The summer after the Triwizard Tournament was the loneliest Harry Potter had ever known. The Dursleys, as usual, had confined him to the smallest room in the house, but this year, even their insults and chores felt hollow. What truly weighed on him was the silence.
No letters from Ron. No letters from Hermione. Not even a word from Sirius. It was as if the wizarding world had abandoned him. The memories of Cedric's death, Voldemort's return, and the Ministry's denial pressed heavily on him, leaving him adrift in solitude.
When Uncle Vernon announced a week-long business retreat in Iceland, Harry barely reacted. He didn't care where they went—nothing could make him feel more alone than he already did.
If only he knew just how his life would change because of this.
The wizarding world had always known of gods—ancient, powerful beings who shaped history and myth. Some were revered, others feared, but all were respected. Religion in the Winx world was something wizards seemed to take seriously.
Gods, especially Hecate, were massively worshipped by wizards. But just as they revered gods, they also feared them.
Harry had been confused about all the religious practices and things about gods when he entered the wizarding world and even now didn't really understand or care much for them, and Ron certinly didn,t care either so he never bothered much for it.
He knew about gods as myths and focused of worship as the other wizards did but that was all.Harry had never given them much thought. Until now.
Iceland was stark and beautiful. Towering glaciers, steaming geysers, and black volcanic rock stretched for miles. While the Dursleys enjoyed the comforts of their luxury hotel, Harry found himself drawn to the desolate wilderness.
He had had enough of the constant rules and shouting with his relatives and decided to explore.
On the third day, he slipped away, wandering into the icy expanse. The cold bit into his skin, and the wind howled, but for the first time in weeks, he felt at peace.
Iceland's wilderness was a merciless beauty. Gass and Glaciers loomed like shattered castles; geysers hissed through cracks in the earth. Harry wandered until his lungs burned with cold, until the hotel's lights vanished behind him.
Then the world bent.
The wind died. The snow stopped mid-fall.
A shadow moved—no, unfolded—from the darkness.
Harry's wand was in his hand before he could think.
A Wolf. A massive wolf, but wrong. Its fur drank the moonlight and stood at the edge of the clearing, its fur black as the void, its eyes glowing like twin crimson stars. It exuded an aura of dominance, bending the world to its will, and its claws left smoldering scars on the ice. Beneath its paw, a corpse stared skyward, throat torn open.
"Mortal," the wolf growled, its voice a deep, bone-rattling rumble. "You tread where you do not belong."
Harry swallowed hard. "I'll leave."
The beast bared its fangs. "Too late."
The wolf lunged.
Harry barely dodged as claws raked through the ice, sending shards flying. He rolled, wand snapping up. "Stupefy!"
The spell hit—and fizzled out harmlessly against the beast's hide.
A booming laugh echoed. "Foolish child. Your magic is but a flicker against my power."
It lunged again, attacking him as he fought with everything he had.
Harry gritted his teeth. Expelliarmus. Incendio. Even his Patronus—nothing worked. The beast was playing with him, his attacks coming washing off the beast.
Harry was getting desperate. Everything he did was useless and the wolf just kept leaving little wounds on him purposely toying with him.
Harry's spell was already flying. "Stupefy!"
The beast laughed, a sound like bones breaking. Its voice was a landslide, grinding and inevitable. "Do you know what I am, little mortal?"
A red bolt shattered against the wolf's muzzle like glass.
"Fenrir," it purred, circling. "The Godslayer. The Devourer. Last of the Great Wolves who feasted on divinity." It lunged—
Harry rolled, but claws still raked his back. Blood splashed onto the snow.
"Incendio! Confringo! Reducto!"
Fire and force exploded—and Fenrir walked through unscathed, his fur rippling like liquid shadow.
"Your magic is a candle against my power," he growled. A paw slammed down, pinning Harry's wrist. Bones creaked. "I'll savor your screams."
Harry fought like a cornered animal. He kicked, twisted, even bit—but Fenrir only laughed, peeling skin from muscle with lazy swipes.
"Pathetic. The gods I've slain wielded thunder and tidal waves. You? You're just—"
Harry's fist, glowing with raw accidental magic, smashed into Fenrir's eye.
The wolf howled, recoiling. "You—!"
Harry didn't wait as he got up again. Every spell, every hex, every flicker of magic he'd ever learned erupted from his wand in a kaleidoscope of light.
Fenrir staggered—then smiled.
"Better."
The next attack sent Harry flying. Ribs cracked. Blood filled his mouth.
Hopelessness choked him—until he remembered the Dursleys' locked cupboard, Snape's sneers, and Voldemort's glee at Cedric Death.
No.
Rage ignited, white-hot and roaring. His magic surged, but it wasn't enough. So Harry reached deeper—into his bones, his breath, his life—and pulled.
The blast wasn't a spell.
It was annihilation. His very essence poured and drained into his wand as he fired it off, the wand shattering.
The blast struck The wolf as it laugned at him mouth opened to swallow him whole.
The Wolf's eyes widened in shock as energy tore through him from his mouth. Light and shadow engulfed his form, and with one final, ear-splitting howl—he was gone. The magic killing it from the inside out.
With that, he lost consciousness, blacking out.
When Harry woke, dawn's light filtered through the mist. His body ached, his robes were stiff with dried blood—but he was alive. A strange golden glow pulsed beneath his skin, and he felt... different.
Then she appeared.
A woman, beautiful and otherworldly, her presence commanding. Her violet eyes gleamed with ancient wisdom.
"I am Pandora," she said. "And you, Harry Potter, have become a Campione."
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