The Son of Storms 25

Note to self, never get on a hyper-fast, spacially flexible rollercoaster after having a beer. Or losing your demigod constitution, or any combination of the three. That was Harry’s first thought as he slowly disembarked from the thriller-horror that was the Knight Bus, forking over another sickle for the Anti-Nausea potion the lady had given him. Getting down at the center of the Hogsmeade town, Harry took a glance around himself as he cast a wireless warming charm upon himself, wondering upon where to go first. “Chocolates,” he muttered, finding the Honeydukes outlet a little ways down the street.

“Hello young man, what do you want to have today?” the young woman at the counter asked him as soon as he entered the shop, and Harry was instantly assaulted by the smell of chocolates upon chocolates. As far into the back he could see, there was nothing but unending stacks of sweets, candies, and condiments in every shade and color, the most dominant being chocolates of course.

“1 chocolate frog, some Flavor beans, a Turret
and one of those new Dragonbreath drinks,” he said, watching the pretty brunette—and hadn’t he seen her at Hogwarts last year?---nod and disappear between the numerous racks, humming a merry little tune.

“Here is your order, Mr. Potter,” the witch came back within seconds, his ordered items floating behind her and neatly dropping into a basket before him as she ran the tally upon the counter giving him a bright smile, “That will be four sickles and two knuts.”

“You know my name?” he asked, surprised—and why the fuck was he feeling warm? Did he just get a crush in two seconds of meeting a random girl? Damn this accelerated puberty, and damn his own lost senses!

“Kinda my job, being a prefect and all,” the girl laughed, bending down a little to ruffle his hair, and Harry quietly marveled at the dusky tone of her skin as her amber eyes came close to hsi face, his eyes flicking down for a moment before he refocused on her amused face, “and you were somewhat of a celebrity last year, Harry Potter.”

“So what’s your name?” he asked, picking up the items one by one and dropping them into his bag as the girl straightened up, and much to his displeasure, Harry realized that despite his advanced growth and maturation compared to muggles, he was still shorter than the girl—evidently, wizards and witches too matured at a quicker pace owing to the ‘primordial’ energies Hestia had explained him about, “and which House are you in?”

“Gryffindor, the best house
arguably,” she laughed, and Harry blinked at that. Right, that is why she must have seemed familiar to him, “and the name is Helena Robins. Seventh Year prefect from this session.”

“Seventh, and what are you going to do after it?” 

“Well,” she dragged out the word, giving him a wink as she leaned in once again—and again, Harry cursed himself as he felt his eyes move of their own accord, “I am thinking either St.Mungo’s or Reginald’s.”

“Reginald?” Harry blinked, recognising St.Mungo’s as the premier magical hospital–and the only one he had heard about till now, he realized, tilting hsi head, “Is it another hospital?”

“No, not a hospital,” Helena laughed and straightened up, waving her hand with a merry twinkle in her eyes, “It’s a company for medical applications and research. Herbology, Potions, Astronomy, that kind of stuff.”

“Astronomy?” Harry raised an eyebrow, “That is used in healing?”

“Not regularly and for broken bones mind you,” Helena laughed, “but for rare stuff. Like esoteric curses, mental magic, ancient bewitchments, and possession. Pretty heavy and dangerous things that normally no one would be in ten feet of.”

“Well, the moon healing people comes as a surprise,” he frowned, rolling his eyes mentally as he remembered his encounter with the Moon Goddess, shuddering a little as he remembered the physical pains, as well as the metaphysical presence she had imprinted into his very soul, “Back where I am from, more often than not it seems to hurt people.”

“You have werewolf packs around you or what?” Helena chuckled, only to pause as she saw his silent, pensive expression, “Wait? You don’t, right?”

“Well, I guess you could call them werewolves from, a certain viewpoint, but they are more like a cult,” he scowled, recalling the almost senseless, psychopathic hatred the Hunters of Artemis had displayed for him, that too without provocation. Shaking his head to clear away the thoughts of the Moon Goddess and her rabid retinue, Harry looked at Helena and smirked, “So, seventh-year Prefect huh? Do I get special privileges for supporting your summer job?”

“Charlie Weasley himself couldn’t get out of trouble with me,” Helena rolled her eyes, poking his forehead with her finger, “and you are entirely too young to be thinking about using your charms on someone five years older than you. Now, my shift ends in exactly two minutes, so see you later Harry!”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Holy fuck, no way she is not her daughter,” Harry whispered as his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, latching onto the sight of the tight corset held in place by light pink frills, as the barmaid of Three Broomsticks sashayed between tables, and while others might think him a child, Harry knew seduction when he saw it, owing to living his life amongst the daughters of Aphrodite. And Madam Rosmerta, for all intents and purposes, was not bending over that much just to serve the whiskey properly, “Fucking hell.”

Walking inwards into the bar, Harry thanked his skill at the mist, as he doubted he would have been able to get inside without looking like a seventeen-year-old—though, his advanced growth was also to thank for it, much less work to do on the glamour after a-

“I would call ye cute, but yer glamour is really messed up kid,” a rough voice called out from behind him, and Harry turned on his heel instantly, finding a massive man standing before him. His eyes moving up from the large belly and the equally huge chest, the demigod found two beady black eyes looking down at him with amusement, a quiet chuckle rumbling from the man’s chest, “I dunno what ye have been doing, but that glamour needs a lotta work. You need practice before sneaking into bars Harry.”

“You know my name?” he asked, snapping his fingers quietly to dispel the mist and mentally deciding to ask either Hestia or Chiron why the glamour didn’t work. It couldn't be his lack of skill—because he had done the same trick a hundred times in the muggle world, buying beers and traveling freely with the use of the mist.

“Name? I was the one who carried ye to yer aunt’s house after
well, James and Lily were attacked by You-Know-Who,” the giant man trailed off in an uncomfortable mumble, his eyes lowering to the ground, his fingers fiddling together. Harry, on the other hand, felt his mind ground to a crashing halt as the words registered in his brain. Honestly, he had pretty much forgotten the DUrsleys by now, his days and memories at the camp and the world outside so much more intense, and Hestia’s care so loving, that the whale and the giraffe had been nothing but a little nugget of thought which came up once in several months. But yet, the scars remained. Maybe not as gruesome compared to the literal monster he had fought, but they remained all the same. A part of him always wondered just how had he landed on the Dursley’s doorstep. And to hear that this man
this fucking piece of shit was the reason
rage couldn’t even begin to describe what he felt as Harry felt every humiliation, every beating, every scolding come to the forefront of his mind in a single second.

‘Control yourself, Son of Evans,’ Taranis’ voice rumbled in his head, and Harry winced as he felt the chains holding his demigod power shut tighten slightly, reminding him of the laws and rules that governed his presence in the Celtic lands, ‘Remember, you may do whatever you want, but by your nature as a wizard. And even then, do not test the Dagda and his laws.’

“Err
are ye alrigh’’ Harry?” the man muttered, kneeling down to look him in the eyes, and despite the rage still smoldering at the very tips of his fingers, Harry was taken aback by the emotion on the man's face. Whoever he was
he was genuinely worried about him, and it was not a worry caused by guilt, “Should I call Pomfr-”

“Who are you?” he interrupted, taking a deep breath as he felt his fingers unclench, mentally praying to Hestia to help him control himself, doing his best to stave off the impulse to impart all that pain and misery he had suffered in Little Whinging onto this man, “Ho-why was I taken to Petunia’s?”

“Err..well, I am Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid, Groundskeeper at Hogwarts,” the man grinned, a hint of bright teeth peeking out from his large beard as he pointed a thumb in the direction of the Castle, “I knew yer parents back in the day. James and Lily, from their first day too ye know. Some of the best people I have known in my life, especially yer mum. I helped her get out of a compost pit once, ye know. She was bloody good at Charms and Arithmancy. And well, they were one of the few who didn’t treat me like
well, not good.”

A wave of calmness overtook his raging thoughts, clearing his mind Hestia’s distinct presence gazed upon him for a moment before it vanished away, and he sighed, feeling a smile come over his face on its own as he looked at Hagrid. And it was then that he remembered the conversation he had heard between the prefects last year, the night he had encountered the centaurs in Forbidden Forest,  “Was it because you are half-giant?”

“Wha—-Noo!” Hagrid half-shouted, his eyes wide as he looked all around them, a meaty finger pushing against his beard as he made a shushing motion, before looking at him as if he held a sword to the man’s throat, “Where did ye hear that?!”

“Relax, I already know it's true with that reaction,” he rolled his eyes, turning around and moving towards an empty table in the corner, “Common, rather not block the doorway and make the Madam scold me. Butterbeer?”

“Wai–No it's not true for Merlin’s sake!”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, there James was, laughing his spectacles off with Black as they leaned by the armor, while girls ran out of the showers with bright, spiky hair!”

“And McGonagall didn’t do anything?” Harry blinked, imagining the stern McGonagall of today looking down upon the scene Hagrid had just described, and he had difficulty imagining James and his friends getting off scot-free.

“Oh she did, detention for two months, and sacked four hundred points from Gryffindor that day I believe,” Hagrid burped after that, taking a swill from the large butterbeer mug before him, laughter in his eyes, “But it didn’t even bother them, Marauders. However, when Lily cursed James, that did not bother him anymore. Nuff’ that he didn’t touch a prank for the whole time he was in detention ye know.”

“Tell me more about my mother,” he said, imagining the pictures Hagrid was painting. Of Lily Evans, of her days at Hogwarts, and James Potter too. He might have not known the man, but he was his mother’s husband, and according to the half-giant, a man his mother had loved. Though, that was debatable considering she conceived him with his godly father, and Zeus had never mentioned James in the couple of talks they had had even since he had fought that Chimera. But yet, James had married Lily despite her being pregnant with him, and since his mother was just a muggle-born in this world, Harry couldn’t see any other reason except for love for it to happen. Truly, divine entanglements were more confusing than a Myrmekes nest.

“Well, did ye know Snape was a friend of yer mum,” he piped up with a grin on his face, and Harry blinked at that, his head turning towards the direction Hogwarts was in, Snape’s pale, long-nosed face swimming in front of his eyes for a moment before he focused back on Hagrid. The half-giant seemed to find his incredulity hilarious, as he guffawed loudly—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Madam Rosmerta sigh before casting some sort of charm upon herself. Before him, Hagrid rolled his eyes at the bartender at the same time, before refocusing back on him, “They knew each other from before Hogwarts, but when they came here, Snape was sorted into Slytherin, and Lily in Gryffindor. And well, the Slytherins don’t take kindly to half-bloods or muggleborns, much less a Gryffindor one. They grew distant, though both tried to continue their friendship despite the way the Dark Lord was rising, and Slytherins were supporting him.”

“I read about the Blood War, and the Weasley twins told me a little about it, but were things really as bad as people make them out to be,” Harry couldn’t help but ask, a part of him quietly skeptical of the fact that this Dark Lord Voldemort had been powerful and dreadful enough to make people fear his name even a decade after his death—at the hands of a baby no less.

“Oh it was bad,” Hagrid literally trembled in his spot, his eyes looking past him at something distant as he lowered his mug, his fingers splaying open on the table with a shiver, “People vanished every day, only to be found in the Diagon Alley the next morning—and most, they were never found. Homes, Manors, and whole Ancient Houses were destroyed throughout Britain. He had thousands of followers, and more joined him each day. Wizards, witches, hags, werewolves—each and every manner of creature. His mark glowed across the night, and it only meant death. And when he stepped in, everyone scattered before his dark magic. None but Dumbledore could face him head on ye know—You-Know-Who was only scared of him ye see. And then, one day he attacked the Longbottoms like he had attacked everyone else, only to be vanished by young Neville’s power. Well, Dumbledore says that it was his mother’s love, but still, that boy must be something special eh?”

“But still, why call him You-Know-Who, the Dark Lord and the other names?” Harry frowned, turning hsi head towards the plaque to their left, a brass plate that carried the names of thirteen students, children who had been killed in this very bar back during the war—all muggleborns, Hagrid had told him, “I have heard of other Dark Wizards. Grindelwald and Fugaku are still alive, and both terrorized the world instead of a country only, but people still take their name. What made Voldemort so terrible?”

“Err
how to explain it?” the half-giant muttered to himself, scratching his head as he leaned forwards, looking down at the table, “Well, to put it easy—he always knew when his name was taken, and no wards, no protections could stop him from appearing at that spot. He killed those who took his name, slowly, and oftentimes in front of others. And well, after the fifth time, people learned not to do the same. With Grindelwald and Fugaku, well they were never in Britain, so most don’t remember them or their actions either, considering they were decades into the past when You-Know-Who came along.”

“That sounds
horrible.”

“It was,” he nodded back, growing somber, “It was how he got yer grandparents too.”

And that was how Harry learned of his grandparents, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter—as well as his great-uncle and his wife, Charlus and Dorea Potter, and how they died at Voldemort’s hands, along with the destruction of the Potter Manor. Resolving to visit the site as soon as possible, along with the house James and his mother had died in, Harry continued to listen to Hagrid and his tales of the wizarding world as he silently thanked Hestia once again.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Manannán Mac Lir,” the quiet voice of Triton greeted the Celtic god as he materialized at the junction of their kingdoms, the young prince of Atlantis standing upon the sea floor with his hands behind his back. It had been years since Mac Lir had met the Greek god, centuries even, the old deity recalled with a small nod of his head. The last time being when the Greek God of the waters, Poseidon had met him at this very spot as the Greeks had moved westwards along with shift of the populace that had most idolized them—and of course, the fact that America was devoid of any godly presence, while the land known as Europe had been a strife with power and territory struggles every day for centuries.

Back then, Triton had been young, coming into his powers and connection to the sea, to the primordial entity that was the Ocean and nature itself. Now? Now he stood before him a god grown, having realized into his potential, the Conchbearer and a Prince of the Seas in full, clad in a scalemail with a trident imprinted upon his chest, the sigil of the Earthshaker complimenting his lithe, powerful appearance. Yet, while Mac Lir was glad to see the warrior Triton had turned into, his eyes strayed past the young god’s firm ones into the waters of the Greeks. Courtesy demanded that gods never encroach on each other's territories and domains with their own, and Danu’s children were nothing if not courteous first.

“Triton,” he nodded slowly, clasping his hands behind his back as the waters flowed gently, reflecting the peace between them both. Mac Lir paused for a moment watching him carefully, knowing that for all his faults, Poseidon wasn’t a hiding craven, “Where is Poseidon?”

“Father had an emergency at Olympus, therefore I am here in place of him.”

“You are good Triton, and you may navigate the waters of Atlantis well,” he laughed, almost feeling amused by the attempt the child had made at lying, his full beard rippling gently as the water thrummed with his delight. Shaking his head quietly, Mac Lir stared into Triton’s stony eyes with a smile and waved his hand gently, “Dispense with the lies and the deceits. I know Poseidon is not the one to shirk his meetings with the Gods he shares his domains with. You are admirable Triton, and a Prince you may be, but I am here to talk to the Earthshaker, and naught but his presence will satisfy me. Tell your father that Manannán Mac Lir is standing at the gates of the Greek waters, and he shall not return without meeting him.”

“There is a hindrance to that, MiLord,” a regal, firm voice echoed from beside Triton, Mac Lir face turning into a frown ever so slightly as he saw Amphritite appear before him, the Queen of Poseidon dressed in a flowing blue chiton with a pearl laden tiara on her head, her almond eyes staring at him without expression, “...The Sea itself has bound Poseidon. No one has been able to contact him for the four winters or so after he awoke with a rage so profound that I have never seen him like it.”

“I had felt his power, despite being in slumber.” Mac Lir frowned even more, crossing his arms as he closed his eyes, slowly reaching past the mother-son pair before him, amde making sure they felt his senses expand. Once he was sure they would not object, Danu’s son reached out into the Greek waters, only to shudder and pull back as he felt the void in them, “He has been shut off from his domain?! Who did this to him?!”

“Oceanus and the other Deities came to help us suppress him that day, for we knew that whatever it was, it couldn’t be made to reach farther than Atlantis’ borders,” Amphritite’s face hardened, and Mac Lir felt the severity of the situation. For Oceanus himself to come out of his solitude, it must have been grave indeed
but yet, while the Elder Titan was powerful, it was still not in his capabilities to seal off Poseidon from his very domain, nbot in teh way he was sensing. With how the Greek Waters were void of Poseidon’s presence, he’d wager that everything born of Poseidon’s energy was losing its effect over time, without the God present in his very domain to sustain that connection. Seeming to read his mind, the Queen of Atlantis sighed and seemed to age eons in a single eyeblink, her eyes and countenance weary, “But it was not them who sealed away Poseidon
it was the Sea itself.”

Mac Lir frowned at the repeated words, looking at the grave expression on Amphritite’s and Triton’s face, before his eyes widened as he felt a nudge in his consciousness. By Dagda’s beard, the goddess meant the Sea! Pontus! The Greek Primordial himself! And for him to appear
it meant something bigger was at play than merely curbing Poseidon’s temper.

“Where is Poseidon right now?” he asked the Greeks, mentally sending a request to Dagda for an audience as soon as possible, feeling his King’s gaze alight on him before it vanished, “and does this affect the Tuatha DĂ© Danann
at all?”

“Poseidon
has been reduced to a mortal, his powers bound and chained to the Well in the Pit.”