Soul magic, like elemental magic, is also within the Shaman's domain of expertise. A skilled Shaman can roam the Astral Plane in their spirit form, walk the mortal world as a soul, and perceive things beyond the sight of ordinary people.
Some Zandalari troll Shamans even abandon their physical bodies entirely, existing as pure souls that shift between different vessels—such as the Spiritbinder, Gara'jal.
In the world of Azeroth, Harry had traversed the Astral Plane countless times, and he had even used temporary transitions into the Astral Plane to mitigate damage in combat.
In this new world, when he first attempted to summon the spirits of his ancestors, he discovered the existence of a realm solely for the dead. Later, through reading books from the wizarding world, Harry found that wizards had also explored this realm and called it the Veil of Shadows.
Many wizards believed that death was not the end but rather the beginning of a new journey—a journey into the Veil of Shadows.
Given that his previous act of summoning ancestral spirits had caused a disturbance in the Department of Mysteries' Death Chamber, Harry decided to hold off on further exploration of the Veil of Shadows until he could ensure his own safety.
He had also been continuously testing the compatibility of his spells with this world. Truth be told, he had initially assumed that the Astral Plane didn't exist here, as wizarding books made no mention of a realm resembling it.
However, after careful study, Harry realized that the Astral Plane did exist—it was just incredibly thin and largely overlapped with the physical world.
While freely traveling through the Astral Plane as a soul was no longer feasible, observing the real world through it was still possible.
Everything in the Astral Plane had a corresponding projection, revealing its true essence and radiating different hues of light. Even roadside flowers or a vase sitting at home had their own projections. This not only validated the Shamanistic belief that all things possessed spirits but also allowed Harry to perceive the conditions of people and objects from a unique perspective.
For example, if someone's Astral projection glowed red, it indicated they were either emotionally excited or physically full of vitality, their bodily functions operating at peak efficiency.
If their projection emitted a green light, it signified a state of peace and harmony, both emotionally and physically, with a stable heart and well-regulated bodily functions.
This kind of Astral sight was often used by Shamans and witch doctors within the Horde to diagnose illnesses among their people. Combined with their experience, herbal remedies, enchanted brews, magical potions, and ritualistic magic, they could heal the afflicted.
But if a person's projection was extremely dim, their light weak and feeble, it didn't simply mean they were unwell—it meant they were truly on the brink of death.
Just like the professor standing before him.
In Harry's eyes, Professor Quirrell looked as if he were dying. And yet, he was so young—barely in his thirties. By wizarding standards, where lifespans often reached one or two centuries, he was practically in the prime of his life.
Dim, flickering, nearly extinguished—Quirrell's soul radiated the weakest light in all of Hogwarts. Even Filch, who spent his nights chasing after students sneaking around and his days tirelessly cleaning the castle, had a more vibrant aura than Quirrell.
Moreover, from the moment Quirrell had been alone with him, his Astral projection had been shrouded in deep violet light—a color that only intensified as Harry spoke.
—This violet light signified extreme vigilance, rationality, and an inner resistance to Harry.
"I mean no harm, Professor," Harry said sincerely. "I simply see someone on the verge of death, and I happen to have the ability to help. That's all. You are a professor at Hogwarts, and I am a student of Hogwarts. This is a school—there is no fundamental enmity between us."
A good professor shouldn't look like he's about to keel over before even imparting a single piece of unique knowledge. Harry couldn't help but feel a little exasperated.
"I-I, I don't think there's anything wrong with me," Quirrell stammered, clutching his books as if he wanted nothing more than to flee the room, but forcing himself to stand his ground. "I'm in perfect health! Mr. Potter, absolutely healthy!!"
His voice was firm, his movements nimble, his fingers strong. Yet this starkly contrasted with the feeble, fading state of his Astral body.
"But your soul is decaying, Professor," Harry stated bluntly. Holding to the principle that a healer should never conceal the truth, he continued, "If you trust me, I can use my family's magic to diagnose your condition. We can do it under Headmaster Dumbledore's supervision—it won't be dangerous."
Harry had seen many people like Quirrell before—people who refused to acknowledge their illness until they were already collapsing. But many diseases were invisible in their early stages, and denial only led to tragedy.
As a kind-hearted Tauren, Harry couldn't stand by and watch an innocent person march toward death. Sure, Quirrell's lectures were just dry readings from the textbook, and yes, his garlic-scented presence was unpleasant—but that was hardly a reason for him to die.
Right now, Quirrell's Astral projection was engulfed in violet, mixed with calm blue… and even streaks of ominous gray-black, a color associated with hostility and malice. The chaotic hues blended together like a messy, incoherent painting, making it impossible to discern any single emotion.
"…Professor?"
Harry was growing wary. Beneath his robes, his hand tightened around the grip of his warhammer.
Something wasn't right.
He had simply wanted to help, acting out of genuine goodwill. He had a favorable impression of Hogwarts and its professors. He had even sent Ron and Neville away because discussing a decaying soul wasn't appropriate for children—it was, after all, Quirrell's private matter.
But now, an inexplicable sense of danger prickled at the back of his mind.
—Had he stumbled upon something Quirrell desperately wanted to hide?
Hogwarts only had so many professors. Theoretically, each was among the most skilled wizards in Britain, carefully selected through rigorous screening. There shouldn't be any truly dangerous individuals among them… right?
Harry trusted Professor McGonagall to be responsible in her role as Deputy Headmistress.
"…So, how do you intend to heal me, Potter?"
Quirrell finally spoke again, his voice calm, his gaze lowered.
"I suspect, Professor, that your soul is afflicted with some kind of disease… or perhaps a plague. Your body remains intact, yet your soul is withering," Harry stated evenly. "I believe I will need to conduct a ritual to properly examine your soul and determine what exactly is wrong."
Unless Quirrell manifested his soul in either the Astral Plane or the physical world, Harry couldn't directly see it—only the light it emitted.
"Soul," Quirrell murmured, as if savoring the word. "Such a wonderful… such a fascinating concept… and to hear it from you, how peculiar, how truly peculiar… The Potter family has never been known for researching souls…"
Finally, Quirrell lifted his head.
Harry met his eyes—those deep, black pools, as dark as the abyss, as if something inside them was watching him.
Something lurking in the depths of his pupils. Something whispering in the corners of his mind.
It reminded him of that flash of irritation he had felt upon seeing those glowing, color-changing horns—
Whoosh!
Sparks of blue lightning crackled across his warhammer—Storm Weapon enchantment, activated!
He didn't know exactly what was wrong, but his instincts screamed danger.
Without hesitation, Harry hurled his thunder-charged warhammer straight at Quirrell.
Harry trusted his instincts.
Crack!
A violent burst of electric and wind elements tore through the wooden podium, leaving its remains charred and a blackened crater in the ground. Yet, it didn't touch Professor Quirrell. In that split second, he evaded with an agility far beyond what anyone would expect.
"Harry!!!"
A crackling whip of bluish lightning reeled the warhammer back into Harry's hand. He could hear Ron and Neville's gasps from the doorway, but neither he nor Quirrell spared them a glance. The two were locked in a tense standoff, eyes fixed on each other.
"…Attacking a professor, Potter?" Quirrell was the first to break eye contact. When he looked away, it was as though he had transformed into someone else entirely. Gone was the stammering, hesitant persona—he now exuded a calm and unsettling confidence. He glanced at the scorched floor and spoke in a quiet tone, "Perhaps I should deduct all of Gryffindor's points for this... and send you straight to Professor McGonagall for detention."
"What was that?" Harry ignored the threat entirely, his voice grave. "What just happened? Were you casting a spell on me?"
As a seasoned soldier and veteran of countless battles, Harry knew he wasn't someone who'd lose focus on the battlefield. Yet, just moments ago, fragmented memories had inexplicably surfaced in his mind—memories not his own.
It wasn't normal. It shouldn't have been possible.
"Magic always holds endless mysteries, doesn't it?" Quirrell sidestepped the question. With a flick of his wand, the ruined podium and scorched floor seamlessly restored themselves.
"Gryffindor, thirty points," Quirrell added, cradling his textbook in his arms and smiling faintly at Harry. "For your inventive magic. I do appreciate talented students. So, as for that little stunt… let's call it an overzealous prank, shall we? I'm a generous man, Potter, so we'll leave it at that."
Without waiting for Harry's reaction, Quirrell exited the classroom through the back door.
"My god, Harry!! You attacked a professor!!"
The moment Quirrell was gone, Ron and Neville bolted into the room, their faces filled with disbelief. They looked at Harry like he'd turned into some kind of monster, part awe, part terror. Especially Ron, whose gaze kept drifting to the warhammer in Harry's hand, where faint streaks of electricity and wind still lingered.
"You heard him—it was just a prank," Harry replied with an exasperated sigh. He extinguished the crackling energy on the hammer with a flick of his wrist and hooked it back onto his belt. "I told you two to leave earlier, didn't I? Why are you back? Eavesdropping isn't exactly Gryffindor behavior."
Frankly, Harry thought even asking the question was pointless—if Gryffindors were obedient, they wouldn't be Gryffindors.
"That didn't look like a prank, mate," Ron said, swallowing hard. "But he… he actually gave you points for it!"
"And a whole thirty points!" Neville chimed in, his voice brimming with disbelief. "Hermione's going to lose her mind. She's been answering questions nonstop in class these past few days and barely earned fifteen points!"
"Oh, forget the points, Neville. Why bring her up now?" Ron rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Harry, what was that all about?"
Ron didn't dare say the words fighting a professor out loud—it was just too terrifying a concept. This wasn't like standing up to Malfoy and the Slytherins.
Attacking a professor was an entirely different matter. It wasn't just against the rules; it was grounds for expulsion, no exceptions.
Even targeting Filch, the castle's caretaker, would've been unthinkable.
"Ron," Harry ignored the question and instead asked, "Is there any magic that can make someone recall past memories?"
"Revisit old memories?" Ron blinked, puzzled. "I don't think so."
"I mean magic that messes with your mind," Harry clarified. "Something that makes you lose focus or forces you to think about things."
"Well, uh… I've heard of something like that," Neville interjected hesitantly, raising his hand as though he were still in class. "My gran used to talk about it—there's a spell called Legilimency. If you make eye contact with someone, you can see their memories, and sometimes they'll see them too… but that's just something I overheard. I did see you and Professor Quirrell locking eyes earlier, though. And then, well, you two just… started fighting."
"My gran always said that after You-Know-Who fell, the Ministry should've used Legilimency and Veritaserum to interrogate the rest of his followers so they couldn't weasel out of trials… But Professor Quirrell wouldn't use Legilimency on you, would he? That's illegal…"
Neville's voice trailed off into a murmur, but Harry was already piecing things together in his mind.
"Let's go," he said abruptly, gathering his textbooks.
"Huh? Go where?" Ron scratched his head. "Astronomy class isn't for ages."
"The library," Harry said curtly. "And after that, I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore."
If there was something wrong with a professor, only the headmaster had the authority to deal with it.
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