The Son of Storms 31 (Patreon)

He didn’t really like spending time between books. That was more of an Athena thing—or a Ravenclaw one, considering where he was. But needs must, and never let it be said that Harry was dumb like Ares’s kids. He had come here last week when he needed to research for his Forbidden Forest excursion, and now he was back here again.

Dumbledore’s words were stuck in his head, playing again and again, along with the Wild’s One’s.

“He judges you wrongly for sins committed by your predecessors.”

Predecessors.

Hercules was one that he knew about, a son of Zeus. Arguably, the most famous one across the realms, and even in the mortal world. Known for his unparalleled strength and the labours he had completed at the behest of his King—or Lady Hera—Hercules had amassed quite several deeds by the time he had vanished from Earth.

And not every one of them had been good. The Zeus cabin contained records of every demigod that had passed through that hall before, as well as information that his father had deemed useful for any child of his. Hercules, too, had his own section, and were it not for proof otherwise, Harry would have thought him to be a son of Poseidon with how many times he had ruined a girl or woman without a thought.

Zoë Nightshade was one of them.

His exploits in other realms or areas of Earth were mostly undocumented, other than the few times he had himself decided to recount them. Harry was unsure about when Hercules had exactly arrived in the realm of Albion, but until he returned to the Zeus cabin, all he had was Hogwarts’ library. 

“Good morning, Madam Pince,” he absently greeted the librarian as she started to sit behind her desk.

The woman almost jumped at the sound, her eyes snapping towards his, before she turned towards the clock on the side. “Mr. Potter, uhm, good morning,” she greeted back, sitting down and looking at him as if he were a house elf, “What are you doing here at this ungodly hour? Don’t you have breakfast to get to?”

“This is a library.”

“I am aware, yes,” she nodded along.

“I am here for the books,” he explained, frowning, thinking if there was anything wrong with this explanation, “History section please.”

“How old?”

“Old….around the time when Hercules came to Britain,” he answered, deciding to leave the unknown demigod alone for now. Better focus on what was quantifiable, as Chiron often said.

“Alright, here is the rune-key,” she muttered, passing him a small, circular stone, “you know the rest.”

“Yes, Madam Pince,” he nodded, taking the stone and walking towards the dais towards the back. Placing it in the empty slot, Harry watched as literal magic took effect, the rune inscribed upon it glowing with an ethereal green light, and the shelves to his right mirrored that glow. They shifted and rearranged, bringing the selected range of years to the forefront, storing and bringing forth books from thousands of titles that the history section alone held.

“Fucking insane,” he muttered, walking towards the shelf as the glow faded away along with the runestone.

The section that had shifted into place did not look welcoming.

The spines were darker here—leather cracked with age, vellum yellowed almost to brown, titles etched rather than inked. Some bore no titles at all, only sigils, house-marks, or warnings worked directly into the covers. A faint pressure settled against his temples as he stepped closer, the sensation familiar by now—wards that did not bar entry, but observed.

Harry ran a finger along the first row.

Most of the names meant nothing to him. Celtic chroniclers, hedge-historians, druids who had taken quill instead of blade as the world changed around them. The dates were approximate at best, marked by reigns and disasters rather than years. After the Burning of the Three Groves. Before the Breaking of Caer Lugh. Wizarding history, he was learning, had never cared much for precision where survival had taken precedence. Especially since they lived decades more than the mortals.

The Greek Influence on Albion. His eyes read the lettering before he pulled it free from the shelf.

The book resisted—just a little—before yielding, the cover warm beneath his palm. He took that as confirmation and carried it to the nearest table, setting it down carefully before opening it. The script inside was cramped and formal, lines packed tightly as if the author had feared running out of parchment mid-thought. Harry skimmed at first, eyes adjusting to the cadence, the vocabulary, the particular bitterness that seemed to run through every line. It talked of houses and clans that had taken in Greek brides. That came from the lands east, bringing in food, festivals, magics, and stories of the great and terrible.

The Celts and the Greeks had also had a short, but memorable clash between them, when his father had been young and the Crooked One had just fallen. Once again, the perspective highlighted the differences in their origins. 

It did not take long for the name to appear.

Not Hercules.

Heracles.

Written without honorific. Without reverence. Even the writing seemed to convey vitriol behind the author, and the opening passage was blunt to the point of rudeness.

Let it be known that the Storm-Born did not come to these lands as a hero, nor as a guest, nor as one seeking penance. He came because he could, and because none yet had proven they could stop him.

Harry leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.

Page after page detailed a slow, methodical encroachment. Not a campaign in the mortal sense, but something closer to a god testing the limits of a weakening structure. Sacred sites defiled not for power, but to provoke a response. Wards were shattered and left unrepaired as a message. Creatures bound to groves slaughtered where their deaths would ripple the furthest through local ley-lines.

Again and again, the text returned to the same theme.

This was not madness.

It was reconnaissance.

Another book confirmed it. And another.

One chronicler, writing decades after the fact, laid the blame not solely at Heracles’ feet, but higher.

The Thunderer had long coveted the continent in full, to which aim he had sent his son Dionysus to the lands east, where he was defeated by demigods of that land. In this, scholars now believe, lay the seed of the Storm-Born’s coming. Albion was to be softened—its guardians tested, its wards weakened, its Houses broken to obedience or ash so that the Greeks could claim this territory for their own. 

The Rise of the Cross across mortal realms had weakened the Celts for the moment, leaving entire covens and circles without their patron’s presence…a moment that Zeus was acutely aware of.

Harry’s grip tightened on the page.

So that was it.

Not punishment. Not whim.

Strategy.

Christianity’s rise threaded through the accounts like rot through timber. Shrines abandoned. Old rites performed by fewer hands, with less certainty. The Celts had not fallen, not truly—but they had thinned, stretched between worlds, and gods noticed such things.

Heracles had arrived at the exact moment resistance would cost the most.

Aife of Caer Lugh, 5th century CE

Greek gods do not conquer as mortals do. They destabilize, then punish resistance as rebellion. Zeus, above all, believes endurance confers ownership.

That Heracles was permitted to act unchecked speaks not to negligence, but approval. No god so jealous of lineage would allow such exposure unless the chaos served purpose.

Harry turned the page and saw a sigil he recognised instantly.

The Crow of Black.

Quite possibly the most renowned House in Britain after the Longbottoms now, feared and revered in equal measures for the scores of powerful, dreadful witches and wizards they had produced. Even the last generation had been a calamity, Sirius and Bellatrix Black ruining entire towns in their service to Lord Voldemort.

The account shifted tone the moment he began reading. Where the others were distant, scholarly, this was personal—written by someone who had been there, who had watched events unfold and survived them.

Maerwyn of Caer Bran, Court Historian

I record this not as legend, but as testimony. The Storm-Born did not underestimate Lord Black. He simply believed blood would bend to strength, as it had across the realm for him until now. He had destroyed House Miyr, root and stem for refusing him the honor of hosting his presence…but he forgot the Blacks were not Miyrs.

When the daughter of Kastro Mavros refused him, he took her. When she did not yield, he broke her body and expected the matter to end there.

He forgot just who had decided to provoke. Clan Black stands untouched at the top, not because they are many, or because they hold power. Numerous clans can claim that. 

Tis because of the fearsome nature of their blood, dark and mishappen like the Castle they command. Lord Black did not summon allies. He did not appeal to the gods like the Miyrs. He prepared rites—rituals so unheard of, not to bless the land or seek divine protection, but to unmake—spells designed to sever divine communion without martyrdom, to turn one’s magic upon the soul itself.

It was something which would have made Herpo the Foul proud.

The confrontation was not a battle. It was a dismantling of divine ego and power in full.

Heracles fled Britain alive, but altered.

His strength remained. His bond to his father did not.

From that day forward, House Black was not feared for cruelty, but respected for restraint. They had struck a god—and chosen not to kill him. 

Harry sat very still after that.

Every subsequent mention of House Black carried the same undertone. Fear, yes—but more than that, respect. They were remembered not as slayers of gods, but as proof that gods could be made to bleed without martyrdom.

He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. He searched then—for the other name, the other demigod Dumbledore had refused to discuss.

And found… nothing usable.

References collapsed into gibberish when he focused on them. Margins twisted. Letters inverted themselves mid-word. Entire paragraphs reduced to nonsense the moment comprehension took hold. This was no accident, no decay of time.

It was a working.

Library-wide. Old and careful.

Someone had decided that this history could not be known—not even accidentally. He would have thought Dumbledore, but this library, these books were so much older than the already century-old wizard.

Harry closed the last book and sat back, staring at the shelves that had rearranged themselves so obligingly at his request.

Predecessors.

Now he understood.

This was not about a forest or ecological balance. Not really. It was about memory, and fear, and the simple fact that gods did not forget blood that had once defied them.

If the past about this second demigod-wizard was being hidden, then it was because it still mattered to the wizards too, not just for him and the Celts. And he intended to learn exactly why.

“-tter! Mr. Potter!”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the fog in his head, sharp enough that Harry nearly leapt out of his seat. His wand was in his hand before he’d even registered the movement, lightning flickering briefly along the wood as he twisted around, eyes wide.

McGonagall had already stepped closer, one hand half-raised in a placating gesture. The concern in her eyes was unmistakable—controlled, but real. For a woman who could cow a classroom into silence with a look, she was being surprisingly gentle.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Potter?” she asked, bending slightly to meet his gaze.

“Absolutely, Professor,” Harry replied at once, forcing his grip to loosen as the sparks died away. He was acutely aware of the dozens of eyes on him now, curiosity and unease rippling through the room.

“I have been calling your name for the last five minutes,” McGonagall said, her frown deepening just a fraction. Her voice dropped, meant only for him. “Do you require a visit to the Medical Wing? Or shall I carry you to Madam Pomfrey myself?”

“Thank you, Professor,” he smiled, shaking his head. “I’m really fine. Just… some things going on back home.”

That earned him a long, measuring look, the kind that weighed honesty without prying further. At last, she straightened, professionalism sliding back into place.

“Very well. Then it is your turn to demonstrate the transfiguration, Mr. Potter,” she said, gesturing toward the front. On her desk sat a simple wooden block—smooth, rectangular, utterly mundane. “If you would proceed with the practical.”

Harry rose from his seat and walked forward, the room quieting as he took his place behind the desk. He regarded the block for a moment, grounding himself. This was not combat, not politics, and neither was this the mind-numbing task of sifting through dozens of books..

This was craft.

He raised his wand and began slowly, deliberately. The magic flowed outward in controlled layers, reshaping rather than forcing as he was used to. The wood softened, edges rounding, grain dissolving into the suggestion of muscle and fur. Limbs emerged first, then the curve of a spine, the delicate taper of a tail, as the tips of the ears emerged.

Details followed—paws pricked forward, eyes half-lidded, whiskers etched with care. Stone replaced wood seamlessly, marble-smooth yet textured where fur would lie normally. It was unmistakably a cat, poised mid-step, alert and lifelike… and utterly lifeless.

Harry stepped back, lowering his wand as a murmur ran through the class.

McGonagall circled the desk once, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She leaned in, tapped the statue lightly with her knuckle, then straightened.

“Very good, Mr. Potter,” she said at last. “Your control is commendable, and your detailing precise. There is room for refinement in posture and balance, but this is well above an acceptable standard.”

Not the best.

But solid.

Harry inclined his head, relief loosening something tight in his chest, and returned to his seat amid a mixture of impressed looks and subdued whispers. The rest of the day passed in a blur he barely registered. By the time afternoon settled in, Harry had retreated to his dormitory, drawn the curtains tight, and shut the world out. He sat cross-legged on his bed, the thunderbird egg resting carefully in his hands. Its bronze-scaled surface was warm, faintly thrumming beneath his palms.

Alive.

He could feel that much clearly—a steady, patient pulse, like a distant heartbeat. But beyond that… nothing. No stirring. No cracks. No sign of imminent hatching.

“When are you planning to come out?” he murmured quietly, thumb brushing over the etched patterns on the shell.

The egg, as always, offered no answer.

Harry leaned back against the headboard, staring at it in the dim light, thoughts drifting between past and future, gods and histories, storms and choices. For now, at least, the little life inside remained content to wait.

And so, it seemed, would he.

Time slipped past in small, indistinct pieces as he sat there, back against the headboard, the thunderbird egg cradled loosely in his hands. The bronze-scaled shell was warm—always warm—and beneath it, that steady, stubborn pulse of life continued, unhurried and patient. He could feel it as clearly as his own heartbeat, yet there was nothing else. No emotion. No instinct. No sense of awareness pressing back against his own.

Just waiting.

He exhaled slowly and set the egg back into its cushioned ward-ring inside his trunk, ensuring the runes were intact before drawing his hand away. The curtains muffled the sounds of the castle, leaving him in a pocket of near-silence that felt… quiet, for once.

A sharp knock shattered it.

“Oi! Potter!” Fred’s voice came clearly through the door, far too energetic for the hour. “You planning on hibernating, or d’you fancy actually passing Charms?”

Harry closed his eyes for half a second, then stood, grabbing his wand off the desk. “Coming,” he called back, tugging the door open.

Fred took one look at him and grinned. “Blimey. You look like you’ve been arguing with ghosts again.”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered, pulling the door shut behind him.

They made it to the Charms classroom just as Flitwick was clapping his hands together, excitement practically radiating off the little wizard. The practical itself was straightforward—a dozen tiny cubes were laid on the desk. 

His task? To turn them transparent, opaque, enlarge and stack them, all within ten seconds.

Harry did better than the transfiguration practical, achieving the target within six seconds, manipulation of an object’s physical properties almost unconscious on his part after so many years of wandless magic. Flitwick clapped enthusiastically, scribbling an ‘O’ besides his name, and patted him as Harry walked back.

It was as they were filing out that Fred leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You got anything good for DADA?”

Harry paused. “The practical?”

Fred’s grin widened. “Oh yeah. Dummy on the dais. Strongest offensive spell you know. No limits, long as you don’t hit anyone else.”

Fun, Harry thought silently, taking the sandwich George offered to him as they descended the stairs. The Defence classroom was already buzzing when they arrived. A single training dummy stood at the front—humanoid, reinforced with layered enchantments, scorch marks and fractures from earlier attempts already marring its surface. It had clearly seen better days.

Professor Laskov stood to one side, arms folded, expression calm but attentive as students took turns. Fire. Cutting curses. Blasting hexes. The dummy endured them all, cracking, smoking, but remaining stubbornly upright.

“Mr. Potter,” Laskov called at last and Harry stepped forward, wand loose in his hand.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

Harry looked at the dummy, and there was no incantation. No shaping of syllables or borrowed structure. He didn’t raise his wand fully—just angled it forward, letting intent settle, letting power answer something deeper than spellcraft. He felt the Thunderbird heartstring and Hydra fang dance with his power, resonating with his blood that had soaked them, and the air changed.

A low pressure rolled through the room, making a few students inhale sharply. Then—

Lightning erupted.

Not a bolt, but a column—white-blue and deafening, slamming down from nowhere and everywhere at once. It struck the dummy dead-center, obliterating it in a flash so bright several people cried out and turned away.

There was no explosion. No elaborate, dramatic aftershock.

The dummy simply ceased to exist.

Stone, enchantment, reinforcement—all gone. The dais beneath it was left scorched black, spiderweb cracks racing outward from the point of impact. Ozone burned in the air as everyone inhaled sharply.

Harry lowered his wand slowly, blinking once as the last traces of static crawled across the floor and vanished.

Laskov stared at the empty space for a long moment before exhaling. “…That will be quite sufficient, Mr. Potter.”

Nodding, Harry turned around and walked back towards his seat, rolling his eyes as a few students jumped when his wand sparked again. Fred was grinning like he’d just watched Christmas arrive early. George looked faintly stunned. Even the Slytherins had gone quiet.

Harry wished he felt as jubilant as his friends.

The bell rang a minute later, sharp and almost anticlimactic, and as students began to file out—voices rising in stunned whispers—Harry glanced once more at the scorched dais, and tridents and vines flashed by his eyes.

Not enough for a god, though.

The year ended without much fanfare after the practicals. Once again, he bid Fred and George goodbye. For a moment, he had thought about going to Hagrid’s too—to properly meet the man after he had butchered his oldest friend… but Harry hadn’t been able to gather the courage for that.

He would do it someday. Just not now.

Right now, he would probably spill out the truth—that he had killed Aragog and Mosag with intent, even if the blood had been shed in self-defence. And he didn’t want to risk the fragile, hard-won thing he had with the half-giant. Some truths, Harry was learning, needed timing as much as honesty.

Disembarking at the station, Harry waved once more as Fred and George were absorbed into the sea of red hair that was their family, laughter already rising as Mrs. Weasley fussed over them.

“Evans.”

The voice cut through the din like distant thunder.

Harry stilled, then turned, already knowing who it would be. Taranis stood a few paces away, unchanged from the first day Harry had met him—robes heavy with age and storm, presence folded inward but unmistakable. The Celtic god inclined his head toward the exit and began to walk without waiting.

“Come.”

Harry exhaled quietly and fell into step at his side.

“Greetings, Lord Taranis,” he said, keeping his voice even as the crowd around them thinned unnaturally, eyes sliding away as divine influence bent perception just enough to grant privacy.

“Greetings, Son of Lily,” Taranis replied, hands clasped behind his back. They walked in silence for several steps before the god spoke again, tone measured and unadorned. “I shall not circle this matter. I owe you an apology—for what you endured at Cernunnos’ hands this year. It was a lapse on my part. One that will not be repeated.”

Harry blinked, then shook his head.

“It was… mostly accidental,” he said after a moment. “I went into the forest with one purpose and came out with another. I didn’t understand the weight of it then. I do now.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “And I know now that Hercules’ actions had a hand in shaping how Cernunnos sees me.”

Taranis made a low sound in his chest, something between a hum and a sigh.

“Yes,” he said simply. “More than most, the Wild One bears that scar.”

They stepped out onto the platform beyond the station, the open air carrying the scent of rain that had not yet fallen. Taranis stopped there, turning his gaze toward the distant treeline that marked the edge of lands far older than rails and stone.

“Cernunnos was guardian to groves Heracles shattered for sport,” he continued. “Creatures bound to cycles older than Olympus were slain to draw him out—to test him. When no response came, the Storm-Born pressed further. Such things are not easily forgotten by those who embody continuity.”

Harry nodded slowly. That matched what he had read. What he had felt.

After a moment, he spoke again.

“There was another demigod,” he said quietly. “One who was also a wizard. Dumbledore wouldn’t speak of him. The library… wouldn’t let me read about him.” His eyes flicked to Taranis. “Did he do the same? Did he harm the Celts the way Hercules harmed the wizards?”

Taranis’ expression did not change, but the air around them grew heavier, charged in a way Harry had learned to recognise.

“Yes,” the god said after a pause. Then, more carefully, “And no.”

Harry waited.

“That demigod’s story is… entangled,” Taranis continued. “With pacts broken and kept. With choices that cannot be explained without unravelling protections that still serve their purpose. He did not ravage the land with clear intent as Heracles did the wizards—but his presence left wounds of a different kind.”

Taranis finally met Harry’s eyes.

“The time is not right for you to know more,” he said evenly. “Not because you lack the right, but because knowledge itself carries weight—and you are already burdened enough.”

Harry clenched his jaw, then released it.

“I figured you’d say that,” he admitted. After a beat, he nodded. “I won’t press.”

Taranis studied him for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze.

“Good,” he said at last. “When the time comes, you will not need to ask.”

Thunder rolled faintly in the distance, more promise than threat. Taranis inclined his head once, a gesture of respect rather than dismissal, and then the pressure lifted. The god was simply… gone, leaving behind only the scent of rain and ozone.

Harry stood there for a moment longer, watching the sky darken by degrees.

Predecessors, indeed.

And one day—whether gods liked it or not—he would learn exactly what they had done, and why the world had decided to forget.