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HRA# Chapter 28: Harry Faces Reality and Professor Quirrell's Peculiarity
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 21:48:08 +0000 UTC“I have to admit, the... creative ideas you two come up with are truly beyond my imagination,” Harry said through gritted teeth when mentioning the term "creative ideas." “You went into the Forbidden Forest the night before last just for this?”
“Oh, speaking of that, we still haven’t thanked you properly, Harry,” Fred said, slinging an arm around him affectionately.
“We wouldn’t forget to thank those who helped us,” George chimed in with a grin. “If it weren’t for you distracting Filch, that old codger, we might’ve been caught.”
“Wait a second, George. I beg to differ just a bit. Even if Harry hadn’t helped, we wouldn’t have been caught. Worst-case scenario, we could’ve just thrown dungbombs to divert Filch’s attention.”
“Come on, Fred, we’re running low on dungbombs. We need to ration them carefully.”
“True, good things always run out too quickly.”
Dungbombs, a classic prank item in the wizarding world, explode into a mess that reeks of... well, dung. It’s not real dung, but the lingering odor seeps into everything and sticks around for ages.
But that wasn’t the point. Harry had zero interest in hearing the twins’ discussions about frugal pranking strategies.
“So, your way of thanking me was making a bunch of glowing cow horns to sell?” Harry squinted at them. “I can assure you that’s not the kind of gratitude I want.”
Not even close. Back in Azeroth, if a goblin had dared to make flashing, color-changing, firework-launching horns, the Tauren would’ve challenged them to an honor duel without hesitation—though, come to think of it, would such horns actually sell well?
Would they?
Ugh… probably not openly. They’d likely only show up in black markets as contraband.
Harry shook the thought from his mind. Azerothian adventurers always had... unique tastes.
Like this kind of thing ↓
“No, no, Harry, the real thanks is in the profit split!” Fred suddenly adopted a rare serious expression. “You’ve seen it yourself—this stuff is insanely popular. To be honest, this profit-sharing deal is something not even little Ronnie could get from us.”
Ron protested from the side, but no one paid him any attention.
“Exactly,” George nodded. “We know you’re probably not short on money, Harry, but let’s be honest: you can never have too much. Who knows when you might need it?”
Harry sighed. He couldn’t argue with that.
When he was younger—around the time he left Thunder Bluff to venture out into Azeroth—Harry had experienced countless moments where a single copper coin could leave an adventurer in a bind.
Sure, those times added a unique flavor to his adventures and even led him to events that shaped Azeroth’s fate, but honestly? He didn’t miss the days of being too broke to afford an inn and having to sleep in a stable during winter.
To be fair, the twins’ profit-sharing terms were pretty generous—something goblins would never offer. Even as they spoke, Fred and George had to turn away to deal with eager customers placing orders.
Considering future organizational needs...
“Alright,” Harry finally said, albeit reluctantly. “But I have one condition—you’re absolutely forbidden from selling those glowing cow horns. You can only sell ones that look like cow horns. Damn it, what am I even saying?”
“Oh, no! Harry! That’ll cost us so much money!” the twins cried out dramatically. “People love those super-cool horns!”
“Absolutely not!” Harry quashed their dreams on the spot, his tone resolute. “That’s my bottom line. I’d rather make less money than tolerate... that bizarre nonsense!”
Harry was, at heart, a traditionalist Tauren—albeit one of the more open-minded ones. He’d spent his life mediating conflicts between the truly old-school Tauren and the Cairne-affiliated clans. After all, the shaman who guided him onto his path, Magatha Grimtotem, was the leader of one of those staunch traditionalist factions.
In short, Magatha Grimtotem was the leader Harry had to reconcile with most often.
Thankfully, Harry had done well—he was considered Magatha’s prized pupil, and things had remained relatively peaceful over the years.
“Merlin’s beard, Harry! You’re as stern as Professor McGonagall,” the twins groaned but ultimately relented. “Fine, it’s settled—now eat up!”
With playful grins, the twins headed off to inform their enthusiastic customers about the changes to the product line, hoping for their understanding.
“Wait a minute, Fred, George,” Ron stepped forward to block his brothers. “I think we need to have a chat.”
Ron looked almost like a mini adult—serious and composed. It was hard to tell who he was imitating, but the effort was obvious.
“A chat?” Fred and George exchanged glances, barely able to suppress their laughter. “You know, little Ronnie, you’re doing a terrible job of imitating Dad.”
“Don’t call me that!” Ron snapped, though a sly grin spread across his face. “Mum and Dad… they wouldn’t want to hear about you sneaking into the Forbidden Forest on the first day of school, would they? Especially with Harry covering for you.”
“So?” Fred raised an eyebrow.
“Give me a pair of horns. I want to be a Tauren too,” Ron declared smugly, extending a hand with righteous confidence. “Or I’ll write home to Mum!”
He thought he had them.
Unfortunately for Ron, he forgot one crucial thing about blackmail: you need to be in control of the situation.
The next moment, Fred and George each grabbed one of his arms and hoisted him out of his chair.
“What are you doing? Let me go! Hey! Harry! Neville! Hermione! Help me!!”
Ron's earlier confidence vanished as he kicked and flailed, trying to break free from his brothers’ grasp. But against Fred and George, now third-years, his struggles were futile.
“I think we need to have a private conversation with our dear brother,” George said, holding Ron’s arm. He turned to Harry.
“Oh, go ahead,” Harry said kindly, spreading butter on his bread. “There aren’t any classes tonight. Take your time... just don’t be too rough.”
“Harry?!!” Ron stopped struggling and stared at his friend in disbelief. “You can’t do this! Aren’t we friends?!”
“Blackmail is wrong, Ron,” Hermione said, her eyes crinkling as she laughed.
“Exactly, especially when you’re blackmailing your own brothers,” Harry added, calmly enjoying his meal. He couldn’t bear to watch Ron’s tragic departure.
What a pity.
Ron was taken away just like that, and by the time he returned to the dining table, his face was entirely red, his clothes slightly disheveled, and he looked utterly embarrassed.
"Hey! That was really unfair of you!" Ron grumbled as he sat back in his seat. "None of you even tried to help me!"
"Well, they are your brothers, Ron," Neville murmured timidly. "They wouldn’t actually hurt you."
"And you did get what you wanted, didn’t you?" Hermione asked curiously, eyeing Ron's forehead, where a pair of horns now stood tall and firm. "How did they even do that? I mean—this doesn’t look like something students could manage."
"I almost wish they had hurt me," Ron sighed heavily and muttered, "Who knows? They’re absolute geniuses when it comes to pranks. They’re always coming up with bizarre things. The entire holiday, they were locked in their room, working on who-knows-what."
Harry stared at the glowing horns on Ron’s head, trying to figure out how to destroy them without harming Ron in the process. If necessary, he considered dropping the "without harm" part altogether.
"Hey! Harry, don’t even think about it!" Ron, perceptive at the worst moments, immediately covered his horns. "Fred already removed the glowing function. They can’t even spray ribbons now—though you wouldn’t believe how cunning Fred and George are. They made it so you have to manually refill the ribbons, and they even charge extra if you buy them directly!"
Harry averted his gaze.
"Wow, that’s so cool," Neville said enviously, only to realize Harry was now looking at him. Hastily, he added, "I mean, it’s cool that they don’t glow or spray ribbons! Uh—Ron, can you sell me one too? I’d love to be a Tauren."
That was pure survival instinct.
"Of course, I can get you a discounted price...with the Harry Potter Exclusive Seal of Approval or something," Ron replied eagerly.
Hogwarts was about to experience a storm—the storm of Taurens. And Harry could already see the brewing chaos but felt utterly powerless to stop it.
He could only hope Professor McGonagall wouldn’t be too upset.
What Harry didn’t know was that, despite his stern warning to Fred and George not to sell the glowing, colorful version of the horns, human nature has a tendency to crave what’s forbidden.
In secret, the glowing horns had become the most sought-after item among students—even Slytherins. Even Slytherins!
Of course, no one dared let the horns light up in front of Harry.
Once again, Harry deeply empathized with Professor McGonagall’s sense of helplessness. After all…he really couldn’t control what people did behind his back.
--
As an ancient castle rich in history, Hogwarts had countless places to explore. Over the centuries, generations of energetic students had added even more mysteries to this already enigmatic place.
Under normal circumstances, a student could spend seven years here and still fail to uncover all the castle’s secrets. Even Dumbledore, after all his years as headmaster, wouldn’t claim to know every corner of the castle.
Harry appreciated this. His youthful sense of adventure had been reignited. Every class in his first week back was filled with fresh wonders, reminding him of the joys of being a wizard. In his free time, he roamed the castle, searching for its hidden secrets.
But now, Harry had to take back something he’d said a few days earlier—that Hogwarts professors were all genuinely skilled.
Specifically, he had to take it back for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Harry had skimmed through the textbook for this class. The course was designed to teach young wizards how to handle the dangers of the magical world—whether from dark creatures in the wild or curses from dark wizards.
By all accounts, it should have been an exciting subject. Facing dark creatures and dark wizards? Surely there’d be plenty of action.
Harry was wrong.
After an entire lesson, Harry’s strongest impression was that he’d been marinated—like smoked meat. Wanting a good view of the professor’s demonstrations, he’d picked a seat in the front row.
But throughout the class, Professor Quirrell didn’t demonstrate a single spell. He didn’t even pull a McGonagall-style attention grabber. The entire lesson was just him reading monotonously from the textbook.
And the smell—Professor Quirrell reeked of garlic, as though he’d been steeped in it for days. Harry was nearly knocked out by the overwhelming stench. According to Quirrell, it was a precaution after being pursued by a Romanian vampire over the holidays.
"...Honestly, I think you could take him in a duel, Harry," Ron whispered.
"I don’t know about that," Harry replied, rubbing his tired eyes. "But you two go on ahead. I’ve got some questions to ask the professor."
"Oh, sneaking in extra study time, are we? And not letting us sit in?" Hermione huffed and stormed off.
Ron and Neville lingered, wanting to wait for Harry, but he firmly waved them off.
In the end, it was just Harry and Professor Quirrell in the classroom.
Quirrell stood behind the lectern, while Harry sat in the front row.
"From an astral perspective, your soul shines…very dimly, Professor," Harry said softly, fixing his gaze on Quirrell. "Like a candle flickering in the cold wind, teetering on the edge of extinction."
This was exactly why Harry had sent Hermione, Ron, and Neville away. No matter how unremarkable or garlic-soaked Quirrell appeared, Harry had noticed something unsettling.
As a shaman, Harry often viewed the world through an astral lens, perceiving the spirits and energies around him.
The astral plane was a higher-dimensional layer overlaying the physical world, like a sugary glaze covering a cake. It connected to realms unknown and served as a gateway for shamans and skilled mages to explore other worlds or observe their own from an elevated perspective.
Through this lens, Harry could see truths hidden to others—and Professor Quirrell's dim, flickering soul was a glaring warning sign.
