Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

With a speed that surpassed even her earlier dash out of the house, Hermione rushed back inside, while Harry, after exchanging brief greetings with the Grangers, was ushered into the living room.

The living room was impressively spacious, with large floor-to-ceiling windows adjacent to the backyard garden. These windows ensured ample natural light while offering a direct view of the garden's scenic beauty. The overall decor leaned toward cool tones, with an understated carpet pattern that didn't overwhelm the eye. In one corner stood a traditional English fireplace, though it looked long unused, its interior painted a pristine white.

At first glance, the room appeared modest, but the intricate design details and carefully curated ornaments betrayed the Grangers' considerable wealth. Yet, more than the opulence, Harry's attention was drawn to their garden—where an earth elemental was leisurely strolling.

"That's… Dotty?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Every apprentice who forged a bond with an elemental held a deep affection for their creation, often giving it a name. Hermione's earth elemental was called Dotty.

"Yes," Mr. Granger said, settling into a seat with barely contained excitement. "Hermione's told us about some of the things happening at school, including that elemental magic you taught her—the kind only you seem to know."

"To be honest, it's almost too incredible to believe," Mrs. Granger added with a warm smile. "Not that we doubt you, Harry, but you and Hermione started school together, and you'd never been exposed to magic before. You know, it reminds me of Pythagoras."

"Pythagoras?" Harry echoed, his brow furrowing.

"Yes," Mr. Granger said earnestly. "Legend has it that Pythagoras' wisdom came from divine inspiration—some even claimed he could speak with gods. From a young age, he had astonishing talent, deducing mathematical laws just by observing the vibrations of a lyre's strings. No one could truly be his teacher."

In Western society, this was high praise, akin to calling someone a rare sage born with innate brilliance.

"Oh, that's a bit much," Harry said, waving his hands dismissively. "I mean, your compliments are kind, but I didn't just… know this stuff. Someone taught me, even if I can't explain the details. It's not exactly prodigious talent."

That's what Harry said, but the Grangers weren't buying it—and for good reason. They'd heard countless stories from Hermione about the kind of life Harry Potter had led. Frankly, their ears were practically calloused from how often she'd recounted it; they could recite the tales backward.

So, how could a boy raised in such a harsh environment, under the thumb of his neglectful aunt and uncle, have been taught magical knowledge that no one else possessed? If such a mentor existed, surely they wouldn't have left Harry to suffer at the Dursleys' hands. The only logical conclusion: he was born with it.

Case closed, as far as the Grangers were concerned.

Mrs. Granger, in particular, found herself increasingly impressed with Harry. She wasn't blind to her daughter's feelings—Hermione might think she'd hidden her crush well, but it was obvious to everyone else. If Harry were an ordinary boy, the Grangers would have dismissed it as a childish phase, confident Hermione would move on as she grew. They wouldn't have interfered.

But Harry was far from ordinary. From the moment he stepped through the door, his demeanor was poised and gracious. Despite wielding a unique form of magic unrivaled in the wizarding world, he carried no trace of arrogance. Instead, he was humble, with a maturity beyond his years. During conversation, he offered thoughtful perspectives on a range of topics.

The founder of an entirely new branch of magic—barring any unforeseen disasters, Harry was destined to become a pivotal figure in the wizarding world. And that was without factoring in his existing fame. The Grangers might not understand magic or wizarding society, but they understood monopoly.

As for the issue of their youth… well, children grow up, don't they?

For now, all they needed was to nurture this connection. If Hermione's feelings changed in the future, they'd respect her choice. But if they didn't, the bond forged in their youth could prove invaluable. For an elite family like the Grangers, this wasn't shameful—it was pragmatic. Their daughter had set her sights on an exceptionally promising young man.

Even if Harry didn't seem to reciprocate those feelings yet, they were still young. There was plenty of time. Of course, the Grangers would never force Hermione into anything against her will—everything would depend on her heart.

Unaware of the Grangers' musings, Harry, for his part, suspected Mr. Granger was harboring some resentment toward him. He hadn't missed the way Hermione had hugged him at the door, nor the subtle signs of her affection. But in Harry's mind, Hermione was still too young, and her feelings were likely a product of gratitude—stemming from when he'd saved her from a troll and Voldemort in the corridor last year—rather than genuine love.

Honestly, did kids their age even understand what love was? Could they grasp what it meant to love someone, to marry, to bear the responsibilities that came with it? They were far too immature.

In Harry's view, as Hermione grew older, graduated from Hogwarts, and entered wizarding society, she'd meet more people and experience more of the world. Only then would she have the maturity to truly love someone and build a life with them.

For now… why not focus on studying magic? Had she mastered all the spells of the wizarding world? What about the rituals of a shaman? There was always more to learn.

If Hermione still dreamed of becoming Minister for Magic and uplifting the status of Squibs, she'd need to become even stronger, even more exceptional.

"Dad! Mum! What are you talking about?" Hermione burst out of the kitchen, clutching a tray of sliced fruit, clearly worried her parents might say something embarrassing in front of Harry.

Unfortunately, she arrived just in time to hear Harry and her father discussing whether the concept of a philosopher-king held any practical relevance in modern society. Their conclusions were rather pessimistic.

"Just chatting, Hermione," Harry said with a smile. "When are you meeting up with Ron and the others?"

"Soon," Hermione replied, glancing at the clock. "I'm not sure how they'll get here. Speaking of which, Harry, how did you get here? I was listening for a car, but I didn't hear anything."

"Apparition," Harry said calmly, as Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "I'll explain more when Ron and the others arrive. I need to introduce you to someone."

"…Alright," Hermione said, reluctantly suppressing her curiosity.

Suddenly, a loud whoosh of flames drew everyone's attention. They turned to see the fireplace in the corner of the living room flare to life with a vibrant, blazing fire—burning without any wood. A vivid green flame.

Harry's heart skipped a beat. In his subjective timeline, the last time he'd seen green flames was just over a year ago—not long at all—when he'd faced the fel fire of the Burning Legion's demons. That color was an ill omen.

Thankfully, what emerged from the green flames wasn't an imp, a dreadlord, or an Eredar abyss lord, but his friend Ron.

"Ron?!" Hermione stammered. "How did you— I mean, isn't that our fireplace?!"

"Er, Hermione, Harry, good to see you," Ron said, sounding a bit nervous as he noticed the Grangers. "And, um, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Not at all, dear," Mr. Granger said, his curiosity piqued. He stepped around the sofa to inspect the green flames, studying them cautiously. "What is this? Another wizarding method of travel—oh, Merlin's beard!"

Mid-sentence, Mr. Granger lurched backward with surprising agility for a middle-aged man, purely out of shock.

A head had suddenly popped out of the green flames—a head with short, tousled red hair, eagerly peering out as if stretching through prison bars to glimpse the world beyond.

"Hey! Hello!" Beside the red-haired man's head, an arm emerged from the flames. "So sorry about that. You alright? Pleasure to meet you. I'm Arthur Weasley, Ron's father."

"Er, I'm fine," Mr. Granger said, his courage holding as he shook the seemingly disembodied hand. "A pleasure to meet you too. I'm Wendell Granger, Hermione's father."

Despite Mr. Weasley's startling entrance, their first meeting was surprisingly pleasant.

"You scared them, Dad," Ron groaned, rolling his eyes. "I told you this wasn't a good idea. You should've just driven me here."

"Ha, don't think I don't know you're just angling to ride in the car, Ron," Mr. Weasley said, raising an eyebrow smugly. "Not a chance!"

"So, what exactly happened to our fireplace?" Mr. Granger asked, unable to contain his curiosity about the transformation.

"Oh, I had a friend temporarily connect your fireplace to the Floo Network," Mr. Weasley explained. "That way, Ron could travel here directly with Floo Powder. Speaking of which, I haven't properly greeted everyone yet, have I?" He finally seemed to notice the others in the room. "You must be Harry! Great to meet you. You'll have to come by our place sometime. And you're Hermione, of course. Mrs. Granger, you as well."

It was clear Mr. Weasley's attention wasn't entirely on the introductions. Even as he spoke, his eyes darted around, eagerly taking in the Muggle house's interior—especially the appliances. He looked positively enthralled, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Why don't you join us, Mr. Weasley?" Harry said, unable to resist a teasing jab. "Ron's mentioned how much you love Muggle things."

"Really? Could I?" Mr. Weasley straightened up, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Well done, Ron! Ahem, I mean—sorry, I'm afraid I'll have to pass this time."

"I'd love to stay, but I've got some matters to attend to. If you don't mind, I'd like to invite you all to our place sometime—especially you, Harry. Ginny's been talking about you nonstop. Oh! I've got to go! Really, I must! Goodbye!"

Mr. Weasley's words tumbled out at breakneck speed, as if someone were chasing him with a blade, yet each word was enunciated clearly enough to be understood. Truly a whirlwind.

The head and arm floating in the green flames vanished abruptly, along with the flames themselves. All that remained in the Grangers' empty fireplace was a faint drift of white ash, proof that what had just happened wasn't a collective hallucination.

"I'd bet anything Mum pinched him just then," Ron said slowly, breaking the silence as he set down the guest gift he'd brought. "Though, it might've been Ginny too… you know, my sister, Harry."

"Fair enough," Harry said with a nod. "Like you said, Mr. Weasley's really into Muggle stuff."

"Oh, absolutely," Ron agreed. "Even though he works at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Mum's always worried he'll get reported for something." He shook his head, then glanced nervously at the Grangers. "Er, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Mr. Granger said enthusiastically, his eyes fixed on the gift Ron had placed on the table. "May I open it?"

Harry could see it now: if Mr. Weasley was fascinated by Muggle items, Mr. Granger was equally captivated by anything tied to the wizarding world—even the smallest trinket.

"Of course," Ron said, scratching his head. "It's not anything rare, just a Moonbloom. Mum thought Muggles might find it interesting."

Ron, always speaking the unfiltered truth.

Harry had a feeling that if Mrs. Weasley heard her son had blurted out the entire thought process behind their gift choice while visiting someone's home, Ron might be in for it. Fortunately, Mr. Granger wasn't the type to fuss over such details. In fact, the gift was exactly to his liking.

"No, no, this is fascinating. I love it," Mr. Granger said, already unwrapping the package, his hands practically trembling with excitement.

It's worth noting that in Britain, bringing flowers as a guest gift is common and perfectly normal—but typically, one brings a single bloom or a bouquet. Bringing an entire potted plant, as Ron had, was rather unusual.

In the pot before Mr. Granger grew a cluster of coiled vines, crowned by a large flower bud. The outermost petals, roughly six centimeters long, resembled polished jade, their translucent white hue tinged with a faint blue. Near the base, a few heart-shaped, deep green leaves were dusted with a fine, silvery sheen.

Even though the flower hadn't yet bloomed, Mr. Granger could already see faint specks of fluorescence glimmering around the bud—subtle but visible. A sweet, delicate fragrance wafted from it as well.

"This is a Moonbloom?" Mr. Granger asked, inspecting the bud closely. "How do I care for it? Does it need special fertilizer? Is it about to bloom?"

"It's already blooming, technically," Harry explained. "But Moonblooms only open at night, so you won't see it during the day."

"Exactly," Hermione chimed in, leaning closer. "When the moon rises, the Moonbloom unfurls slowly, giving off a soft silver glow, like moonlight. I read that it can even absorb moonlight, which enhances certain spells or can be used in potion-making."

"That's wonderful," Mrs. Granger said with a smile. "Though we'll have to keep it in the bedroom. It might be hard to explain to guests otherwise."

"You'll just have to watch out for the glow keeping you awake," Ron said with a shrug. "Mum says they're easy to care for—just a bit of water now and then."

Harry was starting to feel an urge to clamp a hand over Ron's mouth on Mrs. Weasley's behalf.

Mr. Granger, still buzzing with excitement, carried the potted Moonbloom upstairs to the bedroom, intent on finding the perfect spot and setting up something for the vines to climb.

It wasn't long before the doorbell rang. An elderly woman in a dark green robe dropped off Neville. She gave a curt greeting, confirmed a time to pick him up, and declined their invitations to stay, Disapparating the moment she stepped outside.

Nearly a month into the summer holidays, the friends were finally reunited. Normally, adults wouldn't involve themselves in children's social gatherings or parties, but… this was a wizarding party.

Mr. Granger's eager expression said it all, even though he hadn't uttered a word.

After a moment's thought, Harry pulled over his suitcase, unlatched the clasps, and flipped it open, revealing a seemingly bottomless void within.

"So, shall we head in?"

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