The Son of Storms 30 (Patreon)

“Take a seat, Mr. Potter.”

Five words.

That is all Dumbledore spoke to him, his silent, chipped blue eyes staring at him. Slowly, Harry did as told. Even as his back touched the chair’s cushion and his arms crossed over his lap, he could not shake one thought from his mind, which was confusing the fuck out of him.

He had faced the wrath of Ares, verbally yes, but he had done so nonetheless. He had faced down numerous monsters, almost dying a couple of times.

Compared to all that, Dumbledore was practically an angel. A six-foot-something old, slow man should not have made him this nervous by his presence alone. Yet, that is what was happening right now. He could feel it, the way that his hair rose on the end, and the slight sweat that beaded his temple. For all that Dumbledore was just a wizard, he was no less dangerous than the most deadly of creatures he had faced.

Perhaps even more, Harry thought as he felt something envelop his muted senses—a strange, heavy weight that spoke of power and control.

“I apologize, that I have not found the time to talk to you again, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore began, throwing him off instantly with his words, which, while still spoken with a stern face, were far better than the ones he had come expecting.

“It is of no issue, Professor,” he answered after a moment, shaking his head slowly, “You are responsible for an entire castle of students.”

“That should not stop me from finding time for those that need it, but I thank you for the consideration,” he inclined his head, and his lips seemed to curve a little as he continued, “How has Hogwarts been treating you, Mr. Potter?”

“Wonderful, Headmaster.” he answered, “it feels like home, more and more with each day.”

“Ah, that’s indeed wonderful to hear,” the wizard nodded, that smile spreading just a little further, “though, I expect we still have ways to go before it is a home for you, instead of feeling like one, yes?”

“My home will always be in America, Headmaster,” he answered, shaking his head, “Hogwarts is a great place, and I have friends here too…but my home shall always lie with the family I found there.”

“Ah yes, it had slipped my mind for a moment that your Muggle relatives are no more,” he inclined his head, and a flash of thunder cracked through his head as he remembered that night. Before he could dwell any longer on it, Dumbledore continued, “It is nice to hear that you have made friends here Harry. Especially the Weasley twins after the tumultuous start you got off to with them.”

“Thank you Headmaster,” Harry smiled a little, and Dumbledore nodded, smiling even more as he nodded his head towards the window.

“I see you have become close friends with Hagrid too,” he commented, “Quite a shocker, if I am being honest. Children don’t usually take to his ways so swimmingly. It is refreshing to see you and Hagrid both find friendship in each other.”

“I do not find his creatures terrifying,” he shrugged with a smile, before frowning as he remembered that Hippogryph, “Although, he could tone down the surprises a little, I guess. But other than that, Hagrid is just a giant child at heart, not a single mean bone in his body.”

“A thought that many find impossible due to his size and companionships,” the old wizard chuckled, before his eyes widened a little as he snapped his fingers, and a tray of beverages and biscuits, and chocolate appeared before him, “My apologies, Harry, I completely forgot about the fact that you came right as the dinner was starting. Please, do treat yourself to whatever strikes your fancy.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” he picked up a biscuit, biting into the almond-crusted confectionery.

“May I ask you a question, Harry—a second one, I mean,” Dumbledore chuckled, and Harry paused for just a moment, as he realized that Dumbledore had called him by his first name, the man’s eyes shifting enough that the atmosphere turned serious once again despite the joviality of his smile.

“Of course, Headmaster,” he answered, placing the half-eaten cookie back on the plate as he too straightened up, his hands on his lap as he met Dumbledore’s eyes, knowing the question that was coming for him.

“Do you consider Hagrid amongst your friends?”

“I do,” he didn’t nod, and his voice was just as clinical as Dumbledore’s, as the tension re-emerged between them, that sensation of power and judgement intensifying as Dumbledore leaned forwards a smidgen.

“Then I will ask you once…why did you kill Aragog and Mosag, along with a hundred of their kin in the forest?”

“They attacked me first,” he li—well, half-lied. Technically, he had gone there to kill them already. It's just the actual killing happened in self-defence. Probably.

“Their nest exists deep into the forest Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, “so deep that even you went into the Forbidden Forest by accident at the night, there is a tiny chance of you coming across them directly instead of finding the borders they hav—had drawn with their webs, and not understanding what you were walking into. We both know you went there specifically to hunt them, and you have done so successfully, culling hundreds in a single night. I wish to know why. What harm did they do to you, that you felt the need to perform this act?”

“I sa-”

“Was it a command?”

“What?” he blinked, almost tripping over his words, his eyes widening as the implications of Dumbledore’s words ran through his mind, and his heart sped up as Dumbledore’s smile grew a fraction.

Dumbledore detested what he was doing right now. This smile-laden, laughter-laced act was nothing more than an interrogation. He had hated it when he had done it twice with Tom, once when the boy had been in school, and once when he had just graduated.

And he hated it now, doing it with Harry.

But needs must, and Dumbledore was not going to let another Tom Riddle rise, not while he was breathing. Loosening the shackles on his magic just a tad, enough to make the boy sense it, he looked him in the eyes as asked the question that had been brimming at the top of his thoughts ever since he had seen the carrion in the sky above the forest at dawn.

“Was it a command?” he asked softly, awaiting the surprise that was sure to come. A moment later, Harry jerked in his place as if the words settled in his brain, and his surprised “what?” carried that hint of danger and fear that had been in Tom’s voice, too.

For a moment that stretched into dozens for him, Dumbledore thought about things that were about to be said between them, and how they might play out. He didn’t want to see the worst in Harry, for the boy was the last reminder of Lily and James, who had sacrificed themselves completely for the cause of the Order. Yet, he could not ignore the boy’s true parentage, nor could he ignore Fawkes’ reaction to his presence.

He had known Harry to be Zeus’ son, aware of the God’s presence on Hogwarts grounds, as well as how the Celtic deity was acting as mediator between the Greeks and them. Dumbledore was aware of how the Greek demigods lived out their days, battling monsters, fulfilling the whims and fancies of their patrons, and then dying a young, unseemly, unrecognised death most of the time.

He did not want the same for Harry, but he was also aware of the divinity being more a curse than it was a boon for demigods, for who could go against their very own blood?

“Was it a command?” he repeated, “From a god?”

“What do you mean?” the child asked him, far more guarded and wary than anyone at his age should be, yet, Dumbledore was not surprised. He had met a few demigods decades ago when Grindelwald had been trampling through borders and bodies both. A towering centaur, whom he believed to have been Chiron from ancient times too, had also been a pleasant, but welcome surprise—the old creature weaving magics and firing arrows with such grace that even he had been tempted to ask for a couple of pointers.

“I am aware that you are a demigod, Harry,” he answered, a tad softer than his questions, burying the judgment and suspicion in his voice as down as it could go, “The current son of Zeus, born to Lily Evans Potter. I also know a little about these quests that are assigned to you and your divine side of brethren. Thus, I ask, was this task assigned to you a quest? Or was it undertaken of your own volition?”

He could see that clench of jaw, the slight shift in the shoulders, the subtle shift of the eyes in Harry. A clear sign that the boy was rattled—or he was thinking about using whichever weapon he had on him right now. A small part of him—a very small one, mind you—thought about what would happen if Harry did make the decision to attack him—a rather poor one altogether, but a decision nonetheless.

He would be unable to match the boy’s physical capabilities and maybe the proficiency with his father’s domains, but Dumbledore was reasonably sure he could handle the boy at his full power at his current age. Let alone stunted as he was right now by the Celts’ bindings.

The boy opened his mouth once, closed it, and then opened it once again to snap it shut. ‘Ah, so it was a quest’ he thought, raising a palm towards Harry. “I have the answer I sought. No-”

A small sound caught his attention, a couple of wards went off inside his head, speaking of a hidden presence sneaking inside. Instantly, his considerable power filled the room as he stood up, his wand snapping to his hand as a ring of azure flames expanded out and instantly began to burn along the walls, Gellert’s spell sending soft blue light in every direction. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Harry jump to his feet, the boy’s wand sparking with dark lightning as his power rose to oppose his, and privately, Dumbledore was impressed with the power he could feel from the boy.

“I will commend you for seeking unwarranted access to my office, and actually succeeding in entering it,” he declared, activating every feature he had enchanted into his spectacles as he gazed at the window and the area around it, tracking magic, heat, light, sound, and a dozen other things at once with a sweep of his vision, “I say this once, come forwards of your own volition, and you may not be sent to Azkaban this evening. However, you can choose the other option too, should you desire to cross wands against me.”

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” a voice—familiar, he realised—intoned. Not spoke, not whispered…it intoned in a deep, rich bass that told of age dwarfing him…and as for power, that remained to be seen.

“That is my name, yes,” he nodded, slowly contracting the Protego Diabolica, the supernatural flames leaving no marks where they burnt, “Though you have me at a disadvantage here.”

“A rather small one, one would say when dealing with a mage of your caliber,” the voice returned, and Dumbledore focused his mind as the circle of blue flames grew smaller still, the fire getting tinged with a purple accent as he wove another ward into the lethal creation. Something flickered at the edge of his senses, like a small draft of wind shifting his hair by a millimeter—and Dumbledore grasped onto that disturbance faster than the snapping jaws of a dragon.

A burst of pure magic left the Elder Wand, amplified by the runes inscribed on the Wand of Death, and the furniture on that side of the office shattered as something flew into the wood and cotton, a small creature by the looks of things. A grunt escaped his target, and yet, faster than anyone could blink, Dumbledore had captured him within a seven-layered prison made of light and magic, inescapable by any means of teleportation or phasing.

“I advise you to remove your invisibility right now, my friend, “ he commented, winking at Harry as he saw the awe-struck expression on the young demigod’s face, before focusing back on his captive, “I would rather not try my own magic and see it harm you.”

A moment later, he sensed something change in his perception of the room, and a small, furred form revealed itself. “A werecat,” he breathed, lowering his wand slightly as he repaired the furniture with a snap of his fingers, “My my, I believe this is my second time seeing one.”

“Like werewolves?” Harry asked, and Dumbledore shook his head—watching his newest guest struggle to right itself on its feet.

“The only similarity between them is that they have similar starting names, nothing else,” he answered, nodding in the creature’s direction, “Werewolves never breed, they propagate by infecting others with the lunar curse that afflicts them, and other than their transformations, they remain human for the most part. Werecats on the other hand, are a species on their own, and a wise one at that. They were respected as advisors by many Lords in the old times, before they retired deep into their forests.”

The child made a noise of understanding, and Dumbledore smiled as he nodded towards the chairs. “Take a seat Mr. Potter, I think you too are somehow involved with whatever our werecat guest has to say.”

“I guess so,” the boy muttered, and Dumbledore once again caught that tone of realisation in his voice. Perhaps he had met the creature before? If so, he would need to re-evaluate the level of divine interference happening around Hogwarts, if he had missed a prior meet-

“The Lord of the Wilds commands you to stop giving shelter to the remaining Acromantulas.”

Instantly, his magic flared up, surging through the office as the torches blazed brighter, and his eyes glowed with power that had quelled two dark lords and cautioned countless other wizards. “Careful, werecat,” he warned, “You speak of names that have long been silent in this land.”

“Silent yes,” the werecat spoke, its voice a weird mix of a screech and deep baritone, layered and resonating with something unknown and wild, like the depths of the forests it had come from. It's golden-amber eyes staring at him from a shaggy, rough face, “but the Wild One has commanded the death of those spiders you shelter, for the forest wants them gone, and the darkness reclaimed.”

“Then Lord Cernunnos should have communicated to the Keeper of these lands, or the centaurs that have inhabited the forest for thousands of years,“ Dumbledore replied, firm and unyielding as he felt a presence descend on the office, and he looked towards the forest, aware of the Horned God’s gaze upon him. Knowing that from some alcove in that biome, Cernunnos was meeting his steely eyes with amusement and irritation both, “The accords are clear about this. No direct divine interventions are permitted without either Lord Dagda’s acceptance or the Keeper’s.”

“The circumstan-”

“Are irrelevant,” he answered, turning back to face the werecat as he bore his gaze down on the creature, his words brooking no arguments, “Harry Potter-Evans is a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as long as he is in the Celtic Lands. His status as a demigod is of no issue, since that is not the cause of his presence here. The agreement was that Lord Taranis would be his divine guide, and the point of contact if any mishap were to happen. This interference is not only against the Accord of Hogwarts, but also the agreement made for the guardianship of Harry Evans-Potter during his presence in Wizarding Britain.”

“That is not for a mortal to decide,“ the werecat hissed, struggling against his bonds, “you do not know what state you left that forest in, with those hungry, insane Acromantulas running amok without any fear of judgement, killing whatever creature they could sink their mandibles in, Albus Dumbledore! You do not have the standing, nor the credibility to speak of pacts older than you, when you were the cause for the havoc wrecked on the creatures!”

“The Acromantulas were given shelter after Lord Cernunnos approved their presence, not before,” he narrowed his eyes, “it was his assent that allowed Mosag to be brought there. Do not lay blame where it does not belong, werecat. I might stand responsible for oversight, but it is the Wild One who oversaw everything and still did not intervene until the problem became too big to ignore.”

“The Acromantulas stayed here as a part of Hogwarts, not the Forest,” the werecat hissed back, and Dumbledore paused for a moment, considering the words, before he slowly brought forth the memory of that evening, when Hagrid had pledged before the forest’s boundary about monitoring th—

“Yes, now you understand, foolish wizard,” the creature hissed as his eyes widened slightly, Hagrid’s words from decades ago resonating in his head.

“The Acromantulas will stay at Hogwarts.” he whispered, meeting the werecat’s eyes before turning towards the forest, his voice sterner than before, “You play on words, Lord Cernunnos, yet the fact remains that you could have approached me anytime your subjects were troubled by the spiders. This merely shifts the responsibility of their presence, not the responsibility that you hold towards your domains. If you could not intervene due to the wording of the agreement, then you still could have informed me over the last several years, instead of commanding a student of mine.”

“You da-”

“Silence,” he softly intoned, raising a single finger, and muffling all sound that came from where the werecat was, before he turned towards Harry, “Harry, may I presume that Lord Cernunnos commanded you to kill the Acromantulas under the threat of harm.”

“...” the boy’s eyes simply flicked towards the forest, a silent understanding emanating from him.

“He won’t be able to do any harm to you, not now, not ever, unless you provoke him directly. You have already completed the quest given to you, so your agreement with him stands fulfilled,“ he gently spoke, raising an eyebrow. “Now, did he threaten you?”

Harry shook his head at that, and Dumbledore smiled grimly, nodding in understanding, “Ah, Hagrid then. Very well, your message has been received, werecat, and your presence is respectfully…uneeded. Kindly see yourself out using the entrance this time.”

“You cannot turn us away when you please Albus Dumbledore,” the werecat hissed as the bindings on it dropped in time with the doors opening, and its clawed finger rose to point at him, loathing and anger filling its eyes. “The forest today revitalises itself after your folly was corrected, and heed the words of the Wild One, the forest is not meant for any whose blood is tainted with that of the creatures that dwell within.”

“Then take heed of my words too, werecat, and say them to your god as they are spoken,” Dumbledore pointed his wand at the ground, and let the full brunt of his magic and station as Keeper of Hogwarts and its lands fall upon the world around him, ancient and heavy. For once, he gave no heed to the gasp Harry let out, or how the numerous instruments and trinkets around him just stopped working under the storm of power he was excluding, the reality itself a step away from bending under his might, “This is the only time I am forgiving the intrusion by the Wild One on a student of Hogwarts, or a resident of it. If any harm comes to Harry Evans-Potter, or Rubeus Hagrid as a result of any slight Lord Cernunnos feels to have been made to his identity, then I will be the one to decide the punishments. Furthermore, in any case related to the forest and its creatures, he shall approach the Dagda, or the Keeper of these lands, I, Albus Dumbledore, about it.”

He paused for a moment, letting his words sink into the very stones around him, his voice becoming the ink to the agreement being signed between him and the land, as well as the gods that dwelled in it. Finality echoed in his words, the declaration louder than any dragon’s roar, yet his voice itself carried no further than the room. Staring right into the werecat’s eyes, Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, “No approach shall be made to any under my authority, not even under the pretext of jurisdiction under domains.”

Awe.

That was the only thing left in his mind, he decided as the werecat hissed, and disappeared from their view once again. A moment later, the door’s closed, and Dumbledore’s power vani—no, it was caged back inside the man. The vast, seemingly boundless ocean of magic turning into a faint flicker on his senses.

“I apologise, Harry,” the wizard whispered, turning upon him with grave eyes and a sullen expression, folding his hands before himself as he lowered his head, “Mistakenly or not, I judged you too harshly today, in a manner most wrong.”

“It’s fine, Headmaster,” he shrugged, some part of his brain snapping in place in time, “You were working with what information you had. Had I known about whatever deal you have in place with the Celts, I might have come forward instead of going about the quest.”

“No…in that you were right,” Dumbledore sighed, giving him a sad smile. “While not as capricious as your divine relatives, the Wild One could have still taken umbrage at your refusal, and there is no telling how a god might respond to that. If you are amenable to it, could you recount the details of exactly how all of this happened, now that we are aware of each other’s position a little more.”

“Certainly Professor,” he nodded, deciding to trust Dumbledore with the details, considering the man had taken his side in this matter, and any future ones. Besides, it was not as if he had condemned him already. The man had asked him questions like any Headmaster—or rather, Keeper of the Lands—would. Recounting the events as they had happened from when he had stumbled upon the Wild One and his unicorns, Harry kept the deity’s name out of his mouth as he parroted the god’s demands word for word, along with his warnings.

“Tis as I feared then,” Dumbledore spoke once he finished, both of them now sitting down, the brief silence that had dropped in after his monologue broken by his heavy voice, laden with tiredness. “He judges you wrongly for sins committed by your predecessors.”

“Predecessors?” Harry blinked, “there have been demigods before me at Hogwarts or Britain?”

“One at Hogwarts, two in Britain,” Dumbledore slowly raised two fingers, before sighing and looking at the portraits behind him, who had all stayed silent until now, frozen in place ever since he had entered the office. “They were in these lands years ago, centuries even. But their acts left deep scars on the land, deeds so dark and cruel and even today, the Celtics and their subjects of all kinds view hatred at the sight of any Greek.”

“Then why am I per—my mother,” Harry breathed, watching Dumbledore nod at his words, and unbidden, some of the memories Zeus had shared with him rose in his mind. Of his parents standing at the side of the Great lake, praying to Hestia. Taranis had even told him about how the Celts had agreed to his presence only because Lily Evans had been one of their subjects, but Harry had not understood the gravity of what the Skyfather had been saying until today.

“Yes, Lily,” the aged wizard nodded, before looking at the window, “it is her blood that allows you to stay here, and I implore you Harry, never do anything which might put that grace inherited by you in danger. The Tuatha Dé Danann are not forgiving by any means, and even less so for Greeks.”

“Why?” he asked, continuing at Dumbledore’s questioning hum, “Why do they hate Greeks so much? I get the Wild One’s problem with Hercules, but why such hatred over the hunting of a few animals? And who was the other demigod, who, I guess was the wizard who studied at Hogwarts?”

“A tale for another time, I am afraid,” Dumbledore shook his head, before raising his palm as he opened his mouth to protest. “I understand your curiosity Harry, especially since, wrongly or not, you bear the weight of the sins committed by those who came before. But the hour is late as it is…and the knowledge you desire…I am not the one who holds the answers you seek.”

Harry opened his mouth—half a protest, half a demand—but the look in Dumbledore’s eyes stopped him. Not fear, not evasion…but weariness. And something deeper beneath it…an acknowledgment that whatever history lay buried between the Greeks and the Celts was dangerous enough that it shadowed his life centuries later even.

And it wasn’t Dumbledore’s story to tell.

For a moment, Harry simply sat there, jaw tense, fingers curling on the armrests. His mind spun with every question he had tried to bury since setting foot onto these lands—why Taranis had appeared to him, why the Celts had allowed his birth, why and how Poseidon had raped Lily Evans when she had been a Celtic subject…and why the Wild One had targeted him at all that night in the forest.

Three worlds.

Wizarding Britain.

The Tuatha Dé Danann.

Olympus.

Three worlds he was now wedged between—the child of two, guest of another, and a walking attraction to nuisance in all three.

And somehow, the sins of ghosts he had never known walked ahead of him.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He didn’t like ignorance, and neither did he like being used. But he also wasn’t stupid.

Dumbledore had drawn a line today—one that had protected him, and Hagrid, against a god. That alone was enough to show that, even if Dumbledore would hide things from him, the man wasn’t out to harm him. So Harry swallowed the dozens of questions clawing up his throat, nodded once, and rose from his seat. “Thank you, Professor.”

Dumbledore offered a small, tired smile. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He left the office in silence, the door closing with a muted thump behind him.

The corridors were empty at this hour. Cold moonlight spilled across the stone floors, and Harry’s footsteps echoed faintly as he walked. His heartbeat had settled, but his mind had not. Each unanswered question prodded at him, as relentless as any monster he’d faced. It was clear that the Horned God had targeted him because of the acts of Hercules and this unknown demigod-wizard hybrid, paying no heed to his intentions. What was stopping him doing it again? Taranis and Hestia might protect him, but it would take Taranis less than a microsecond to kill him if it came down to it. Hell, probably even less than that.

He wouldn’t allow that.

Not again. Not ever.

Harry exhaled, steady and sharp, the way he did before a fight. ‘Fine,’ he thought as he reached the stairs. ‘If no one will tell me the past…then I’ll damn well find it myself.’

The torches flickered as he walked on, his shadow stretching ahead of him.