"Don't mention it," Harry said, waving his hand dismissively. "No matter what others say, just do what you believe is right. Those who sway
"Don't mention it," Harry said, waving his hand dismissively. "No matter what others say, just do what you believe is right. Those who sway with the words of others will never accomplish anything."
"A hero only needs to believe in themselves," Hermione suddenly interjected, then quickly lowered her head under Harry's gaze, explaining, "That's something I read in a book. Um, I mean, it's from a book… but it's true, isn't it?"
"Absolutely," Harry replied, his eyes deep with thought. "As you grow, you'll come to understand this truth more clearly… But let's not dwell on that. If you're interested, I can introduce you to a remarkable old woman. She's a Squib, too."
"Her?" Hermione tilted her head curiously.
"Mrs. Figg," Harry said simply. "She lives on Privet Drive, like my aunt and uncle. She's a neighbor of sorts. Before things got better with my uncle's family, they'd leave me with her whenever they went out."
"A Squib neighbor?" Ron said, puzzled. "That's quite a coincidence."
"Not really," Harry said with a chuckle. "Mrs. Figg was likely sent by Dumbledore to keep an eye on me. Looking back, it's obvious now—owls were always flying into her house."
"Dumbledore's person?" Hermione said, surprised. "Then Mrs. Figg must be wonderful, right?"
"I won't lie to you," Harry said, his smile growing wider. "I didn't exactly like her back then. I thought she was a bit mad—her house was full of cats and smelled like cabbage. Every time I was sent there, she'd make me look at photos of her cats. Deadly boring."
"Harry…" Hermione's voice softened with sympathy.
"Why the pitying look?" Harry laughed. "No need for that. Honestly, if I'm being real, I kind of miss staying at Mrs. Figg's. It was safe there. No worrying about being killed in my sleep, and I always got enough to eat."
Hermione fell silent, simply taking Harry's hand. He didn't pull away.
"Anyway," Harry continued earnestly, "if you're up for it, I can take you to meet her. You can see how a Squib who's blended into Muggle society lives, how the wizarding world treats her, and what she thinks of magic. You can ask her yourself."
"I should warn you, though," he added, "Mrs. Figg isn't as extreme as some of the Squibs you met today, but that doesn't mean she's exactly normal. Don't get your hopes up too high."
"A less crazy Squib," Ron nodded from the side. "Got it."
"Shut it, Ron," Hermione snapped, glaring at him before turning back to Harry. "I'd love to meet Mrs. Figg, Harry. And I won't go imagining things."
"Couldn't ask for more than that."
With her friends' encouragement, Hermione's emotions gradually settled. At least that night, she wouldn't lie awake.
She was still the Hermione Harry knew—once she set her mind to something, she was a whirlwind of action.
She dove into the Hogwarts library, scouring for historical records about Squibs. She questioned the Squibs who'd been selected and were temporarily housed in tents near the great totem, asking about their past lives. She even approached those left unselected, still lingering by the roadside, despite their venomous curses toward her the day before.
Harry admired Hermione's drive. Seeing injustice was one thing, but acting to change it was far rarer and more valuable than empty words.
As long as Hermione kept pushing forward, even without tangible success yet, Harry believed she was already a hero to the overlooked Squibs.
And so, in this class, Hermione wasn't sitting with the other apprentices who'd come to watch. Instead, she sat as a teaching assistant beside the nervous Squibs, who were unsettled by the many young witches and wizards staring at them. She constantly reassured them.
The clever girl shared her experiences from last year, when she and others tried connecting with the earth elemental—named Dotty in her case. To be honest, there wasn't much to it beyond calming the mind, but her stories helped ease the Squibs, who'd long lost their confidence.
Filch, now a legendary figure among the Squibs, was there too. He proudly shared his story, preaching Harry's greatness and the life-changing opportunity Harry had given him, as if spreading a gospel.
A living testament.
Experienced professors had set routines for each year. For instance, Professor McGonagall always gave first-years a stern introduction to instill caution in magic-eager newcomers.
As for the curriculum, each year's lessons were fixed—specific topics taught at specific times. From a professor's perspective, it could feel repetitive, teaching the same material year after year.
These were tidbits other professors had shared with Harry, the youngest professor at Hogwarts, who was well looked after.
Following their advice, Harry didn't try anything flashy for his class. It was much like the first Shaman Priests' Club lesson from last year—same structure, different venue.
Wearing his shamanic garb, Harry pushed open the door and stepped out. With a flick of his wand, he sent bursts of fireworks crackling overhead, silencing the chattering students.
He introduced himself, the purpose of the class, the duties and powers of a shaman priest, his ideals, and the existence of the four elements. Once again, he summoned four towering elemental giants—to the cheers of the students and the fervent gazes of the Squibs, showcasing their power.
Students who'd attended last year's first Shaman Club lesson found the scene familiar, but no one could resist seeing the awe-inspiring elemental giants again—though hopefully not seven times.
Seven times might make even the most enthusiastic student dread them.
When the class reached its midpoint, with students eagerly awaiting Harry to distribute the Earth Spirit Pact potion, he suddenly paused, scanning the room.
"Shaman Priest," Harry said after a moment, his voice steady. "What an ancient term. In both wizarding and Muggle societies, tales of shamans endure—a primal, polytheistic tradition."
"It ties the unpredictable forces of nature to human life, giving them conscious will, revered and beseeched. That's the wizarding world's earliest understanding of shamans."
"Found in tribes or mythic rituals, their worship shifted from nature to include ancestral spirits. I'm sure you're familiar with this traditional concept of a shaman priest."
"Yes, Professor Potter!" a student shouted, standing after raising his hand and being acknowledged. "The Daily Prophet said it clearly. You've created a new profession, invented new magic, and redefined the term 'shaman priest'—Elemental Shaman! A true shaman!"
Rita Skeeter, armed with Harry's information and her own research, had already satisfied the public's curiosity in the Daily Prophet.
"Indeed, the Daily Prophet was thorough," Harry said, marveling at Rita's dedication. "But do you remember what I said at the start of this class?"
"Shaman Priests are mediators of the elements, guardians of natural order, and wielders of soul power, communicating with ancestors and drawing wisdom from the spirits of all things," Harry reiterated.
"Yes, we can balance turbulent elements, using their power to heal or harm. But haven't you noticed another part of a shaman's duty?"
"Soul power!" Fred shouted, unable to contain himself. "Professor Potter, is it true?! Communicating with ancestors—Merlin's beard, that's incredible! And the spirits of all things—are they real?!"
Students had always assumed Harry's talk of ancestral communication and soul power referred to ceremonial rituals, like those of traditional shamans—setting up offerings to honor the dead, not expecting actual responses.
But now, what was this?
Was Harry saying they could truly speak with ancestors?!
Soul power—was it that kind of soul power?!
At the front of the classroom, amid the students' excited shouts and murmurs, Dumbledore let out a long sigh.
He knew it.
Though he'd agreed without hesitation yesterday, the mention of "a little pressure from the Ministry" had made Dumbledore slightly uneasy.
So he'd come to observe today's class. And now, listening to Harry, he realized what was coming. This wasn't just Ministry pressure—it was pressure from the entire wizarding world.
And it was anything but small.
Dumbledore shook his head with a wry smile.
Those close to Harry had long known he could summon the souls of the departed. A certain black-robed professor—Severus Snape—came to mind, often lingering silently near Harry, watching until Lily's soul was called forth.
If this knowledge spread quietly, it might be fine. But if it became widely known, Harry risked being accused of tampering with the souls of the dead—a crime that could brand him as the darkest of dark wizards.
Wizarding magic involving souls was strictly classified as dark magic. Even a hint of it could bring Aurors to your door, landing you in Azkaban's deepest cells.
And now Harry was openly declaring that Shaman Priests wielded soul power, even communicating with ancestors. Dumbledore could already imagine the wizarding world's reaction—and it gave him a headache.
"Yes, that's one of a Shaman Priest's duties," Harry continued, unfazed. "I can tell you plainly: in this world, all wizard souls share a common destination—the Shadowlands."
Harry spoke a name most wizards had never heard.
"It's a unique realm tied to our world, a state between life and death, an endless path—or perhaps it exists solely within a wizard's mind, appearing differently to each. Fallen wizards travel this road, an adventure beyond reality."
"But if a wizard's soul is filled with regret, obsession, or fear, they won't continue the journey. Instead, they return to the living world as ghosts, which you're all quite familiar with."
The students erupted in chatter. They'd never considered that the ghosts they saw daily at Hogwarts had such origins. The Squibs, meanwhile, gazed enviously at the distant castle—they'd never seen a ghost.
"Professor Potter!" a Hufflepuff student raised their hand eagerly. "Only wizard souls? What about Muggle souls?"
"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "I'm a wizard, and my ancestors were wizards, so I've connected with their souls in the Shadowlands. To answer your question, we'd need a pure Muggle, with Muggle ancestors, to become a Shaman Priest and try."
"But as far as I know, there are no Muggle ghosts in this world."
Harry's words sparked even louder excitement. Students discussed his revelation—that he'd communed with the Potter ancestors—and his final statement: even pure Muggles could become Shaman Priests?!
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