Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

The moment the whistle blew, Tegan Ryan shot upward, accelerating swiftly. In professional Quidditch, every team used the finest brooms—nothing like Hogwarts, where Harry Potter was the only one riding the fastest, newest model among the four house teams.

This meant that fourteen Firebolt 2000s now streaked through the air, their identical performance leveling the playing field. Harry couldn't rely on raw speed to dominate—an issue that fueled the skepticism of fans who doubted his transition to the professional league.

After all, leaving the schoolyard for the professional arena changed everything.

"…Tegan Ryan's nabbed the Quaffle! But was that really a grab?! He practically rammed right through!" Ruar Knight's rapid commentary echoed across the pitch. "Hold on, is that a pass?!"

Indeed, it was a pass. Ryan had charged the Quaffle the instant the referee released it, but his goal wasn't to secure the ball—it was to keep the Ballycastle Bats' Chasers from touching it.

A legal body check forced the opposing Chaser aside, and Ryan hurled the Quaffle downward, where someone was already waiting—Harry!

Catching the Quaffle, Harry dove sharply, his angle so steep it drew gasps from the crowd. In a blink, he was skimming the grass, the Firebolt 2000's tail brushing the lush blades flat. The Ballycastle Bats' Chasers, Declan Flynn and Marlette Gallagher, were hot on his tail.

These weren't Hogwarts students—professional players were tough to shake, especially when both sides rode identical brooms.

Harry's altitude was a clever choice, hugging the ground to prevent Flynn and Gallagher from snatching the Quaffle from below. Flanking him on either side? Harry was rolling—spinning like a top. Unless Flynn and Gallagher wanted to start the match with a foul, they had no shot at stealing the ball.

Committing a foul against a twelve-year-old boy right out of the gate? Neither Flynn nor Gallagher could stomach it. Even if they did, the crowd would likely boo them off the pitch.

It wasn't worth it… not yet.

With a Firebolt 2000's speed, everything unfolded in mere breaths. Harry yanked his broom handle upward, climbing—climbing—then slammed the Quaffle!

The Ballycastle Bats' Beaters barely raised their bats before the Quaffle grazed past Keeper Liam McKeen's ear, smashing into the right hoop.

"Kestrels 10, Bats 0!" Ludo Bagman's voice nearly drowned under the thunderous stomping of the crowd. "Twelve-year-old Potter scores his first goal! His arm's bursting with power!"

Ludo wasn't the only one to notice. The Bats' players immediately sensed something odd about Harry's strength—the Quaffle's speed was unnatural for a kid his age.

It was like an adult's throw.

Liam McKeen, the Bats' Keeper, restarted the game with a toss. The match surged on, the whoosh of brooms slicing through the sky electrifying the crowd. The Quaffle changed hands rapidly, sparking murmurs of awe.

Harry was being swarmed. The Bats' three Chasers boxed him in, forcing him to clutch the Quaffle closer to his abdomen with one hand to fend off Flynn's reaching grasp.

"Watch out, Harry!" Kestrels' Beater Quigley Kelly bellowed. "Two Bludgers!"

Harry stole a glance back, spotting two Bludgers screaming toward him, colliding viciously with sparks flying.

No question—this was the Bats' tactic. Their Chasers pinned Harry, limiting his movement, while their Beaters hammered the Bludgers his way. The earlier Quaffle grab was a feint; they didn't just want the ball—they wanted Harry out of the game.

"Vicious stuff! The Bats are showing their fangs!" Ludo roared, leaping from his commentator's seat. "Merlin's beard, look at that! Potter's dodging like a monkey! Both Bludgers missed!"

At the last second, Harry abandoned the Quaffle to evade the Bludgers. Even with his resilience, taking two high-speed iron balls would leave him battered.

Gripping his broom with both hands, Harry swung upside-down, dangling from the Firebolt. The Bludgers whizzed through where he'd been, clanging against each other as they hurtled forward. Kestrels' Beater Kate McCarthy swooped in, swinging her bat to redirect one Bludger toward the Bats' Seeker, Moran O'Connor, trying to cover for Harry.

But the rescue came too late. When Harry ditched the Quaffle to dodge, the Bats' Chasers had already wheeled their brooms toward it. Harry, with a burst of arm strength, flipped himself back onto his broom.

"Smart move, kid," Bats' Beater Connolly Byrne sneered, slinging his bat over one shoulder and wiping his nose with the other hand. "Otherwise, you'd be crying on the grass right now. Hogwarts babies should go home and suckle, haha!"

Harry spared the burly man a glance but didn't bite, instead banking his broom to chase the Bludgers again.

"What, no comeback?" Connolly smirked at Harry's silence, then kicked his broom into the fray.

It was a crude taunt, nothing more. Provoking Harry into losing his cool with something that weak? Impossible. He'd faced worse—swap Connolly for a broom-riding centaur spouting the same line, and maybe it'd have some bite.

Otherwise, it was just noise.

The Bats played ferociously, their relentless, storm-like pressure defining their style. They'd seize any gap, even if it meant fouling.

Harry couldn't help but compare them to a high-end Slytherin house team. The Bats' edge was their ability to foul without seeming despicable, preserving their image. Many fans loved their domineering style, cheering them to push harder.

That was something Slytherin never grasped—how to foul "fairly." In Quidditch, "fair fouling" was a unique term. A match without fouls or blood felt bland to wizards, lacking authenticity.

Harry found it bizarrely fascinating.

Whistle!

"The referee's called a foul!" Ludo's voice thundered with indignation. "Bats' Beater just clipped Kestrels' Seeker Conor Duff with his bat—nearly knocked him off his broom!"

"I'd bet my wand Duff spotted the Snitch! He was already sprinting!" Ruar slammed the commentary desk as the Bats' fans erupted in deafening cheers.

"It's a foul, no doubt," Ludo continued, "but you've got to admit, the Bats needed it. The score's 210 to 50, Kestrels leading. If Duff caught the Snitch now, the Bats would lose."

"So, Kestrels get a penalty shot," Ruar sighed. "Not the penalty, mind you—I mean it's a shame the match nearly ended. Oh, and it's in! Is that really the arm strength of a twelve-year-old?"

Ruar's tone brimmed with disbelief.

"Maybe… that's just genius," Ludo shrugged, picking up the thread. "If you've tracked the Kestrels' 210 points, Potter's scored at least 130 of them himself."

Ludo's words sent a ripple of astonishment through the stands. Fans had seen Harry score repeatedly but hadn't realized the sheer volume of his points.

The match raged on. The Bats shifted tactics, relying on long passes. The Quaffle zipped between their Chasers, closing in on the Kestrels' hoops in a flash.

Callum O'Hare, eyes locked on the Quaffle, braced himself, hands poised.

"Pass to Gallagher—oh, a short one! Flynn's got it—back to Gallagher—then to O'Connor! Merlin's beard, what a risky move! O'Connor breaks through! Goal! Bats score 10!"

Spitting in frustration, Callum clutched the Quaffle and lobbed a long pass to Harry.

"B Plan, Harry!" Callum shouted.

No reply, but the Kestrels understood their captain's command. Harry, Quaffle tucked under his arm, charged forward, his slight frame weaving nimbly through the towering adult players. The Bats stayed tight on his heels.

Harry's speed and agility forced the Bats to tighten their formation. Twice, he faked an upside-down broom maneuver, baiting them into thinking he'd pass like he did during the earlier swarm. But he didn't.

"Sly little git!" Marlette Gallagher cursed.

The Quidditch pitch was vast, but brooms were only getting faster. In mere breaths, Harry reached the Bats' hoops, dodging a Bludger with a rapid roll as if he had eyes in the back of his head. The crowd roared in exhilaration.

Liam McKeen, the Bats' Keeper, was on high alert, watching his teammates swarm the twelve-year-old. Flynn even dropped ahead, smashing a Bludger straight at Harry.

Fast! It was going to hit—then Harry yanked his broom handle, pulling a near-180-degree turn. His speed plummeted, sliding forward on momentum alone. It was a perilous move. One misstep, and a player could be flung off, crashing into the stands or grass at deadly speed.

Such accidents could break arms, legs—or worse. Past matches had seen players snap their necks and die on the spot. Magic and potions couldn't bring back the dead.

"Absolute madness!" Ludo bellowed, pounding the desk. "I'd wager even veteran Quidditch stars wouldn't dare try that, but Potter not only did it—he pulled it off!"

"And it worked like a charm!" Ludo continued. "The Bats' defense tightened to counter Harry's charge, but that deceleration spin let him pass to Ronan Kaiser on the wing! An easy goal! McKeen didn't even have time to react! Ha!"

The Kestrels' fans erupted, waving their arms in a tidal surge of excitement. From high above, Harry saw the stands ripple like waves.

The Kestrels' mascots—leprechauns—showered the pitch with magical gold coins, hyping the crowd. Good thing the coins were conjured, or the club's match earnings wouldn't cover the leprechauns' antics.

By now, both Kestrels and Bats fans acknowledged one truth: signing Harry Potter wasn't a mistake. He wasn't just a twelve-year-old—he had the skill to match his fame. Win or lose, that fact was undeniable.

As Harry slammed another Quaffle through the Bats' hoops, the Kestrels' fans chanted his name—Harry Potter! Harry Potter! Harry Potter!

That death-defying spin had won over nearly every heart in the stands. Fans loved the thrilling, the daring—moves no one else could pull off.

Fame in Quidditch could be that simple: one unforgettable move.

Just as Darren O'Hare, Callum's uncle, had believed after watching Harry's Hogwarts match and pushing to sign him despite the naysayers. One game, and Harry would silence the skeptics.

The match pressed on, and to the Bats' shock, Harry showed no signs of tiring despite his relentless plays and throws. His stamina seemed boundless, his passes and shots consistently powerful.

Was this really a twelve-year-old?

This alone shattered the Bats' coach's and many fans' pre-match predictions. Stamina was a key reason most doubted Harry—a kid couldn't match an adult's endurance, especially after professional training amplified the gap.

Yet here was Harry Potter, brimming with energy.

For Harry, he felt better than ever, like his body was finally unleashed. His nerves buzzed, his movements were sharp, his reactions lightning-fast. Even his skin felt keener, picking up subtle shifts in the wind.

The Bats' pressure was unlike anything he'd faced at Hogwarts. Here, he couldn't rely on a superior Firebolt 2000 to outpace opponents or breeze through defenses with speed and reflexes alone.

This was where Quidditch diverged from Muggle football. A top-tier broom could create a chasm between players, and Quidditch rules didn't mandate uniform brooms. Wealth or tech could buy a faster ride. Muggle football? It was all about training the body.

With speed equalized, the Bats' professional discipline shone—tight defense, precise tactics, stamina, reflexes, and teamwork far beyond Hogwarts' house teams.

Harry relished the challenge.

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