemort seemed manageable. This world felt safer—at least it wasn't teetering on the brink of annihilation.
How naive.
Harry had even entertained the idea of never returning to Azeroth, settling down in this tranquil world to raise a family, spread the ways of shamanism, and become a wise old mentor with disciples across the globe. But not even two years had passed before danger reared its head.
He was no longer the cautious novice who'd just entered the wizarding world, wary of its society. Now, Harry knew most wizards here were powerless against true threats. When push came to shove, it would fall to him to stand in the gap.
So much for retirement.
Driven by a sense of urgency, Harry threw himself into his studies. Alongside refining wizarding spells, he delved into the books gifted by Nicolas Flamel. He even pushed deeper into the path of the elements.
He was stretched thin.
Nicolas hadn't just given him The Book of Abraham the Jew but an entire library, housed in a manor on the outskirts of Paris. Beyond the books Nicolas had collected over six centuries, it contained his own research. Harry hadn't yet taken full possession of this treasure trove—under Nicolas's guidance, he'd only selected a few books to bring back to Hogwarts.
For now, the wizarding world remained unaware that Harry, a British wizard, had inherited Nicolas's greatest legacy. If the French wizards found out, they'd likely cause a stir.
But setting aside external matters, life at Hogwarts was no less demanding. Harry juggled teaching apprentices, attending his own classes—Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology—and more. He felt busier than when he'd managed an entire tauren tribe in Azeroth. Back then, he'd had reliable allies. Now, he was largely on his own.
Hermione and Ron wanted to help, but they were just second-year students with limited abilities. Sirius and Lupin, having recovered their health, had been sent off by Harry to work with the goblins alongside Coppercoil. He wasn't about to let his godfather squander his inheritance lounging around.
Since the Christmas holidays ended, Harry had been swamped. So when Gilderoy Lockhart approached him, he was momentarily baffled by the flamboyant professor's intentions.
"A dueling club?" Harry asked.
"Yes, Harry, a dueling club!" Lockhart said enthusiastically, clad in an ostentatious robe. "You know, Hogwarts hasn't exactly been calm these past two years. Last year's Death Eaters, this year's, er, basilisk—dangerous times for students."
Harry nodded. He knew the truth behind those events better than Lockhart did.
"See? You agree, don't you?" Lockhart beamed, thrilled by Harry's acknowledgment. "So, to teach the students something truly useful, I thought we'd start this club. You never know when they'll need to defend themselves."
"Makes sense," Harry said after a moment's thought.
"And it'd be perfect if you'd agree to be my dueling assistant," Lockhart said, grinning widely. "I've already got Dumbledore's approval. So, if you're in, shall we meet in the Great Hall tonight?"
"Alright, see you then," Harry replied without hesitation.
He had no objections. A dueling club would teach students to apply their knowledge practically, boosting their self-defense skills. Given the uncertain future of this world, Harry thought Lockhart had actually come up with something worthwhile for once.
When danger struck, survival often depended on one's own strength.
By eight o'clock that evening, Harry arrived at the Great Hall. The four long dining tables were gone, replaced by a gilded stage along one wall. Hundreds of candles floated overhead for illumination, and the enchanted ceiling, usually displaying the night sky, was now a solid, opaque black.
The turnout was massive—nearly every student from all four houses, regardless of year, had shown up. The word "dueling" held undeniable allure for teenagers eager for action. Who hadn't dreamed of wielding incredible power, firing off spells with ease, defeating enemies, and walking away victorious?
Magic, by its nature, invited comparisons of strength. With a dangerous basilisk having roamed the school this year, and who-knows-what lurking in the future, the students were buzzing with excitement.
As Harry entered the hall, he overheard their chatter. Some speculated that Professor Flitwick, a former dueling champion, would lead the lessons. Others whispered that Snape might teach them, given rumors he'd actually killed before. The theories were wild and varied.
The chatter died down when a man in a garish purple robe, sparkling from head to toe, stepped onto the stage. Lockhart looked like he was dressed for a blind date, not a dueling lesson. Many students' faces fell, some visibly regretting their decision to attend.
But it was too late to leave.
"Hey, hey, hey! Everyone, gather round!" Lockhart waved enthusiastically. "Come closer, that's it, surround the stage! Can everyone see me? Hear me? Excellent!"
Even Harry was starting to regret this. But since it was a dueling club, results would come down to skill, not showmanship. For now, Lockhart's tendency to turn everything into a self-promotion fest could be ignored.
"Here's the thing," Lockhart announced loudly. "We all know Hogwarts hasn't been peaceful these past two years. Last year's Death Eater, Quirrell, for example. And this year's basilisk. I must say, even as one of Ravenclaw's most distinguished graduates in recent years, I could hardly imagine a creature that dangerous lurking in Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets."
"Yes, yes, I know what's going through those clever little heads of yours," he continued, shaking his head with mock regret. "The basilisk attacked Professor Potter, didn't it? And it's already been slain by him. I'm delighted no one was seriously harmed in the ordeal... but is that enough?"
"No offense, Professor Potter," he added quickly. "Even I couldn't have handled that basilisk better. But if you've been to the second-floor hospital wing, you've seen the poor petrified ghosts in the empty classroom nearby. You don't want to end up like them, do you? Or worse—buried in the ground."
Despite his usual self-aggrandizing tone, Lockhart's words struck a chord with many students.
"When danger comes, the only thing we can rely on is ourselves," he said solemnly. "That's a lesson I learned through countless adventures, and now I'm sharing it with you, free of charge."
"Anyway," he went on, seamlessly slipping in a plug, "I'm grateful to Professor Dumbledore for allowing me to start this little club. Here, I'll train you to defend yourselves, using methods I've employed countless times. For more details, see my published works."
After his shameless advertisement, he continued, "Of course, a dueling club needs opponents. Allow me to introduce my assistants: Professor Snape, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall—and, of course, our most popular and celebrated professor, Harry Potter!"
--
Support me & read more advance chapter on my pa-treon:
pat reon .c-om/windkaze