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Harry Potter: Returns Back From Game of Thrones (ASOIAF) - 33
🕑 Added 2025-10-14 11:19:25 +0000 UTCChapter 33: I Was Happiest When I Was a Mercenary
Most Hogwarts courses carried inherent dangers—Potions proved no exception.
Some student, whether exceptionally gifted at chaos or catastrophically inept, inevitably attempted brewing potions in directions more suitable for explosives manufacturing. Today that dubious honor belonged to Seamus Finnigan, whose cauldron Harry intercepted before it could achieve critical instability.
Naturally, Snape still deducted points, his reasoning twisted as always.
"Are you so desperately eager to play the hero, Potter? Students should behave like students. Your current task is properly brewing potions, not interfering with others. Gryffindor loses another point for your distraction and presumption."
"Act like students," Harry thought bitterly. The phrase triggered memories of his time in the [Asian Parents] world—returning through dimensional crossing had been quite sudden. When he'd received the special university admission, he'd automatically returned mid-experience. His adopted sister had dragged him to watch some ridiculous magical girl show that he'd never finished.
Damn, the plot had been truly moronic, yet somehow Harry had found it strangely compelling despite himself.
Especially the transformation sequences when heroes and villains simultaneously powered up before clashing—Harry had gotten inexplicably invested in the absurd melodrama.
Could my intelligence only handle watching such nonsense? He wondered with self-deprecating humor.
No! This only proves the King of Strength retained childlike wonder beneath the hardened warrior exterior.
He wondered whether spending over a decade in this magical world might produce similar entertainment—perhaps some theatrical princess character with exaggerated mannerisms, speaking in affected tones, wielding wands more dramatically than actual trained wizards, simultaneously wearing an unconvincing disguise nobody acknowledged.
Speaking of which, that world's [Roar of Blood and Water] series had matched [A Song of Ice and Fire]'s plot remarkably well in certain aspects. Perhaps he should consume more creative works from various cultures—maybe someday another crossing would provide useful foreknowledge and strategic advantages.
Afterward, Snape continued circling Harry's workstation like a predatory bird. Ron repeatedly appeared on the verge of explosive protest, but Harry stopped him with subtle gestures—Ron himself might lack the courage to resist professors directly, but when standing beside Harry, not wanting his friend humiliated, he willingly offered bravery on Harry's behalf.
Harry sensed Snape wasn't genuinely angry anymore—at least after discovering Harry's considerable potion-brewing talent, the hostility had diminished from its initial intensity.
During the brewing process, Harry a second time intercepted Seamus Finnigan's experiment before it achieved explosive consequences.
The Irish student possessed truly remarkable talent for accidentally creating volatile compounds! Was this intentional sabotage or catastrophic incompetence?
British version of a demolitions expert, Harry mused, using potions for alchemical explosive development.
Both students were subsequently deducted points. Little Seamus losing points for dangerous mistakes seemed reasonable, but Harry preventing actual accidents could be repeatedly penalized—no wonder Snape's reputation remained thoroughly abysmal. His biased point distribution wasn't even disguised with token fairness.
Naturally, Harry knew if he hadn't intervened, Snape would simply pivot: "You think his mistakes make your work look superior by comparison? Why didn't you prevent disaster?" Regardless of actions taken, Snape would manufacture opportunities for point deductions.
The systematic unfairness was breathtaking. Ron wanted to defend Harry verbally again. Harry kicked him gently behind the cauldron, keeping the contact hidden from Snape's view.
"Don't engage directly," Harry whispered quietly. "Right now he's beyond reason—your words cannot change his behavior or attitude."
Harry discovered that when he concentrated completely on brewing with technical precision, Snape's volatile mood became considerably calmer. The man's favorability actually increased incrementally.
Seven hells, this guy is genuinely disturbed.
Harry would rather wrestle giants barehanded than endure Snape's unsettling scrutiny much longer.
The agonizing Potions class finally concluded. Both Hermione and Harry had been deducted points for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts—previously they'd served as Gryffindor's primary point-earning students.
Harry remained completely indifferent. Hermione felt absolutely terrible.
Thinking of hard-earned points simply vanishing, the more she dwelled on it, the more aggrieved she became.
My points! My precious points!
Working diligently an entire week to accumulate over ten points, then losing five in a single class session—they expected her to simply laugh it off?
"Cheer up," Harry offered comfort. "You've earned far more points than you've lost overall. Five points aren't catastrophic. Snape frequently deducts other Gryffindors' points arbitrarily. I've inquired extensively—Gryffindor's House Cup performance often ranks last place anyway, already having fallen as far as mathematically possible. At worst we'll still claim fourth place. Just lower your psychological expectations—nobody reasonable will blame us for Snape's systematic bias."
Hermione refused consolation. She gathered her courage inwardly, making a fierce resolution.
If opportunity presented itself, she'd definitely contribute to winning every single House Cup going forward.
Restoring Gryffindor's glory—I must accomplish this goal!
"Good! Very spirited attitude!" Harry approved, though his persuasion had technically failed. Still, the goal was achieved—Harry loved seeing young people remain sunny and optimistic despite setbacks.
After three o'clock, the trio, finishing their final classes, departed the castle, crossing the grounds toward Hagrid's dwelling near the Forbidden Forest's edge.
Earlier that morning, Hagrid had enthusiastically invited Harry to visit his cottage. Harry brought his strategic advisors—Ron and Hermione—along as well.
Initially he'd recruited them somewhat utilitarian as external intelligence sources. After extended contact, though, he'd discovered genuine compatibility and friendship.
Both possessed personalities Harry genuinely enjoyed, though ironically they didn't particularly get along well with each other yet.
There was also Harry's currently urgent Snape problem requiring outside perspective. He alone couldn't decipher the Potions Master's incomprehensible behavior, but discussing it openly seemed too outrageous and inappropriate for children's ears. Harry hadn't revealed Snape's disturbing fixation—it would frighten them unnecessarily.
Hagrid lived in a small wooden cabin at the Forbidden Forest's boundary. Before the weathered door rested a crossbow and enormous rubber boots caked with dried mud.
When Harry knocked firmly, they heard frantic struggling sounds and several deep barks echoing from inside.
Then came Hagrid's booming voice: "Back, Fang! Get back now!"
Hagrid cracked the door open slightly, revealing his massively bearded face peering through the gap.
"Wait just a moment," he said apologetically. "Back, Fang, I said back!"
While letting them enter, Hagrid desperately grabbed the collar of a massive black boarhound straining against his grip.
Harry immediately crouched to the dog's level, petting Fang with firm, confident strokes the animal couldn't resist. The hound immediately calmed, settling down beside the fireplace with a contented huff.
"Good dog, just a bit overly enthusiastic and timid around strangers."
"Oh Harry, you've got natural talent with animals too!" Hagrid seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery.
"Honestly, not bragging, but I also possess considerable dragon-handling talent!" Harry declared cheerfully.
Hagrid's eyes lit up with almost childlike excitement, and both launched into enthusiastic conversation, speaking animatedly about magical creatures and adventure.
Having sat on the Iron Throne and endured countless tedious courtly formalities, Harry could force himself to tolerate political theater when absolutely necessary, but he'd never genuinely felt being king brought joy—he much preferred dealing with straightforward, honest people.
His happiest time remained leading the mercenary company in Westeros, earning a few gold coins monthly through honest work and camaraderie.
In that world, when mentioning his preference for mercenary life over monarchy, the Imp—Tyrion Lannister—always looked like he desperately wanted to laugh but didn't quite dare.
Hmph. He never understood my heart, Harry thought with mild fondness despite the criticism.
After crossing to the [Asian Parents] world, Harry had encountered poetry that captured this precise sentiment beautifully—verses about fleeting time, lofty ambitions, thirst for worthy companions, and the profound loneliness of leadership.
The heights are unbearably cold—who truly understands my heart?
The poetry had been excellent, expressing truths about power and isolation that resonated deeply, though the specific cultural context differed from Harry's experiences.
Sitting now in Hagrid's warm, cluttered cabin with genuine friends, Harry felt more contentment than he'd experienced in any throne room across multiple lifetimes.
