windkaze
patreon
HRA# CHAPTER 180
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 06:51:31 +0000 UTCDumbledore had planned it all.
“Some will be chosen as apprentices, but not all,” Harry said, giving Dumbledore a peculiar look. “What do you take me for? My goal is the resurgence of the elements, to fully usher in an era of magic, not to save every single person in this world.”
Harry decided to leave the squibs be for now, to test their patience and sincerity. He would hold one or more trials later, selecting those with calm hearts and steadfast resolve. Age didn’t matter.
The squibs lingering outside Hogwarts, refusing to leave, were those unwilling to integrate into Muggle society. Born into magical families yet denied magic, their torment fueled an intense obsession with it. Those who had truly moved on had already embraced life as Muggles, leaving the wizarding world behind.
Such people, if given the chance to wield magic, would cherish it far more than Hogwarts students born with innate magical ability. They would work harder, too—just like Filch, who, among Harry’s current apprentices, outshone even Hermione in dedication.
What comes too easily is rarely valued.
Harry believed the most steadfast shamans of the Earthen Ring would emerge from these squibs. Their burning passion would drive them to master shamanic arts, and since they could only wield shamanic spells, they would be more committed to the cause of elemental resurgence than any ordinary wizard.
All Harry needed was to find those who met his standards.
“Great Headmaster Dumbledore,” Harry said suddenly, turning to him, “as the professor of Shamanic Priesthood, may I request that some of the chosen squibs audit my classes? The ones for first-stage apprentices.”
“That class might bring you a bit of… well, pressure from the Ministry,” Dumbledore replied lightly.
“Oh, my great Professor Potter,” Dumbledore chuckled, teasing, “to hear such flattery from you truly flatters an old man like me.”
“So?” Harry pressed.
“I think these old bones can still handle a few things,” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “Just remember your promise to me, Harry.”
“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely.
The process was much like last year’s. As the newly appointed Professor Potter, Harry needed to select a new batch of apprentices.
Upper-year students had already told the first-years countless times about the Shaman Club’s opening lesson, so by the time it began, students from every year were gripped with nervous anticipation, wondering if they could connect with the earth element.
The class was no longer held at the shamanic altar far from the castle. Instead, students gathered on the grassy expanse beneath Hogwarts’ new landmark: a massive totem structure. The space was vast enough to accommodate all seven years.
Before Harry arrived, the students curiously eyed the group seated neatly on the far right—people who shouldn’t have been at Hogwarts. Some upper-years recognized familiar faces among them: squibs who had arrived in Hogsmeade over the past few days.
With a mindset of quality over quantity, Harry spent two days observing these squibs. The ever-present winds carried their truest selves to him—their behavior when alone, their attitudes toward others.
He ruled out those with extreme thoughts, those seeking power for revenge, those consumed by self-pity or bitterness, and those whose spirits, from an astral perspective, were neither kind nor healthy.
After two days of preliminary screening, Harry selected a small group from the Hogsmeade squibs to observe the class.
Truth be told, Hagrid’s imposing presence was a great help, allowing Harry to safely navigate the crowd that surged toward him. The moment someone spotted the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and shouted “Harry Potter,” the squibs who had come to Hogsmeade for him rushed forward with frenzied zeal.
Whenever Harry recalled announcing the chosen names and leaving under Hagrid’s protection, the expressions and glares of those not selected sent chills down his spine.
It was unnerving.
Despair, hatred, resentment, fury… It was hard to imagine how such frail bodies and minds could harbor such extreme negativity. Yet it was precisely this extremism that disqualified them.
Especially those squibs who had lived on the fringes of the wizarding world for decades—their warped minds had become an inseparable, unchangeable part of them.
Given Hermione’s ambition to improve the status of squibs in wizarding society, Harry brought along a few friends. But even Hermione, with her noble aspirations, struggled to accept the terrifying sight.
The rejected squibs followed Harry and his group to the boundary of Hogwarts, undeterred even when Hagrid roughly pushed them back to keep the agitated crowd from entering. From a distance, Harry and his friends could still hear the venomous curses hurled their way.
Hermione was shaken for a long time afterward, unable to reconcile the vile behavior of the very group she wanted to save.
“Why, Harry? Why are they like that?” she asked.
Harry remembered the little witch sitting by the Gryffindor common room’s fireplace, clutching a cushion, her face etched with confusion.
She didn’t understand.
“This is actually the most common state for squibs in wizarding society,” Harry said calmly, pulling a chair to sit beside her. “You can’t throw a clean sheet of paper into mud and expect it to stay pristine when you pull it out.”
“Squibs who fully integrate into Muggle society are better off—they find purpose and value there, build new lives. But for those who can’t let go of magic, who can’t leave the wizarding world, every day is torment.”
“Rita’s articles described the lives of squibs in detail, and I can tell you she didn’t exaggerate on this point—if anything, she softened the truth to protect the Ministry and wizarding society’s image.”
To Hermione, everything Rita Skeeter wrote was untrustworthy, exaggerated nonsense.
“I remember that article,” Hermione said, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “Filch himself admitted his jealousy of young witches and wizards who could cast spells so easily. But I didn’t expect…”
“Didn’t expect them to be even more extreme than Filch?” Harry gave a sudden smile. “I’d say Filch is actually in a better state. The longing for magic, the discrimination from wizards, even the contempt and rejection from their own families—it’s like they’ve been steeped in a stagnant, foul mire for years.”
“Rita didn’t lie about that part,” Harry continued. “Decades ago, families like the Malfoys or other dark wizard clans—well, you know, those Slytherin pureblood aristocrats—if they had a squib, they’d quietly ‘deal’ with it. Claim the child died of illness or an accident. That’s the kind of people they were.”
“It wasn’t just Slytherin aristocrats,” Neville piped up suddenly, hugging his knees as he sat on a chair. His face was pale, as if the squibs’ behavior had shaken him, and his voice was soft. “Almost every wizarding family—Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, even Gryffindor—they were all the same.”
Noticing the surprised looks from the others, Neville hurriedly added, “You all know I was a bit slow. My gran always said I was probably a squib until I was eight, when Uncle Algie accidentally dropped me out a window and I bounced.” He grinned, a rare moment of pride. “She always brings it up, relieved I wasn’t a squib. So, I know a bit about their situation.”
“Don’t be silly, Neville,” Hermione said, her face still pale but her voice steady. “You’re not slow at all. Is it the same with the Weasleys?”
“The Weasleys?” Ron blinked, not immediately grasping her question. Then he bristled. “Of course not—er, probably not?”
He hesitated.
“Mum mentioned a cousin once, completely mental, thought Dad tainted the family bloodline…” Ron trailed off. “Dad and Mum cut ties with the rest of the Weasleys early on, no contact. If it’s those Weasleys… they probably wouldn’t treat squibs kindly.” He sighed.
“But if I were a squib, I’m sure Dad and Mum would be heartbroken,” Ron added firmly. “I’m certain of that.”
“So, you’ve seen the dark side of the squib community,” Harry said suddenly, turning to Hermione. “Many of them can’t even be called kind or gentle anymore. What are you going to do?”
“I… I…” Hermione faltered, looking at Harry with a strained smile. “It’s only some of them, right? I mean, the squibs we saw today—the ones so desperate for magic that it’s twisted their hearts—they came to Hogsmeade the moment they read the papers.”
“But think about it another way,” she continued, her voice growing steadier. “The squibs who are calm, who aren’t so obsessed with magic, who aren’t extreme—they wouldn’t rush to Hogsmeade even if they saw the articles, would they?”
“We’ve only met the most desperate ones,” Hermione said, taking a deep breath. “They don’t represent all squibs. I still believe there are more squibs out there worth helping. If the whole pond is clean, a piece of paper thrown in won’t get stained, right?”
“It’s not their fault,” Hermione said, her eyes blazing with conviction. “They were born into a rotten environment. It’s the wizarding world’s twisted society that tainted them. They’re not to blame.”
“I believe if wizards stopped discriminating against squibs, if the Ministry started caring about their plight, future squibs wouldn’t end up like the ones we saw today. That’s what I think!”
Her hopeful gaze locked onto Harry, holding her breath as if seeking his approval.
“Well said,” Harry said, his serious expression breaking into a smile. He even reached out to ruffle her hair, unsparing in his praise. “Really, Hermione—for someone your age to have this kind of insight and independent thought, you’re already ahead of most people.”
“Oh, thank you,” Hermione stammered, her face flushing red. She forgot to swat away Harry’s hand, too flustered to speak clearly. “So, um, will you help me? I mean, keep helping me?”
“Of course,” Harry said without hesitation. “You’re doing the right thing. If it’s right, you should stick with it, no matter how many wizards dismiss squibs or claim the world’s always been this way. Their opinions don’t matter.”
“As long as it makes the world better, you should keep going,” Harry said with a smile. “If you can hold onto that belief, no obstacle will stop you. You’re already a hero, Hermione.”
Harry’s praise was high, and he genuinely admired the resolve Hermione showed in that moment.
With such determination, Hermione could no longer be seen as just a child—she was someone capable of independent thought.
“A hero?” Hermione’s eyes welled with tears at Harry’s words. “Thank you, Harry—I won’t give up. Never!”
Ron and Neville exchanged a glance, unsure if it was their imagination, but despite being four people in the room, they somehow felt like they couldn’t get a word in.
Was that fair?
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
