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HRA# CHAPTER 227
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 15:01:29 +0000 UTCIt was an ancient book that radiated a pure sense of history just by its presence, bound in leather wrapped with copper foil. Even Harry couldn’t discern what kind of animal hide it was made from; he only felt its smooth texture under his fingers.
“Yes, the Book of Abraham,” Nicolas Flamel said, his eyes tinged with nostalgia as he gazed at the book in Harry’s hands. “That was the beginning of everything, the root of my achievements. Even I don’t know how it came to me. I had a dream—an angel told me of its arrival.”
“An angel?” Harry asked.
“I can’t quite remember,” Nicolas shook his head. “But it was because of this book that I unraveled the secrets of alchemy. On the evening of April 25, 1382, at five o’clock, I created the Philosopher’s Stone. I’ll never forget that moment—it’s as if it’s etched into my very bones…”
As Nicolas rambled on like an ordinary old man recounting his past, Harry ran his fingers over the book. He could make out symbols on the cover—an ouroboros, the sun, and the moon—but most of the other markings were unrecognizable to him, still a realm of unknown knowledge.
Harry opened the book’s cover, but unlike its exterior, the pages inside weren’t made of leather. They were fragile parchment, covered in unfamiliar symbols.
It must be protected by spells, Harry thought. Otherwise, a book made of parchment, left in the natural world for centuries, would crumble to dust with the slightest touch.
“In nomine Elohim, qui creavit coelum et terram,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle, noticing Harry staring at the text on the title page. “That’s Hebrew, meaning ‘In the name of the God who created heaven and earth.’ Ancient magical texts were often written in this language. If you want to delve deeper into the ways of magic, you’ll need to master it.”
“I understand,” Harry sighed.
Learn the language before the magic, right?
He quickly flipped through a few pages and noticed the book was structured in sets of three-by-seven allegorical illustrations, colored with alchemical symbols like mercury and sulfur. That was about all he could decipher.
One image struck him: a copper crown hovering above a furnace, with a stream of mercury flowing beneath it. At their intersection, silvery mist rose, condensing into three roses—one blooming red as blood, one withered like bone, and one suspended between reality and illusion.
Above it was a line of text: Ecce Rex Rubeus in solio ignis se det, et Regina Alba in lacuna lunae plorat (“Behold, the Red King sits upon the throne of fire, and the White Queen weeps in the abyss of the moon”). Harry couldn’t read it.
What he could understand was Nicolas’s handwritten note tucked into the page: When the Lord of Sulfur, and the Lady of Mercury, unite in the glass womb, thou shalt hold the staff of dragon’s blood, in thy left hand and the ashes of the phoenix, in thy right, reciting: ‘Solve terram et invenies occultum lapidem’ (Dissolve the earth, and thou shalt find the hidden stone).
Harry closed the book and looked at Nicolas.
As a wizard, a former shaman, and now a part-time mage, Harry had thought he’d escaped the days of being mocked by Jaina Proudmoore. Yet, opening this book made him realize, with startling clarity, how little he truly knew about magic.
It was, he supposed, like the difference between a Dalaran apprentice and Archmage Antonidas.
“Feeling overwhelmed?” Dumbledore asked, as if he’d been waiting for this moment, his eyes twinkling with a smile. “Realizing your understanding of magic is still shallow?”
“A bit,” Harry admitted with a self-deprecating sigh. “I thought I was already a proper mage.”
Dumbledore and Nicolas burst into laughter.
“You’re still young, Harry,” Dumbledore said after the laughter subsided. “When I first saw that book, I felt the same way—suddenly aware of how little I knew about magic.”
“There’s no need to rush,” Nicolas added, shaking his head. “It took me six hundred years to study everything in that book. For you—follow your heart.”
“I know,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. “I just don’t understand why you’d give this book to someone you’ve just met.”
“Simple,” Nicolas said with a soft chuckle. “Because it said… it wanted to go to you.”
…
By the time Harry returned to Hogwarts for the Christmas feast that evening, he was lost in thought.
Because of Nicolas’s words.
There was no doubt Nicolas meant the book had a will of its own, even if it couldn’t speak or scream when slammed on a table. It could decide its own path.
Just as it had appeared by Nicolas’s side six hundred years ago, without him knowing why he’d been chosen to hold a book containing the world’s mysteries.
To be honest, Nicolas’s comment about the book wanting to go to Harry felt a bit eerie. In Harry’s experience, magical objects or weapons with their own will weren’t exactly pleasant—like the priest’s artifact, Whispering Blade of the Black Empire, or Apocalypse.
But what truly unsettled Harry was Nicolas’s divination. Unlike Harry, Nicolas, a native of this world, had likely never heard of a death knight. Yet his divination had clearly shown one, lending chilling credibility to the prophecy.
So, after the Christmas feast, Harry returned to Mulgore as quickly as he could. This time, he performed his own divination—but saw nothing. A blank void.
The elements and spirits couldn’t foresee that future, the one seen through the unique divination of wizards.
And that made it all the more unsettling, didn’t it?
A sense of urgency, an intangible feeling of crisis, pushed Harry to act.
As a grown tauren, a mature tribal prophet, and a high-ranking member of the Horde, Harry was all too familiar with this feeling—he needed to bolster his strength.
Starting with Ragehorn.
No longer was she a weak lizard flopping on a table, trying to breathe fire only to singe Hagrid’s beard. That pitiful image was gone, forgotten even by Ragehorn herself.
Now, she was majestic and robust, her body covered in tight, gleaming scales polished to a mirror-like shine under Alfred’s meticulous care. Her size was a full head larger than others of her kind at the same stage. Female dragons were already larger than males, but Ragehorn stood out even among them, making other female dragons look like juveniles in her presence.
Yet she was still a child. Adulthood meant reproductive maturity, and for a Norwegian Ridgeback, that took at least ten years from hatching—a fact Harry saw as a blessing.
It meant Ragehorn was still in her growth phase, her potential unshaped, her development far from complete.
Potions that would kill a human were mere trifles to a dragon’s constitution. Food and survival were no concern, and when bored, Harry would summon massive elementals for Ragehorn to spar with, honing her claws and combat instincts to keep her from becoming a lazy dragon who only ate and slept.
In short, even if Newt Scamander evaluated Ragehorn now, he’d have nothing to say beyond “healthy and thriving.”
And, most importantly, there was her intelligence. She wasn’t quite on Dumbledore’s level, but Ragehorn’s intellect rivaled that of a fifth- or sixth-year Hogwarts student.
Her only limitation was her dragon’s throat, which prevented her from speaking.
Standing in Ragehorn’s mountaintop lair, Harry stroked her snout as she nuzzled him affectionately, patting her scales.
“It’s about time,” Harry said seriously. “Remember my promise? To make you the most powerful dragon in the world. I have a way to make you stronger—and to free you from some of the limitations of a dragon’s body, so you can speak.”
At this, Ragehorn snorted excitedly, nudging Harry’s hand so hard she knocked him to the ground.
“Easy, easy!” Harry laughed, patting her snout to calm her down. “Let me finish. This transformation carries risks.”
Standing up, he let his flesh-and-blood body ignite into a fire elemental form.
“You’ve seen this form,” Harry’s voice, now a deep rumble, came from the blazing flames where his head had been. “This is called Ascension. The method to make you stronger is similar—it involves transforming your Norwegian Ridgeback body into an elemental one.”
“If it succeeds, as an elemental dragon, you’ll be able to speak or communicate as an elemental would. You’ll also wield elemental powers freely—powers that could let you crush your kin, even the fiercest Hungarian Horntails.”
Ragehorn snorted indignantly. She didn’t like the idea of Hungarian Horntails being called the fiercest fire dragons. She should hold that title.
“Don’t decide so quickly,” Harry said, soothing his eager battle partner. “The Ascension ritual is dangerous, especially since you’re not a shaman and know little about the elemental ways. Your only advantage is your massive size and vitality, but that means enduring immense pain during the ritual.”
“Roar!” Ragehorn lifted her head and bellowed, undaunted.
Growing stronger was her instinct. Why grow stronger? That didn’t matter. If she could grow stronger, why wouldn’t she?
Pain was tolerable.
Even with near-human intelligence, her draconic instincts and unique perspective set her apart from humans.
Harry knew this, so his question was more ceremonial than practical.
Transforming Ragehorn from an ordinary Norwegian Ridgeback into an Incarnate Dragon—honestly, even for a true Dalaran mage, this was advanced work.
Incarnate Dragons were a closely guarded secret among the Dragon Aspects, and anyone who spoke too much about them risked a visit from an enraged blue dragon.
Harry had never seen an Incarnate Dragon, only heard whispers of their existence from a dragon companion. Unlike the Titan-empowered Dragon Aspects, Incarnate Dragons embraced elemental power.
What Harry was attempting was to combine his knowledge of the shamanic Ascension ritual with these whispered possibilities, creating a unique Ascension ritual for Ragehorn.
It wasn’t without challenges. Harry’s own Ascension had required the aid of many powerful shamans, but in this world, he’d struggle to find shamans of his caliber.
Another hurdle was Ragehorn’s species. She wasn’t an Azerothian proto-dragon, malleable and able to evolve based on environment. She was a purebred Norwegian Ridgeback, unchanged for centuries. A proto-dragon could have adapted into multiple forms in that time.
Still, Harry had made a promise, and it was Ragehorn’s will. There was no backing out—not when he needed a powerful ally to face death knights, should they appear in this world.
They might come with good intentions, but Harry needed the strength to counter them, to speak as their equal.
He didn’t need to use it, but he needed to have it.
“So,” Harry said, waving his wand, “let’s start by choosing what form you’ll take.”
Pearly smoke streamed from the wand’s tip, shifting in the air to form illusions of Ragehorn’s likeness. At first, they mirrored her current form, but then they began to transform, each taking on a different elemental visage.
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
