Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

"So... can I leave now, Professor McGonagall?" Harry asked after a moment's thought.

"Absolutely not, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said briskly. "Don't think for a second that I will treat you the way Professor Snape does… with favoritism."

To be honest, even McGonagall herself found those words a bit odd—since when had Snape ever shown favoritism to a Gryffindor? That would be like something out of a dream.

"Your punishment is to copy the school rules—five times—every Saturday evening in my office. I believe this will help you understand what is and isn't acceptable behavior," McGonagall said sternly. "Now, come with me."

"Yes, Professor," Harry nodded obediently.

Truthfully, Harry felt a bit wronged. He wasn't some troublemaker who played pranks just to get attention, yet for some reason, trouble always seemed to find him.

It had only been four days since the start of the term, yet he had already seen an angry Professor McGonagall multiple times. He couldn't help but worry about the Vice Headmistress's health.

"Speaking of which, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said suddenly as they walked up the stairs, "protecting your friends is certainly the right thing to do, but even the right thing must be done the right way."

"I doubt Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom would be pleased to hear you were sent to Azkaban for breaking someone's neck."

"...I'll be careful, Professor."

In reality, teaching Malfoy a lesson had never posed any real danger. Everything had been under Harry's control. But there was no need to argue with the professor about this. McGonagall's advice was well-intentioned.

As he glanced at McGonagall's back, Harry wondered—if such words had come from this stern and traditional professor, could they be interpreted as a subtle form of praise?

After all, besides being Hogwarts' Vice Headmistress, she was also the Head of Gryffindor House.

They walked in silence for the rest of the way. McGonagall's destination turned out to be quite far—she led Harry up several flights of stairs, through corridors and doorways, before finally handing him over to a tall, broad-shouldered Gryffindor student.

"Take him, Wood," McGonagall said, almost through gritted teeth. "And make sure Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup this year!"

"Huh?" The older Gryffindor student looked utterly confused.

"This boy flies like an enchanted broomstick," McGonagall took a deep breath, recalling the scene. "He soared over fifty feet into the air with a Slytherin student under his arm, then dived straight down, only to pull up at the last second and level off just inches above the ground—without a single scratch. Potter, was that really your first time on a broom?"

...Harry was starting to understand what McGonagall wanted him to do. But honestly, compared to copying school rules, this hardly felt like a punishment.

He had read about Quidditch, the most beloved sport in the wizarding world, in books before.

Meanwhile, the upper-year student named Wood had begun staring at Harry with a fanatical gleam in his eyes, as if he were gazing at a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

"Seriously, Professor McGonagall?!" Wood practically shouted in excitement.

"Of course. I saw it with my own eyes," McGonagall said decisively. "Even Charlie Weasley couldn't pull off something like that, could he?"

Wood nodded fervently, circling Harry and eyeing him up and down—making Harry somewhat uncomfortable.

Back when he was just a naive adventurer, his lack of experience had led to him being sold into a gladiator arena. The slave traders had inspected their merchandise in a similar manner, even prying open mouths to check their teeth.

"Uh, Professor?" Harry raised his hand hesitantly. "If this is supposed to be a punishment, could I possibly get a different one? I'd rather use my free time to study magic. After all, I only have seven years at Hogwarts."

"Silence, Potter," McGonagall shot him a sharp glare. "Professor Dumbledore told me that if I had anything to say to you, I should be direct—so I will."

"Gryffindor has lost the House Cup for six years straight. Think about the fifty points you just lost today—honestly, I've given up hope for the House Cup this year."

That was said in frustration. Don't take it to heart. Seriously, don't.

"But what I cannot tolerate," McGonagall's voice grew sharper, "is the fact that Gryffindor hasn't won the Quidditch Cup in four years—four entire years!"

Wood lowered his head in shame.

It was clear that McGonagall cared deeply about Quidditch.

"Train hard, Potter!" McGonagall said sternly. "Or else I'll reconsider your punishment and make it worse."

"I don't mind, but Professor," Harry hesitated, trying to find the right words, "my concern is that if I join a student sport like this… it wouldn't be fair to the other students."

"You're a student too, Potter," McGonagall patted his shoulder. "If you insist on making such arrogant statements, then prove your worth—win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup first."

"That's right, Harry!" Wood enthusiastically threw an arm around Harry. "If anything, I'd love for you to be as unfair to the other houses as possible—crush them!"

"Alright, I'll do my best," Harry sighed.

Considering the fifty points he had lost today, Harry felt he couldn't exactly refuse McGonagall in her current state—Quidditch seemed to have become her obsession, especially after realizing that the House Cup was likely out of reach this year.

"Your father would be proud of you," McGonagall suddenly smiled, seeing Harry's lack of enthusiasm. "He was an excellent Quidditch player himself."

"My father?" Harry murmured softly, his gaze flickering.

After McGonagall finished explaining the historical significance and importance of winning the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor, she finally left. Harry, on the other hand, arranged with Wood to schedule a trial session. Wood was convinced Harry was a natural Seeker, but Harry insisted on trying all positions first to see which one he enjoyed the most.

When he returned to the Gryffindor common room, Harry was greeted like a hero.

The gemstones of Gryffindor and Slytherin had almost simultaneously hit rock bottom. Initially, students from both houses were naturally furious. However, it didn't take long for word to spread about what had happened during the first-year flying lesson, and just like that, the Gryffindors stopped being angry.

Oh, so our Harry Potter got into it with Slytherin again?

Well then, that's fine. That's actually great.

As a result, the only ones left fuming were the Slytherins—because, according to the frontline reports, they had lost, and quite miserably at that.

The fact that Malfoy had been so terrified he wet his pants made Slytherin the laughingstock of the school. Now, they truly had no way of holding their heads high in front of Gryffindor.

When Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room, he had barely finished saying the password before the Fat Lady's portrait swung aside and multiple arms reached through the entrance, pulling him in.

A wave of enthusiastic cheers erupted. Harry could hear people shouting his name, loudly praising his spectacular Wronski Feint—though, to be honest, Harry himself had no idea what that maneuver even was.

Amid the crowd, he spotted Hermione and Neville, both flushed red, stepping forward to meet him.

"Thank you, Harry," Neville said, his face still tinged with embarrassment. "I heard from everyone—you punished Malfoy for me. Thank you!"

"He got what he deserved. Don't worry about it, Neville," Harry said, giving him a once-over. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I just fell into the Black Lake," Neville admitted sheepishly, scratching his head. "Luckily, the giant squid carried me to shore, and Madam Hooch took me to the hospital wing for a dose of Pepperup Potion. Oh! And Hermione—Hermione has something to say too."

Neville stepped aside, and Hermione's response was much more direct.

"THANK YOU!!"

Her shriek nearly burst Harry's eardrums. She lunged at him, throwing her arms around his neck in a forceful hug that almost twisted his throat. Then, as if suddenly realizing what she'd done, she ducked her head, covered her face, and bolted straight to the girls' dormitory.

The cheers in the common room grew even louder, accompanied by an endless wave of whistles.

Harry rolled his shoulders and gave a slightly helpless smile. Thinking about it, from the perspective of these kids, it did seem like he had heroically stepped in to defend Hermione and Neville from Malfoy's bullying today.

The classic "hero saving the damsel" scenario seemed to be popular at any age… though Neville was a bit unfortunate in all this. Thanks to the crowd's selective storytelling, his role in the tale had been significantly downplayed.

But honestly, Harry had never thought about it that way. To him, they were all just kids—who would have any other thoughts about a child?

And if someone did, Harry would personally use his warhammer to smash that person's skull in.

The celebration continued, with more students joining in. At some point, the older students had somehow procured butterbeer, claiming it was to commemorate yet another victory of Gryffindor's "Bull-Headed Lion King." Harry even got a cup himself.

It tasted pretty good. Despite being called beer, it was a completely non-alcoholic drink—richly sweet, with a strong milky aroma and the crisp fragrance of malt. Harry would give it full marks.

It was now officially added to the Minotaur's exclusive beverage list.

By the time Harry finally managed to slip away from the crowd, he had already overheard several exaggerated versions of Malfoy's defeat—some claimed Malfoy spun through the air like a Quaffle while throwing up, others said he was caught mid-spin in a sudden downpour…

Frankly, Harry was getting a little tired of it. Why did Gryffindor students always take their imagination in such a gross direction?

"So… not only were you not expelled, but you're also joining the House team?"

In a corner of the common room, Ron swallowed his mouthful of butterbeer and widened his eyes, practically growling, "That has never happened before! I swear, Harry, you always manage to pull off things no one else can!"

Yeah, Harry figured he wouldn't get any other kind of reaction from Ron.

"Honestly, it's a bit of a time sink. I'd rather spend more time in the library—Hogwarts has an enormous collection of books, and there's even the Restricted Section," Harry said with some regret. "I wonder if I can finish reading everything before graduation."

Considering the path he intended to take, Harry believed it was necessary to go through the entire library and fully absorb its knowledge. Only then could he learn from different disciplines and find a way to adapt the magic he had mastered in Azeroth into a form suitable for this world—whether through refinement or fusion.

At the same time, Harry hoped this process would give him an answer—if he wanted to rebuild the Earthen Ring in this world and restore the power of the elements, how could he gain the recognition of wizards? How should he proceed? How should he operate?

There were far too many details to handle—this wasn't something that could be accomplished just by shouting a few slogans.

"Oh, this is the only time you don't sound like a Gryffindor, Harry. You sound more like a Ravenclaw," Ron muttered. "Besides, just because you graduate doesn't mean you can't come back and read in the library. You just need to become a professor—well, except for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. I heard that job is cursed."

Ron said it casually, but to Harry, it was like a sudden revelation.

Right—why couldn't he become a professor?

Not after graduation, like Ron was suggesting—that would be too late. No, he could become a professor during these seven years.

To be honest, Harry had wanted to access the Restricted Section for a long time. The only thing that had stopped him was his ingrained respect for the law. As a well-known figure in Azeroth, Harry had always adhered to the local laws and regulations when traveling.

Because he understood the necessity of maintaining order.

Sneaking into the Restricted Section was no different from breaking into another wizard's tower to steal their books—an act of blatant provocation. Could you imagine someone sneaking into Karazhan to browse Medivh's collection while he was still alive?

Or secretly reading an archmage's treasured tomes in Dalaran without permission?

If caught, that was the kind of offense that would get someone killed—no mercy, no second chances.

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