Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

What was that phrase again?

Ah, a sea of people—even inside the Kenmare Kestrels' locker room, Harry could hear the roaring cheers of the enthusiastic crowd outside, along with their jeers and curses aimed at the opposing team.

This was just the norm for Quidditch matches... After all, wizarding Quidditch was far more brutal and far less restricted than Muggle football.

"I hope you're not too nervous, Harry," said Callum O'Hare, the team captain, as he sat beside Harry and clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "This isn't like Hogwarts house matches. There are thousands out there—not just British wizards, but fans who've traveled from other countries too."

"Don't worry, Captain, I'm fine," Harry chuckled. "It's a clash between two top teams today. Of course they wouldn't want to miss it. Wizards have it too easy when it comes to travel."

Darren O'Hare, the man who had brought Harry into the Kenmare Kestrels, was both the team manager and coach. Callum O'Hare was his nephew and the current captain.

Well, the O'Hare family seemed obsessed with Quidditch. Darren O'Hare had retired from the Kestrels in 1960 to become their coach, then trained his nephew to take over.

"To be precise, it's 9,300 people," said Kate McCarthy, one of the team's Beaters, shrugging. "That's what the ticket office told me, anyway. Didn't catch the exact number."

"They're all here for you, Harry," said Aidan Lynch, the Kestrels' Seeker, tilting his head to listen to the voices above before turning back. "There are two blokes right over our heads arguing about you. Honestly, I think they're about to throw punches."

"Not necessarily," Harry shook his head. "The Ballycastle Bats are a strong team—they've won the League Cup 27 times. And our team isn't weak either. A match like this would draw a crowd."

"I'm glad you're staying calm, Harry," said Darren O'Hare as he pushed the door open and walked in, smiling. "Just one match. That's all it'll take to shut up every last one of your doubters."

"And make all those idiots who bet on the Bats lose their shirts!" growled Quigley Kelly, the other Beater, his voice rough. "Short-sighted gits. The League Cup is ours this year!"

"Damn right! Time to show them what the Boy Who Lived can do—I'll bet even Krum wasn't this good at his age!" Ronan Kaiser added excitedly.

Even among all active Quidditch players, Harry was the most unique.

True, it wasn't unprecedented for a student to become an official Quidditch player—Viktor Krum had already paved the way.

As the first student to join a professional team while still in school, Krum had faced endless skepticism and criticism. But in the end, he proved himself with sheer skill, making the idea acceptable—at least no one could claim it was just nepotism anymore.

But even then, Viktor Krum hadn't joined a club team—he'd joined the Bulgarian National Team. That was the difference between him and Harry... Well, that and age.

The National Team only played in the quadrennial World Cup, while the League Cup was an annual event.

"Thanks, lads. Really, I appreciate the trust," Harry said, smiling at his teammates. "Honestly, I'm not the most reliable teammate—at least I can't train with you every day to build chemistry. So, thanks for putting up with me."

Harry's path into the Quidditch leagues had been met with skepticism—not just from outsiders, but from within the Kenmare Kestrels themselves.

It wasn't just his once-a-week training schedule. From day one, Darren O'Hare had made it clear: the Kestrels would restructure their entire strategy around Harry as their core player.

A twelve-year-old boy as the team's centerpiece—for the original Kestrels, this was a hard pill to swallow.

But Harry was simply that good.

Sports were like that. Unless outside forces interfered, the strongest should play. Once Harry proved himself, anyone on the team who still objected wouldn't be forcing Harry out—they'd be forcing themselves out. And unless they had some deep grudge, why would they?

What could be better than lifting the League Cup with Harry?

"Don't say that, Harry," said Tegan Ryan, slapping Harry on the back heartily. "If you've got the skill, you should be the focus. Just win us the match... Once this game's over, all those naysayers will shut their traps. Honestly, brainless gits, believing every word The Daily Prophet prints."

Before Harry joined, Tegan Ryan had been the Kestrels' main Chaser. Now, he'd shifted to a supporting role—while another Chaser had been relegated to the bench.

"Speaking of The Daily Prophet, you've been in hot water lately, haven't you?" added Ronan Kaiser, the third Chaser. "The Ministry's a bunch of useless tossers. A first-year performing Apparition? Ha!"

The moment he brought it up, the locker room erupted into complaints about the Ministry's incompetence. Every single player had stories—either personal or from people they knew—about the Ministry breaking rules or botching things up.

The locker room quickly devolved into a full-blown Ministry-bashing session. Seeing his teammates' furious expressions as they recounted their grievances, Harry couldn't help but think the British Ministry of Magic was... deeply unpopular among ordinary wizards.

"Alright, lads," Darren O'Hare finally said, clapping his hands to cut off the Ministry slander as he re-entered. "Glad to see you're all fired up."

"Time to start, Coach?" Kate McCarthy raised a hand. "Got any inspiring words for us?"

"Oh, not this time," Darren chuckled, waving a hand. "Honestly, you lot seem more confident than I am. Just play like we've trained. Now go out there and give our fans a perfect victory!"

"YEAH!"

A unified roar erupted from the Kestrels' locker room.

Ever since the news broke that Harry had joined the Kenmare Kestrels, the team had faced relentless criticism. The Daily Prophet kept pouring fuel on the fire, and even longtime Kestrels fans were skeptical—how could a Hogwarts student, no matter how talented, compete at this level?

For tactical reasons, Darren O'Hare had imposed a media blackout on his players, keeping Harry's true ability under wraps. The plan was to unleash him as a dark horse, catching the Ballycastle Bats off guard—so much so that Darren had even turned down several friendly match invitations.

The frustration of knowing Harry's strength but being unable to prove it had been festering in the Kestrels for weeks. Now, they could finally let it out.

—They couldn't wait to show the world what Harry could do, to see the shock on those Bats players' faces!

From the noise outside, the match was about to begin.

Indeed, the players in the locker room could already hear the rapid, excited voice of the commentator. Quidditch League matches usually had two commentators.

"Hello everyone, it's your old friend Ludo Bagman—ohoho! Thank you for that warm welcome, even for a retired old man like me! Today, I'm here as the Ministry's Department of Magical Games and Sports representative, joined by my co-commentator—"

"Hello, I'm Ruar Knight. It's an honor to commentate on this extraordinary match."

"Yes, yes, we all know what makes it extraordinary," Ludo said cheerfully. "And that's exactly why so many people are here today—"

"Including you," Ruar cut in.

"Hah! True enough," Ludo laughed. "Anyway—let's give a thunderous welcome to our home team, Ireland's very own Kenmare Kestrels!"

BOOM!

It was like thunder crashing right above the pitch. The moment Ludo finished, the crowd's cheers merged into a deafening roar, drowning out individual voices.

Say what you will, laugh all you want, doubt as much as you like—but never underestimate fan loyalty.

Even the most vocal critics of Harry joining the Kestrels were now screaming their support at the top of their lungs.

Then—WHOOSH!

The locker room's ceiling panels slid open. The roar of 27,000 fans, carried by the winds of the Irish Sea, flooded in. With a battle cry from Callum, the seven players—already mounted on their brooms—shot out one after another, Harry right behind the captain in the second position.

The noise outside instantly doubled. Harry followed Callum in a lap around the pitch, the six fifty-foot-high golden goalposts gleaming under the sunlight over the emerald-green field.

As the Kestrels flew past their mascots—a group of clurichauns plucking tiny harps—gold coins rained from the sky.

"—Merlin's pants! They've actually put a first-year as a Chaser?!" Ludo Bagman's shocked voice somehow cut through the crowd's cheers. "And look at his positioning! That's the main attacker's spot!"

"I'm afraid I'll have to correct you, Ludo. Harry's actually a second-year now," Ruar interjected. "He's flying remarkably steady. That's good. I'm glad all the recent drama hasn't affected his performance."

"Sounds like you're a fan of his?" Ludo asked casually.

"Absolutely," Ruar said without hesitation. "That boy saved my entire family's life twelve years ago. And none of what's happened recently was his fault. Poor kid, the Ministry's really—"

As Ruar spoke, a large section of the crowd erupted in agreement, shouting things even they knew no one else could hear clearly.

"Woah, woah! Hold on, Ruar, hold on," Ludo cut in before the Ministry-bashing could escalate into a full-blown riot. "Remember, I work for the Ministry now, mate. Give me some breathing room, eh?"

This time, the crowd burst into knowing laughter—so loud it was impossible to miss.

"Popular, huh?" Callum winked at Harry. "Forgot to mention—I'm a fan too. Good luck with that lawsuit against the Ministry. Don't stress."

"Thanks. I'm feeling fine," Harry shrugged.

It was obvious now. To the wider wizarding world, the Ministry lacked... credibility and authority.

At least in a massive event like this, with thousands of wizards gathered, even the commentators could freely point out the Ministry's flaws. Harry thought that was a good thing.

Better than the Ministry gagging everyone, leaving ordinary wizards powerless. Own up to mistakes, face the consequences.

As for nerves? Please. Compared to swarms of Qiraji and Mantid, or the gladiatorial arenas of Azeroth, this was nothing—at least the spectators here weren't screaming for blood.

...Right?

Thinking back on Quidditch's history, Harry realized the most brutal matches—the ones with injuries, even deaths—were the most celebrated.

...Yeah, let's go with that.

Bloodthirsty crowd...

Shaking his head slightly, Harry turned his gaze forward. While he'd been lost in thought, the Ballycastle Bats had taken to the pitch.

The Kestrels wore bright green robes with a double golden 'K' on their chests. The Bats, meanwhile, were clad in black, a blood-red bat emblazoned across theirs.

After their own lap around the pitch, the Bats halted opposite the Kestrels. Their captain, Liam McKeen, raised his wand first, followed by the rest of his team.

A moment later, a gigantic bat illusion shot toward a blood-red moon that had appeared in the sky, engulfing it before suddenly spreading its wings—revealing twenty-seven League Cup medals in its shadow.

Ah, the classic historical dominance display. Aggressive. Morale-boosting.

Sure enough, the Bats' fans went wild, their roars crashing against the Kestrels' supporters like tidal waves—who promptly roared right back.

If not for security, the fans might've started brawling before the match.

With both teams on the pitch, the referee flew between them. Under his watchful eye, the two captains shook hands—or rather, attempted to crush each other's bones.

...Harry suspected all Quidditch captains secretly trained their grip strength.

"—And both teams are ready! O'Hare and McKeen shaking hands—Merlin, that looks painful," Ludo said, ever the entertainer. "Let's focus on the boy instead. Honestly, compared to the other players, he's a bit..."

"Small?" Ruar offered. "I'd say he's quite tall and strong for a second-year."

"But his opponents aren't Hogwarts second-years," Ludo said pointedly. The Bats' fans responded with a chorus of boos.

Though there were no giant screens, every fan in the stands had a magically enhanced telescope, letting them see every detail.

And so, all 27,000 spectators could clearly see the fourteen figures on broomsticks. From left to right, among the lineup of hulking athletes, one small figure stood out like a sore thumb.

Like a straight line suddenly dropping in the middle.

"You sure this isn't a Hogwarts exhibition match?" Bats captain Liam McKeen sneered, still crushing Callum's hand as he jerked his chin at Harry. "You're going down hard, O'Hare."

"Heh," Callum smirked, utterly unfazed. "Harry's going to wreck you."

The referee pretended not to hear—this was just standard trash talk.

"Ready? I'm releasing the balls," the referee said flatly, adjusting his broom.

"Three."

"Two."

"—ONE! GO!"

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