A/N: to all the readers of any of my other work, I have dire news for you.

Yesterday afternoon, the 18th day of February, a dastardly villain took from me one of my most prized possessions: my laptop.

The laptop containing not only my work for uni, but also my games, downloaded fanfics and my own original work. I had been intending to make a back-up of the last three months today, but... yeah.

That means that my notes for Child of the Fox and The Ancients from Alchera are gone, as are the 7 000 words of the next chapter of the former, and 1 400 of the next chapter of the latter. My desire to write the next chapters of either are temporarily gone, and they will be delayed by an indeterminate amount I'm hoping to keep to less than a month.

This particular chapter was salvaged from Archiveofourown, where I have another account (biosurge). Slight edits were made to the author's note at the end, and care should be taken to acknowledge the following statement.

This chapter is first-draft material, folks. Not unlike the other two fics I've got going, but this one hasn't even been vetted for character consistency.

Champion of the Light

The mountains of the Blade's Edge were quite unlike the mountains found in Azeroth. Large, jagged spikes rose from the mountainface at various angles to the rock surrounding its base, the ground was rock and dust, giving the entire area an eerie orange glow if the sun hit it at the right angle, and a desolate ambience at any other angle. The various demons, orcs, gronn, ethereal, and demon-addled native fauna did nothing to address this.

From her vantage point on one of the aforementioned jagged spikes, she could make out two camps of demons, the elegant wooden constructs of a Night Elven settlement – her map called it Sylvanaar in a fit of high irony – the mechanical thingamajistical appearance in the distance – and a fair number of its components were literally called thingamajigs, she knew – was the obvious signs of Goblin or Gnomish construction, and the very visible Alliance banner betrayed which of the two it was. She knew a handful of Gnomes and had often lamented the fact that Gnomes were so short-lived. Most of them were really good at brightening up a dreary situation. This particular settlement was called Toshley's Station according to the map she had received from Priestess Ishanah back in Shattrath City, and was unique in the fact that it was the only all-Gnome settlement outside Gnomeregan, the capital city of the Gnomes.

Further still, she saw the portals the ethereal used to set up camps. She hoped they were friendly, or at least neutral, but she didn't hold out on a lot of hope. The little she could see, they were playing around with red lightning. Nothing she had encountered so far that used red lightning, as opposed to the standard blue or the uncommon yellow lightning, had ever worked out to her benefit.

"Anything exciting?" a voice, accent thick with what Humans called 'gypsy', yelled from behind her. She turned her head to look at her companion.

"Nothing particularly," she yelled back. These jagged spikes were large, and this particular one had to be seven or eight metres. "There's an Kaldorei settlement over yonder," she continued with a finger pointing in the direction of Sylvanaar, "a Gnomish settlement over there," she shifted the pointing finger to indicate Toshley's Station, "an orc camp in between the two, and an Ethereal camp somewhere in the distance."

She paused and gained a false considering expression that did not fool her companion at all. Internally, she pouted. What was the use of living for four thousand years if people could see through your expressions like they were as open as a newborn's?

"There's also the two Legion camps, the nest of Netherwing, and a few gronn here and there," she added with a sigh, and her companion smiled a radiant smile. One would think a figure with more than forty thousand years of life was reserved, but no. At least, this one wasn't. "Figure this is where Gruul makes his lair?" she asked, referring to their unofficial hunt for the lair of the leader of the gronn, massive brutes that stood at seven metres minimum, with rock-like red or brown skin – complete with spiked protrusions –, a single eye, and enough strength to crush a mountain bare-handed. Their leader, Gruul, was known as 'the Dragonkiller', and Dragons were not easy to kill.

Fortunately, they were neither smart nor observant. She could boast to felling a gronn in single combat, though it did take several hours and multiple thousands of arrows. Never before had she been so glad as to have shelled out the hefty two thousand gold pieces each for the three Quivers of Holding she carried, quiver-equivalents to the so-called Bag of Holding, a bag with a truly gigantic carrying capacity. Last she heard, someone managed to shove five hundred kilos in a single Bag.

She had three Quivers on her, each filled with no less than three thousand arrows. It took two and a half Quivers to fell the gronn, and it was one of the few kills she made that she allowed herself to feel prideful about.

Her companion nodded in agreement. "This is ideal gronn land. Rocky, rough where it is not, not a lot of water, and a lot of food nearby in the form of the twisted fauna and ogres."

Her eyes swept over the landscape. "Perhaps the Elves or Gnomes know more?" she asked. "And intel on the demon camps here, of course."

"Of course," she agreed. "Let us proceed to Toshley's Station, the Gnomish settlement, then. The longer we avoid the Kaldorei the better."

"Then let's go!" her companion cried in a sudden fit of jubilance and set off down the track to her right. For a few seconds, she watched her companion's tail moving away from her before she cupped her hands around her mouth.

"IT'S THE OTHER WAY!"

– – – –

"Greetings, heroes," the Ancient, Wildlord Antelarion, said amicably to the two well-equipped travelling heroes that had walked into the Cenarion Enclave under his oversight. "Toshley spoke highly of you in his missive. We could use your help."

"Greetings, Wildlord Antelarion," the first of the two, a stately blue-skinned woman wearing heavy plate armour, said. "Toshley informed us of the extent of your plight. We would be glad to help. I am former Exarch Miaal Stormglory."

"Well met, Miaal Stormglory," the Wildlord replied. "The news of you and your companion's willingness to help fills me with joy, for our overarching goals for this area are the neutralization of Forge Camp: Wrath and putting a stop to the summoning operation at Death's Door, neither of which we can accomplish as we are. May I ask for your companion's name?"

"Former Ranger of Quel'Thalas Iluriel Brightrun," the second woman, a fair-skinned elf, introduced herself somewhat tersely.

"It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Iluriel Brightrun. Shall we proceed to business?"

'

"By all means, Wildlord," she agreed.

– – – – Several decades ago, approximately, somewhere outside the normal flow of time and space – – –

"This forty-second Special Congregation is now called to order," the giant of a man said in a voice that boomed across this reality, heard only by those who the man wanted to hear. The sinking feeling in his stomach did not carry over to his voice. The Pantheon rarely convened outside the scheduled bicentennial Congregations, and when they did it was generally bad news. Special Congregations called by anyone who was not him were generally very bad news, rather than just bad news of normal significance.

"I will now give the word to he who called for this meeting. Norgannon the Dreamweaver, speak your piece."

"I thank you, All-Father," Norgannon replied in the same way as the All-Father before him, though unlike the All-Father, his voice was almost robotic in its lack of emotion and other inflection.

"The problem that led me to call for this meeting is a problem unlike any we have faced before, fellow members of the Pantheon.

"If events are allowed to unfold without our interference, our Prime World will cease to function."

Damn it all, this is even worse than I thought, the All-Father said. The Prime World was their finest creation, a prison for the Old God Azatoth and appropriately named Azeroth, their word for prison. Theirs was a conceptual language, so a direct translation to a non-conceptual language was never fully accurate, but the translation of 'azeroth' to 'prison' was more accurate than most others in the vast expanse of Creation.

"I do not doubt your methods, Dreamweaver, but I have to ask for proof," the All-Father said. "If only for the record."

"Very well. As you are aware, one of the abilities granted to me by my mastery of magic allows me to simulate events a significant number of years into the future. However, when I performed such a simulation for the Prime World using current parameters of Prime's inhabitants, they had self-destructed and set loose the Old Gods within fifty years from now."

Norgannon cast a spell that allowed the Pantheon to see the simulation in question, and they did not like what they saw. War led to a tense peace followed by more war and then another war and then another war in rapid succession, generating more than enough negative emotions to fuel Azatoth and allow him to break free within the next fifty years.

The All-Father frowned. There was little worse than the Prime World falling apart, only eclipsed by the Burning Legion succeeding in killing him. Silently he thanked Norgannon for developing the voice projection spell. A spell was cast on the entire Pantheon, except for him, that allowed his voice to reach their ears wherever they were, and a second spell was cast on him to act as a nexus, relaying the speaker's voice to the others if that speaker was not him. It was very much the magical equivalent of a conference call.

Norgannon was kind enough to build in a 'mute' function, though there was some feedback if people were talking while muted. They could request to be un-muted, of course, but none of them were doing so at the moment.

The outrage emanating from the tone of his Consort, Eonar the Life-Binder, in particular made him wary. Nothing good ever came from females that were this angry. Had they still used direct projections as in times past he did not doubt that they would all be deaf right now. Eonar had a very impressive voice when she got going.

"I assume you have a solution, Dreamweaver?" the All-Father asked though he already knew the answer. Norgannon never presented a problem without having a solution ready.

"I do," Norgannon confirmed. "However, I alone do not possess the power to enact this solution as Re-Origination of the Prime World is not an option."

"Then speak your solution, Dreamweaver. I admit to curiosity to this solution that you, the third-strongest of the Pantheon, do not have the power for."

"In a nearby dimension," Norgannon began in his usual emotionless monotone, "there is an as-of-yet unborn halfling that will have the necessary qualities to steer the simulation into the proper path. His name will be Harry Potter, and this is my proposal..."

– – – –

"Aaah, Lady Brightrun and Lady Miaal," the aged Ancient greeted the pair of women amicably. "I assume your return means that the Warp-Gates are out of commission?"

"They are," Iluriel confirmed. "It was far from easy, but we managed."

"Though had we not gone together, we both would surely have perished," Miaal Stormglory added. "The number of demons protecting the Warp-Gates was significantly higher than at any of the other Forge Camps we have encountered since we journeyed here through the Dark Portal."

He nodded. "Forge Camp: Wrath was by far the most significant camp the Expedition has encountered ever since we made our way to Outland, only rivalled by the camp in the north of Hellfire Peninsula, and that is near the Throne of Kil'Jaeden, where Kazzak reigns. We anticipated such resistance as you are describing."

"Which is why you recommended we go together, not that we would have done otherwise had we had another option," Iluriel said. "Miaal and myself have partnered since we entered Outland."

"And this partnership will serve you well in the final task I would request of you," Warden Antelarion said. "With the destruction of the Warp-Gates, the only significant Legion presence in the Blade's Edge Mountains is at Death's Door. Two days from now, we will set out with a party to drive the last of the Legion out of the Blade's Edge. Do you wish to join us?"

Iluriel looked at Miaal with a raised eyebrow. What do we do? Miaal responded likewise and moved her hand slightly left. I'm not opposed.

Iluriel raised her left shoulder. Neither am I.

Miaal gave a minute shrug. Let's do this, then.

"We will join you. I'd like to see this through to the end," Iluriel said.

"Likewise," Miaal concurred. "We've been too invested in taking out the Legion's operations here to back out now."

"Very well. Can you give me a more detailed indication of your previous experience so we can take all of your ability into account, not just what you've shown?"

The two looked at each other again, and once again held a silent conversation, and Antelarion was reminded of the bond he shared with his late mate. They could hold, and had held, entire conversations with just their eyes.

"Former Ranger-Brigadier of Quel'Thalas Iluriel Brightrun, mastery of bow, shortsword both single and dual, longsword, and single dagger. Master-level tracking, as is required of any Ranger above Lieutenant. I have dabbled in the Arcane, but stopped four centuries ago following the corruption of a dear friend who did the same. I have at least approximately 750 years of combat experience, give or take a few decades. I stopped counting after the Troll Wars. I retired five hundred years ago."

"That is an impressive track record," the Warden of the Cenarion Expedition Enclave in the Evergrove said, his mind furiously working to accommodate the Ranger's skills in the plan. "Many Sentinels would be jealous. And you, Lady Miaal?"

"Former Exarch and personal guard of the Prophet Velen Miaal Stormglory," she said, formally introducing herself. "As demanded of my position, I have near-absolute command over the magics of the Light, only surpassed by the Prophet Velen and the Naaru. I am skilled with maces, swords, and axes, both one-handed, two-handed, and dual wielded. I additionally have several millennia of leadership experience prior to the Fall in service to the Prophet Velen. I have, give or take, sixty thousand years of combat experience."

"Sixty thousand?" the Warden half-yelled incredulously, and several close by druids of this Cenarion Enclave halted in shock. Even to the Night Elves, sixty thousand years was a long time. Since it was sixty thousand years of combat experience, that meant that Lady Miaal was at least one hundred and twenty thousand years old, going by the general assumption that the life of a soldier was at most half-filled with combat, and that was only if Lady Miaal had been nothing but a war-time soldier her entire life. The oldest currently living Night Elves, for example, were Malfurion Stormrage and his brother Illidan, Tyrande Whisperwind, and Maiev Shadowsong, but all four combined did not reach even half of Lady Miaal's age, clocking in at approximately ten thousand years each.

Sixty thousand was almost beyond his comprehension.

"Sixty thousand," Miaal confirmed calmly, her normal exuberance tempered by the knowledge of Eredar in the vicinity. "I was one of the most senior Eredar under the Prophet before the Fall and Exile from Argus. Sargeras has empowered the Eredar that joined him, though I doubt that the Eredar at Death's Door will pose that much of a threat, because the Naaru did the same to the Draenei." She pierced the Warden with a glare. "Do we have the name of this Eredar?"

"We do," the Warden confirmed. "Baelmon Stormshrine."

Miaal gasped, and all eyes turned to her. A war could clearly be seen in her eyes for a few minutes before it subsided, resolve shining in her eyes. Antelarion could have sworn that her eyes were misty with unshed tears, though, and wondered what could make such an aged and wise woman react in such a way. Even if she generally was not as stoic as most beings several millennia old.

"You know this Baelmon Stormshrine?" the Warden asked.

"Yes," Miaal confirmed sadly. "Once upon a time, he was my brother."

– – – –

Harry Potter looked around wildly, a bewildered look in his eyes.

"Where the hell am I?" he asked into the nothing, desperately thinking back on the sequence of events that led to where he was now.

The Demon War had taken fourteen years of gruelling fighting, and he had lost everyone he cared about to the demons or to betrayal. After Daphne was lured away early in the war, had her escorts killed, and herself raped to death, the general consensus among females of all species was to inscribe Holy runes upon themselves and suicide-bomb themselves if demons got their hands on them. It seemed a bit extreme to him, but he wasn't going to complain with the results.

For every suicide bomber that detonated, scores of demons – in three particularly noteworthy cases the detonation took out a hundred thousand – died, and because the detonations were made from pure Holy magic, the demons disintegrated and would never return to the Twisting Nether, the source of all Wizarding magic and apparent birthing ground for demons.

The demons, and satyr especially, stopped specifically targeting females once they realized the explosions were actually Holy magic, not just fancy detonations. It was just a shame that Holy magic could only really be harnessed using Runes. There were records in Atlantis on 'paladins' that were actually channelling Holy magic, but nothing they tried could replicate the feat.

Three years ago, the last of the demons of the Burning Legion were vanquished. All the portals that the demons had opened had been closed. All his friends and loved ones given a proper burial.

He wanted nothing to do with this world anymore, the world whose continued existence could be traced back solely to him. He had stripped Potter Manor empty of everything he wanted to keep, which did not include the bed he was now lying on. It held too memories that were now far too painful. Flashes of blond hair whirling about as Daphne engaged him in a tickle war, a curtain of red as Susan decided that his prank with the connected shower was not fun, and chased him like he was anathema to her, and many, many more.

Everything he wanted to take, he stored in his trunk. Books, coin, jewellery, potions, ingredients – in the form of an entire greenhouse, such wonders could be achieved by pushing power into space expansion charms –, and more. It took a lot of power, but that was one thing he never lacked.

The years at the Dursleys pushed him from a normal Wizard to a Rank One Mage. The difference between a Mage and Wizard could essentially be summed up as such; Wizards wielded magic, magic wielded Mages. The metaphysical 'magical core', which didn't actually exist but it was a useful construct to do arithmancy with, was opened up beyond what Wizards, and by extension Witches, were capable of. Some ranks, specifically four, seven, and nine, gave additional gifts, selected at random. Dumbledore gained the Tongue, the ability to speak and comprehend all languages whether magical or not, human or not, sapient or not. Voldemort gained Phantamagia, or the art of soul magics, and Cruormagia, the art of blood magics. It should, at this point, be noted that Dumbledore was always capable of tying with Voldemort despite the latter being three ranks higher. He was that bad-ass.

A total manipulative asshole, but Harry recognized when someone was extraordinarily skilled, and Dumbledore definitely qualified.

His first encounter with Voldemort in his first year ascended him to Rank Two. The Basilisk to Rank Three. The Tournament to Rank Four, granting him the ability of Phantamagia. The Second War to Rank Seven, which bestowed upon him the Tongue.

Turns out Nargles did exist, by the way, and that the Tongue was an inherited trait in the Lovegood family.

Training to Rank Nine, which 'unlocked' the most fearsome ability in his arsenal. It is one of the few magical talents not recorded in Latin, butchered or otherwise, but in Japanese.

Arashi.

Storm.

Lightning, Fire, Wind, Water, and the records indicated that with a lot of practice he would be able to influence the Weather directly as well. He was by no means up to that level yet, nor was he all that proficient in anything but Lightning and Fire.

Granted, he didn't think he would have gotten that far if he had not stumbled on the Atlantian Library. He honestly wasn't sure how he had ended up there, something about flooing away from a Killing Curse while not having entered a destination was definitely a part of it, but wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The Library of Atlantis was everything it was ever rumoured to be, and his scholastically-inclined friends and family, specifically Tracey Davis, Hermione Granger, Terry Boot, and Bill Weasley, devoured its content as fast as they could.

Meanwhile, Harry tried to investigate the feeling of home.

Why did Atlantis feel like home when it hadn't surfaced in thousands of years? Why did he know where to go in Atlantis, even when it was his first time? How was he able to read the Atlantian language without any difficulty?

He never found the answers. He suspected it was because of the same reason he was a Half-Elf, instead of an 'Infinitesimally Small-Elf', but nothing he or any of the others found gave any answers.

Frustrated at his inability to find answers, he threw himself into his Atlantean magical education. Direct manipulation of the Arcane Storms of the Twisting Nether – the knowledge of their manipulation was lost, but the Storms themselves were known to Wizardkind –, Runes, contemporary magic, current magic, everything that he could get his hands on in those six years was studied and trained. He didn't get as far as he'd have liked, but he supposed that it was his own fault for smashing all the time turners back when he fought the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries' Hall of Prophecy.

When Voldemort reappeared six years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry was surprised, but far from unprepared.

The Global Blood War was nasty, but compared to the Second Blood War it was rather tame. Perhaps because he did not have quite the emotional connection to the Global Blood War as he had to the British Blood War.

The Demon War changed that.

– – – –

"Greetings everyone, I hope you rested well," Wildlord Antelarion said seriously to the congregation of forty of the Evergrove's finest, bolstered by the exceptional pair of heroes that had done so much for not just the Evergrove, but also the Cenarion Expedition as a whole. "Today is the day we end the Legion threat in the Blade's Edge Mountains!"

Grim expressions settled on everyone present. "Our target, as you are all aware, is Baelmon Stormshrine, the Houndmaster. He is currently at Death's Door summoning Wrath-hounds, and is the last significant Legion operative in the region. You have all been briefed on the plan of attack."

Antelarion looked over the forty-two chosen for this conflict. How many would perish in this fight? How many would he never see again? How many would return to Nature's Embrace?

"Today we march to quell the demons in the Blade's Edge. To return a semblance of peace to a section of Outland."

Miaal Stormglory had heard motivational speakers that had much better choice of words, but Wildlord Antelarion made up for his shortcomings in eloquence with enhanced body language.

"Today, the blood of demons will stain the ground red," the Wildlord finished, clenching a fist in front of him. "Move out."

Forty-two voices cried affirmatives in unison, and forty-three sets of feet set out for Death's Door.

– – – –

Fourteen years of bloody struggle. All his friends dead and gone. All his loved ones dead and gone.

All that remained was for him to leave as well, but he had no intention of dying just yet. It took him three years to figure out a way. Three years in which he almost gave in to his grief, three years of mourning.

His solution was surprisingly simple; a portal with no set end, the only condition to its location that its end-point not be the Twisting Nether.

Naturally, he should have realized that something was going to go wrong.

The portal led to a place he had never, ever, seen or even imagined in his wildest dreams, which were pretty wild because of his intimate link to Magic.

The floor was as glass, the walls seemed to be non-existent, and the decorations appeared to be galaxies floating around in the inky black void of space. Needless to say, the floor, walls, and ceiling themselves were invisible due to being perfectly transparent with a black background.

"Greetings, designate Harry Potter," the disembodied voice said straight into his mind. Harry looked around, but found nothing but the galaxies keeping him company.

"Wha?" Harry said intelligently into the dark. "Who are you?"

A flash of light temporarily blinded him. When he had regained his vision, he saw a giant leg in front of him, so he looked up.

And up. And up. And up.

His jaw fell to the floor. Just how big was this guy?

"I shall assume a form more conductive to communication," the platinum-skinned giant wearing blue robes said in a dull monotone. Another blinding flash of light engulfed his vision, and when it was once again returned, Harry gaped at seeing a platinum-skinned version of his old friend Hagrid, lost to a demon rush during the Demon War a decade or so ago. The only other physical difference was the hair colour, this giant having platinum coloured hair versus his old friend's black hair.

"Allow me to introduce myself to facilitate communication. My name is Norgannon the Dreamweaver, Keeper of Arcane Magic and Knowledge of the Titan Pantheon."

– – – –

Her blue eyes gazed at the red abomination a dozen metres in front of her. Her gauntlet creaked, and she released some of the tension in right fist. She'd learned the hard way that she was strong enough to bend the steel of her armour without a strength enhancement on her.

Malevolent red eyes found her own, and a hint of amusement flickered within them.

"My dearest sister," his said in the Eredar's standard booming voice. "Just in time to join the festivities."

"You no longer have the right to call me sister," she ground out through gritted teeth. "And what festivities? What depravity are you planning?"

"Since you'll no longer be alive in short order, I don't see any harm in telling you," he responded in that cheeky way she'd always found irritating, even before the Exile. "I was about to summon the Legion's greatest enemy, then bind him to our cause. And you know what the best part is, dearest sister?"

She was pretty certain that the gnashing of her teeth could be heard across the rest of Outland, but asked anyway. Greatest enemy of the Legion... Lord Velen? Lady Whisperwind? Lady Alexstrasza? Either would be bad. Something like this could usually be taken advantage of. One bolt of Light at the right time... "What?"

"There's absolutely nothing you can do! Come forth from the Nether, Our Greatest Foe, and be bound to Our will!"

Miaal was running the moment he started chanting in Eredun, but she realized that she wouldn't make it in time. Light shrouded her hands, the glorious golden glow of purity coming to her aid once more. "Destruction of the wicked, cleansing of the impure! Holy Shock!"

She didn't often revert to either the partial or full incantation, but this was a scenario where she needed to get as much power out as fast as she could, and very little was stronger and faster than an incanted Holy Shock. There was Flash of Light, but that was not a spell she could use for offence.

The bolt of Light left her hands and impacted upon her erstwhile brother – along with two arrows from Iluriel – just as he finished the incantation. "Damn it! Too slow!"

The large portal, a smaller version of the infamous Dark Portal in the Hellfire Peninsula, glowed a bright green before it suddenly collapsed, leaving a single new presence that neither she nor the Eredar had expected.

Miaal thought he was sort-of cute in a rugged way, what with that scar running vertically across his cheek, the blazing emerald eyes, scraggy black hair, and powerful build. At least, powerful for a Human.

For the figure was definitely Human. Not Elven, because the ears was small and round. Not draconic, because of a distinct lack of horns. And absolutely not Draenic, because of a) the lack of horns, b) the lack of goat-feet that were a result of evolving on Argus, c) the slightly paler than Human standard pink skin, d) the obvious absence of a tail. He wore little but a necklace with a trunk-like ornament and some undergarments. Not that she would have noticed much if the latter was gone, because part of the training for being an Anchorite – one of the many steps towards an Exarch – consisted of full-contact mixed gender combat in the nude. They who complained were dismissed from the program.

"That should have summoned Tyrande," the Eredar said, confirming her earlier thoughts on the intended target. "No matter. Slave!" he bellowed, and the Human jerked upright and looked around with a calculating gaze.

Somehow, Miaal got the impression that this Human had not been swayed by the mind-bending inherent to such rituals. The Eredar pointed at the group of Cenarion Expedition members, Iluriel, and herself. "Destroy them!"

The Human turned shrewd eyes upon them, and she recognized the look of a war veteran. "Ambient Conditions level S recognized," the Human began in a droning tone, the kind she had only ever heard from the mechanical constructs in Gnomeregan. "Limiter levels 3, 2, and 1 released. All constraints released. Initiating Archon transformation."

A/N:

Proceed to open a can of whoop-ass on Baelmon.

Harry is the Prophecied 'Champion of the Light'. This will eventually get finished and turned into a proper story, but for now this is where it'll end. The mentioned Archon transformation is essentially the Wizard skill from Diablo 3.

This is my preliminary answer to the question 'what if Harry lands in the Warcraft universe in a place that isn't Felwood?'

Path for future chapters:

BC content, up to and including the Assault on the Sunwell would be addressed, but some original story lines (politics, and some especially after the Sunwell, when the Dragons are aware of Harry's presence, which thoroughly mucks up the magical balance of Azeroth) have already been thought of. Then; Northrend, where things really go SNAFU. Turns out that the Lich process is (to the surprise of absolutely no one!) soul magic, which was Harry's first Mage Gift.

As a result, the Lich King *really* wants Harry dead.

Please do alert me if you start a story with this idea, so I can link people to it.