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The Son of Storms 15
🕑 Added 2023-09-16 19:55:57 +0000 UTC“Do the muggleborns here know about the Divine?”
“That is a good question,” Taranis raised an eyebrow, before he looked out at the night sky from his spot at the window, “Muggle or non-magicals in the isles are almost entirely Christian, with the only other major faiths being Islam and Hinduism. There are groups and sects that still believe in us, but they are few and far between in comparison. For Christianity and Islam, a part of their faith says that magic is the power of their God and the Devil, so most of their sect rarely ever completes their magical education, if they even start one. In recent times, the number has grown exponentially, due to the lack of witch hunts, inquisitions, and general acceptance of the public regarding things. While the Muggle-borns here come to accept magic most of the time, they don’t come to believe in our authority or even our existence.”
“To most of them, we are just fictitious tales of the backward and archaic wizarding world,” Taranis growled, and lightning flashed in the skies above as his power pressed down upon the area for a moment. “Or even if they come to accept that we existed once upon a time, then they lower us to the status of ‘extremely powerful wizards’. Ha! As if!”
“Don’t the purebloods or the half-bloods tell them the truth?” Harry asked, looking down at the book he had bought, a detailed overview of the history and culture of Wizarding Britain since its founding. “It says here that they worship ancient deities like Morrigan, Hades and Hecate on specific days of the year, and even ask for the blessings of various gods in incantations and rituals.”
“Bah!” The storm god scoffed, uncrossing his arms as he sneered, “Purebloods couldn’t care less about the muggleborns if they tried. Most of them have given up on ever making the muggleborns leave the muggle world behind fully decades ago, and it has simply turned into a festering wound of bigotry and stupidity. And then some of them are simply cowards who would rather turn their back on their ancestors and traditions than make the muggleborns see sense. Half-bloods on the other hand, dangle between the two like balls hanging from a crotch! Swinging whichever way every tenth year. Some recognize the wizarding customs, yet some wish for the wizarding world to turn into a caricature of the muggle one.”
“I hadn’t known the situation here was so bad,” Hestia murmured softly from her space on the couch, looking up from her own book on the Ministry of Magic. “When we roamed these lands last, the muggleborns hadn’t been so…stubborn, and neither had the clans been so demeaning towards them.”
“You were in Europe before the witch hunts, and before the Industrial Revolution,” Taranis pointed out, “Both events soured the opinions from either side. A few purebloods think that muggleborns will once again try to end them all from the inside, while a few muggleborns think the wizarding world is too…archaic and stifled in traditions. The purebloods want to keep their world as it is, while a few muggleborns want to change things as they find them in the non-magical world…leading to a clash. Unfortunately, all muggleborns suffer due the pureblood bigotry and the stupidity of a few of theirs, as the purebloods simply use their prestige and influence to cut their avenues of success.”
“That sounds…terrible,” Harry hedged, before he remembered the word of Taranis from a few hours ago. “Wait, you said my mother was a muggleborn…how did she even get married to James Potter if there is so much bias here?”
“As I said, only a few purebloods carry enough bigotry to deny talent and power when they see it,” the god replied, turning around to look him in the eye. “I don’t know much about the ins and outs of their society, but muggleborns, who are talented and smart enough don’t really suffer as much…as long as they don’t antagonize the wrong people. Your mother was probably one such witch, or maybe it was just the plain old sappy romance story. Go and ask this shit to someone who knew them, not to someone who came to know of them only because you are a person of interest.”
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“Ah, Mr. Potter, “ Ollivander said, rising up from his chair as Harry entered his shop, nodding at the young wizard as the demigod waved a hand in greeting. “Lord Taranis and Lady Hestia aren’t accompanying you?”
“Lord Taranis said he wanted to eat some of the magical dishes here,” he shrugged back and walked inwards, his eyes flicking in every direction as he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, “Hestia went along with him due to some inter-pantheon treaty or something.”
“Matters between the pantheons have always been delicate and best handled with the most peaceful of diplomats,” Ollivander nodded, walking deeper into hsi shop as he chuckled for a moment. “Imagine the sight of Lord Taranis discussing the issue of a Greek demigod with the King of Greek Gods!”
“That is probably best left to the imagination only,” Harry replied, shuddering a little as he imagined the scene of his father and Celtic deity having a dick-measuring contest by throwing their power around. Deciding to focus on the other half of his life—at least for the next seven years—he looked towards the barely visible silhouette of the ancient wandmaker between the shelves, “Is my wand crafted?”
“Crafted it is, young Harry,” the older wizard responded, his voice suddenly far more cheerful as he walked back into view, holding onto a sleek black box, his fingers holding it outwards towards Harry. “A wand of your own, crafted with your own power and blood, with that of your slain enemies. A wand that shall grow in strength as you do, and is a perfect match for your unique blend of energies. My most magnificent and challenging creation yet, and quite possibly more splendid than the ones even my ancestors have crafted!”
The wizard slowly lowered the box before his eyes, before it began to float in the air as Ollivander removed his hands from it. The wandmaker removed the lid delicately, and a shudder ran up Harry’s spine as he felt something stir within him, similar to the moments he had felt his powers react, yet different at the same time. “Behold,” Ollivander whispered softly, his voice nothing more than the barest of sounds as the magical focus was revealed in its entirety. A gasp escaped his lips, and a thrum of power rose within him, his mind and magic instinctively seeking out the wand that was made for him, “The heartstrings of the Thunderbird, soaked in a Great Centipede’s venom with the crown feather of the King of the Skies in its core, set inside the fang of the Lernaean Hydra. A wand with as much potential for destruction and elements as the Hydra, with the power and potency of its venom and the Thunderbird’s lightning flowing through it. Suited for all forms of magic…all except for healing and rejuvenation.”
As Ollivander’s words echoed in his ears, Harry’s fingers rose towards the wand resting on the velvet, the polished, off-white surface gleaming in the filtered afternoon light.
His whole body felt like ants were running on it, and sparks and trails of electricity jumped between his fingertips and the wand. In front of him, Ollivander gasped as he felt the bond form between his creation and the demigod, his senses far more attuned to the fine strands of energy that seemed to flow from the boy’s outstretched fingers to the fruits of his own labor. His eyes widened as Harry finally picked the wand up, and thunder cracked in the sky above as a fierce wind blew through the shop. The wandmaker took a step back as he felt the budding waves of magic behind Harry’s skin reach a crescendo, his eyes glowing a haunting shade of dark blue as he grasped his wand more fully.
A moment later, the wind died, the magic settled, and the wand and its master bonded forever.
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“So, this is Neville Longbottom,” Harry mused aloud as he watched the Boy-Who-Lived walk around with an auror guard detail around him, the four adults keeping back the public that cheered and worshipped the 9-year-old as he walked towards Gringotts, “Bit on the pudgy side for a hero.”
“They don’t need to run and jump around while swinging bits of divine metal,” Taranis snorted as he sat down on a chair, picking up the menu and browsing through the ice creams, “the boy is powerful, that is all that matters in the grand scheme of things in this world.”
“Isn’t that true for everywhere?”
“Not if you have the brains to compensate for the lack of power,” Taranis pointed out, and something in the god's voice made him turn around to look at the ancient being, his voice suddenly tinged with the wisdom that one might expect from an entity whole civilizations had worshipped once upon a time. “There are many tales throughout the world, where someone won the fight not because they had an overwhelming power advantage over the enemy, but because they had planned beforehand, and had the means of tipping the scales with means other than brute force. Tell me boy, Do you think your father and his brothers triumphed over the Crooked One with just their powers?”
“That is what they say at the Camp,” he shrugged back, remembering the lessons on history taught by Chiron and the campers, as well as the general acceptance of the Greek Triumvirate’s might even amongst the muggles, “I assume that is not the case?”
“Since you are pretty tolerable for a Greek kid, and certainly a far cry from the last demigod that lived here in our dominion, I will tell you a little secret,” Taranis smirked, tapping a flavor on the card and telling the vendor his choice as he looked him in the eyes. “Your grandfather was a god of Time, one of the fundamental aspects of the Universe, and he was certainly amongst the most powerful divine beings seen in this world. While a being of a different breed than the Primordials, he was amongst the first and the only ones to encroach on their strength levels. It is not an easy matter to defeat such a force, much less one that is in control of time. However, there are four known methods of killing a deity's physical form, and shattering their very essence, and your father and his brothers used one of them. They didn’t have the sheer power, or even the counters for the powers of Time that their father possessed, but they utilized their minds and came up with a plan to weaken the Titan King, and make him weaker. This is the benefit of knowing your enemy before you fight them.”
“What are the four methods of killing a god?” Harry asked, the words of the Storm god making his eyes blow wide. Throughout his years as a demigod, he had learned the tales of his Pantheon by heart. From the valor and life of his brother Perseus to the journey of Oddyseus, all of them full of monsters and bravery and interactions with the divine.
But none of them compared to the Titanomachy, or as the final days of it were known, The Triumph of the Three.
Zeus, Poseidon and Hades, the three strongest of the newest generation of divine beings had battled their father, the Titan King Kronos for three months. According to Chiron, even Helios and Selene had stopped their movements around Gaia to spectate the cataclysmic fight between the father and sons. Storms had ravaged the lands, fires from the pits of Hell itself had burned countless times against the armor of the Crooked One, as the Titan King simply used his scythe and his power to match the three single-handedly.
However, in a fit of inspiration, Hades had snuck up on Kronos mid-fight using his Helm, and snatched his scythe from his hands. Poseidon had them gored Kronos with his trident from the back, and Zeus had brought down as big as a whole city upon his father. Stunned by the impact, the Titan of Time could do nothing but scream in pain as the next moment, his youngest son used his own scythe to cut him apart and scatter the pieces to the depths of the Pit.
However, the scythe was said to be locked in the highest security vault Hephaestus could construct, with a permanent guard of minor gods guarding it, as well as the Lord of Olympus’s personal vigil on a weapon strong enough to destroy a fucking Primordial to a step away from fading. And thus, no one ever saw it in action again, and it had always been a topic of discussion between the campers that just what enabled it to be so destructive.
“None are meant to be shared with mortals,” Taranis shot down the rising curiosity within Harry instantly, his voice warning him to not continue the line of questioning any further as the Storm God took his ice cream from the vendor, the Celtics personal brand of magic cloaking their words easily from the civilians around them. “Though, you can discover them on your own if you wish. Now, I didn’t tell you that tale so that you could grow some delusions of killing gods left and right. It was to tell you the benefit of using the thing between your ears, since from what I have heard from Lady Hestia, you have a habit of just bashing things with your power until they break.”
“It works,” he shrugged back, remembering each and every time he had blasted a monster to bits with lightning, or cut them apart underneath his sword like a scythe through grass. “Though, I still don’t get why you would teach me a life lesson milord.”
“Consider it…my good deed of the century, especially after your brother fucked up big time,” the Celtic god chuckled quietly, taking a bite out of his ice cream as he sighed and looked at him, “Farewell Harry Potter, Son of Lily. May we never meet again, and may the Morrigan smile upon you.”
With that, a drop of water fell upon his eye, and Harry flinched at it. As he opened his eyes properly again, the sky flashed once brilliantly, purple lightning streaking across the sudden clouds as a heavy downpour began to lash at the ground below. Standing there in the rain, Harry looked at the skies above, wondering what the in the name of Hades had Taranis meant, --the Celtic god’s chair empty and his ice cream spilling on the table before him.
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“Harry Potter!” McGonagall’s voice boomed in the hall, and Dumbledore’s smile froze on his face as his eyes snapped towards the boy who walked out from the crowd of first years. When he had passed his eyes over the first years, he had disregarded every one of them as nothing but common children, none of them Heirs to any House, and none of them children or grandchildren of either his Order’s members or the Death Eaters. But now, as the name of the boy long thought dead by him, and everyone else came forward at his name being called, Albus Dumbledore couldn’t help but gasp for a moment.
While the whole Great Hall stilled as the name taken by his deputy echoed, Albus watched the child walk over to the stool upon which the Sorting Hat rested. His eyes took in the green eyes, so reminiscent of Lily Evans, set in a face that screamed out the aristocratic features of the Roman ancestry of the Potters. Messy hair, a touch darker than James’ own black hair, sat atop his head, and as Harry stopped in front of the stool, Dumbledore leaned forward slowly, wanting to witness every moment of the sorting of James and Lily’s lost child.
The boy looked down dubiously at the hat for a moment, and Dumbledore couldn’t help but wonder just how a muggle-raised Harry was going to adjust to this world. But then again, Lily Evans had also been a muggleborn, and she had certainly been a powerful witch in her own right by the time she had grown up. And though he may have been childish and scoffed at the thought of studies, James too had been a powerful wizard, his talent in transfiguration enough to make even Dumbledore raise an eyebrow.
And now, their child was standing before him, just as they had been decades ago.
A glance to his right showed that even Filius and Severus were watching the boy with interest—and far too much more than normal in Severus’ case, even though the Slytherin’s face showed none of it. The rest of the staff wasn’t faring much better either, he noted mentally, with Pomona’s mouth still open in shock, and Hooch staring at the boy as if she had seen a ghost.
However, before he could think more about what Harry Potter and his reveal meant in the grand scheme of things, the boy picked up the hat and put it on his head. Barely an eyeblink later, the hat opened its mouth and a hush fell over the whispering students. “Harry Potter,” the ancient, croaky voice of Gryffindor’s animated hat echoed in the Great Hall as it hummed slowly.
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“A chimera, torn apart by your powers from Poseidon,” the Sorting hat’s voice echoed in his head, and Harry growled, remembering that particular monster, and the deaths of Michael and Cynthia. The memories in front of his eyes moved forward as he felt the Hat shift slightly upon his head. The thing that he felt his memories focus on was the Hydra, its heads glaring out at the world with hatred and malice, breathing the elements onto the demigods and slaughtering them mercilessly. Until he arrived and chopped them off in a single strike, almost losing his innards in the process. “My my, the Hydra too? You sure are a powerful young demigod, aren’t you Mr. Potter? But then, what else can one expect from the progeny of the Greek God-King.”
“What house are you going to sort me in?” He thought back, barely suppressing the urge to growl at the hundreds that stared at him silently, once again the center of attention due to his parentage, “I’d rather not sit here for them to gawk at all night long.”
“Patience shall serve you well, Mr. Potter,” the Hat’s old voice slowly whispered in his head, and Harry flushed a little at the admonishment, but still felt a spark of irritation as he heard the whispers grow in volume. However, it seemed the Hat didn’t really care for his impatience, as it hummed again, shifting upon his head for a moment, “You thirst for recognition beyond that afforded to you by the virtue of being the Son of Zeus, and now, the lost son of House Potter and Lily Evans. However…Slytherin is not for you Mr. Potter. While your ambitions are certainly legendary, foolish as they may be…you are much more of a rampaging dragon than the coils and venom of a snake. You desire knowledge, but not for knowledge’s sake itself, or even for being more knowledgeable than your peers…and Hufflepuff is clearly out of the bag, you are loyal to a fault to those you deem worthy, but those are few and far between. That leaves…GRYFFINDOR!”
