Breakfast had just begun in the Great Hall, the usual cacophony of clattering cutlery, muffled chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter echoing against the high, enchanted ceiling. The aroma of scrambled eggs, sizzling bacon, and steaming porridge filled the vast space, a comforting scent of normalcy.
Suddenly, the double doors at the entrance burst open with a dramatic flourish, and Dolores Umbridge stormed in like a deranged wind-up doll stuck on "rage mode," her small, squat frame vibrating with an almost comical fury. Her face, even from a distance, was already a flushed, angry beetroot shade, and her usually prim pink cardigan seemed to ripple with suppressed, almost visible, wrath.
Harry barely looked up from his toast and marmalade, taking a slow, deliberate bite, his expression one of disinterest. He already knew what this was about, her predictable behavior was almost tedious. A long, weary sigh escaped him, audible even amidst the hall's din. Honestly, he wonders, does she ever get tired of being so utterly insufferable?
"MR. POTTER!" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the hall's noise like a dull knife on glass, grating on Harry's enhanced hearing, as she stomped her way purposefully toward the Gryffindor table, her every step conveying indignant righteousness. He could almost picture the kitten plates on the wall of her office shaking with her fury.
Harry sighed again, louder this time, a deliberate, theatrical sound of exasperation. Ron and Hermione both of whom immediately tensed beside him, sensing the imminent confrontation.
She reached their end of the table, her small, round body practically vibrating, and began screeching with the force of a banshee, her voice rising to an unbearable pitch that made several first-years wince. "YOU were given detention last night, Mr. Potter and YOU failed to attend! This is utterly unacceptable behavior from a student of Hogwarts! A blatant disregard for Ministry authority and school regulations! Utterly insubordinate!"
She jabbed a stubby, rings-laden finger toward his plate, narrowly missing a rogue piece of toast, her eyes bulging with indignation. "Explain yourself this instant, boy! Why were you not in my office at eight o'clock sharp, as instructed?!"
Harry blinked lazily at her, adopting a look of profound, almost theatrical innocence, a mask of bewildered politeness that infuriated her further. "I got lost, Professor. Couldn't find your office, you see. The corridors here are terribly confusing, especially at night. Hogwarts is quite a sprawling castle. After wandering around for a good while, and realizing I was quite hopelessly disoriented, I decided it was best to simply go back to the dorms before I stumble into something I shouldn't."
Silence fell over the immediate area of the Gryffindor table, spreading outwards as students strained to hear, their conversations dying down. Forks clattered onto plates, and mouths dropped open, jaws hanging slack with disbelief at the sheer audacity.
Several students, including Ron, who struggled to contain his mirth, nearly choked on their food. Even Hermione looked utterly flabbergasted, her usually organized mind unable to process such a flimsy excuse.
Umbridge sputtered, her face inflating further, her jowls quivering. Her eyes bulged, and her small, tight smile twitched uncontrollably. "Y-You—WHAT!?" she shrieked, clearly unable to comprehend such blatant disrespect cloaked in feigned innocence. The sheer cheek of it was beyond her understanding.
Harry, with a perfectly straight face, repeated, as if to an imbecile, "Got lost. Honest mistake, Professor. The castle's a maze, you know. Perhaps a map of your office location would be helpful next time, for those of us who aren't as naturally gifted at navigation." He almost added a subtle sarcastic emphasis on 'naturally gifted,' but decided against it, letting the implication hang in the air.
The incredulity that washed over her face was so profound, so utterly comical in its indignant fury, that Harry had to look down at his plate, pretending to examine a piece of bacon with intense scrutiny, to hide the wide, genuine grin tugging at his lips. Ron, beside him, was silently shaking with suppressed laughter, his shoulders heaving, his face a painful shade of purple from holding it in.
"You are MOCKING me, Mr. Potter!" she barked, her voice cracking with barely contained rage, rising to a furious squeal, her eyes narrowed to furious slits, glaring daggers at his bowed head. "You will not make a mockery of the Ministry in my classroom,"
Is the ministry the only thing she cares about? Does she get turned on just by say it or something.
He tilted his head slightly, feigning mild confusion, his innocent face "Not at all, Professor. As I said, it was an honest mistake."
Her face turned a vibrant new shade of purple, a color Harry mentally cataloged as 'Umbridge-rage-violet,' noting its alarming intensity. She looked like a human balloon about to burst, ready to shriek something about immediate expulsion, her small hands clenching into fists. The entire hall held its breath.
Just as she opened her mouth to likely unleash her most vitriolic curses, perhaps even attempt a public hex, Professor McGonagall appeared like a divine intervention in sensible tweed, striding purposefully from the staff table, her expression grim and her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
"What seems to be the problem here, Dolores?" she asked coolly, her voice sharp as she looked between the two, her gaze settling pointedly on Umbridge's apoplectic face, then flicking to Harry with a swift, assessing glance.
Umbridge wheeled around, chest heaving, pointing a trembling finger at Harry, practically spitting with rage. "This boy, Minerva, was given a detention last night for insubordination and insolence, and he did NOT attend! He then has the gall to claim he simply 'got lost'! This is unacceptable behavior, and it cannot be tolerated! He is a public menace, a symbol of defiance against the Ministry!"
Again with the ministry. He was convinced now that she really did get turned on by it.
McGonagall looked at Harry, her gaze stern but with a faint, almost imperceptible glint of something akin to amusement in her eyes, a recognition of Harry's clever, albeit rebellious, tactic. "Mr. Potter? Is this true?"
Harry nodded calmly, meeting her gaze with unflappable composure. "Yes, Professor. That's true. I did not attend the detention." He paused, then added, his voice clear and resonant, carrying across the hall, drawing every ear, "But I didn't do anything to deserve detention in the first place, Professor. My questions in class were entirely valid, and my comments were merely… observational. I'm not spending my precious evening because a Ministry official got her feelings hurt and decided to abuse her power in front of an entire class." His words were direct, unapologetic, and infused with the subtle, unwavering authority of a Campione, making them ring with undeniable truth.
A collective gasp spread across the Gryffindor table, and murmurs rippled through the Great Hall.
"Mr Potter" McGonagall exclaimed.
"FIFTY POINTS from Gryffindor for blatant disrespect, Mr. Potter!" Umbridge shouted, practically vibrating with fury, her face a fiery beacon of impotent rage. "And detention will be served tonight! You cannot simply disregard directives! This behavior is a direct attack on order!"
Harry just went back to his food, spearing a sausage with exaggerated nonchalance. He didn't even dignify her with a response, his gaze utterly dismissive, as if she were a buzzing fly. He had already said he wouldn't go, and he wasn't changing his mind for anyone.
He wasn't about to go and write lines using his blood like in the movies, where she'd force children to use the Blood Quill, deriving twisted satisfaction from their pain. He vaguely wondered if the quill would even work on him now, he was a campione he was immune. But all the same, he wasn't interested in wasting time just to find out. His time was too valuable.
She seemed to take that silence as submission, as if she had won, finally silencing the insolent boy. She sniffed triumphantly, turning to McGonagall with an air of victory.
McGonagall gave him a long, assessing look, her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharp, but then, to Umbridge's clear satisfaction, she simply turned and walked away without another word, her robes swishing.
Umbridge tried to look smug and victorious as she left—puffing her chest out as she followed McGonagall, her steps unusually bouncy—but Harry didn't miss how her eyes flicked toward him several times, over her shoulder, as if waiting for a reaction, for him to break, to show fear, or even a flicker of regret.
She got none. He simply continued eating, a picture of serene indifference, his composure utterly unbreached.
Hermione and Ron, however, immediately rounded on him the moment Umbridge and McGonagall were out of earshot, their faces a mixture of fear and awe.
"You skipped detention, Harry?!" Hermione hissed, her voice a furious whisper, her face pale with shock, her hands twisting her napkin. "Are you mad?! You can't just ignore a teacher like that! This is terrible, Harry! You'll get into serious trouble, expulsion even!"
If he didn't know that she genuinely didn't know Umbridge was torturing people with the Blood Quill in the 'original' timeline, he would have thought she hated him, given her indignant reaction and genuine distress.
"Yep," Harry said, taking a casual bite of sausage, perfectly unconcerned.
"That's bad, Harry! You can't just disobey a teacher like that and she's from the Ministry! It's against school rules! It's dangerous!" Hermione continued, clearly distressed, her voice rising in urgency. "You'll be expelled! And what about your O.W.L.s?!"
"She's not a teacher, Hermione," he corrected, his voice cold, devoid of humor, seeing her for what she truly was, a monstrous bureaucrat masquerading as an educator. "She's a Ministry stooge, with a fetish who delights in making children's lives hard. And I refuse to be one of them."
The bluntness of his statement, the sheer implication, seemed to shock her into silence. Ron, however, snorted, then burst into muffled, uncontrollable laughter, his face turning as red as his hair.
"I think it was brilliant, mate," Ron whispered, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "The look on her face when you said you got lost—priceless. She deserved it. Sticking it to her like that was absolutely brilliant! You really showed her!"
After breakfast, the day went on with surprising peace. No announcements from a furious Umbridge, no toad-like figures lurking around corners, waiting to catch him.
By evening, Harry had made himself comfortable beneath a large, oak tree by the Black Lake, its gnarled roots forming a natural seat. He leaned back, letting the gentle wind carry his thoughts across the water, the quiet lapping of the waves a soothing counterpoint to the day's events. The crisp air, the distant sound of the castle, and the vast expanse of the lake provided a rare moment of tranquility, a brief respite he cherished. He was enjoying the calm.
Until Dobby appeared with an excited POP!, startling him slightly, breaking the peaceful reverie.
"Harry Potter, sir!" the house-elf cried, eyes wide as saucers, practically bouncing with unrestrained joy, his voice a squeak of pure elation. "Dobby has found it! Dobby has found what Master Harry Potter sought! The shining, beautiful thing!"
Harry immediately stood up, his heart hammering in his chest, a jolt of exhilaration shooting through him, all thoughts of peace banished. "You're sure, Dobby? Absolutely certain? Is it the one?"
"Yes, sir! Dobby is quite sure! It shines with dark magic, just like Master Harry Potter described! Come quickly, Master Harry Potter!" the elf insisted, tugging impatiently at Harry's robes.
Harry followed the excited elf across the castle grounds, their destination clearly the seventh floor corridor, hidden from casual sight. Dobby led him unerringly toward a plain stretch of wall where the Room of Requirement appeared as a plain wooden door, just like before, its familiar grain indicating its presence, coalescing from the stone.
Inside, Dobby led him through a sprawling corridor of chaotic clutter and forgotten artifacts, a vast, swirling sea of discarded items from centuries of Hogwarts students, broken furniture, quills, forgotten textbooks, and a mountain of half-eaten sweets. They navigated past towering piles, relics of forgotten endeavors until they stopped before a small, ornate pedestal bathed in a faint, ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from the object upon it.
Sitting atop it, shimmering with a subtle, malevolent aura, was Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem.
The Horcrux he needed to locate within Hogwarts. The one responsible for powering the supposed curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, driving its professors away.
Harry stepped forward and plucked it up without hesitation, his fingers closing around the ancient, jeweled band. The cursed compulsion, the insidious whisper of dark magic that would have driven any lesser wizard to madness or obsessive greed, slid off him like oil on water—his divine essence, his Unyielding Authority, rendering the enchantment utterly useless against his will, dissolving its influence before it could even touch his mind.
With a small nod, a gesture of quiet triumph, he waved a hand, focusing his intent, and a small black-and-gold box blinked into reality beside him, shimmering with faint warding runes Kreacher had gotten him when had asked for somewhere to put the Horcruxes he had collected.
This was his personal hammerspace, a magically constructed pocket dimension he had learned to create using the Mage Association texts, a simple spell that any true mage learns at the beginning of their lessons, yet incredibly versatile, allowing him to store and retrieve objects instantly.
This was something he had learned during his short time in Iceland before his return, realizing how valuable it would be to have an item box spell to keep things he didn't want others to touch or find, a secret, secure inventory. He opened it, revealing the already-collected Horcruxes resting within, the tarnished locket, the golden cup.
With a grim, satisfied smile, a sense of completion washing over him, he carefully placed the diadem inside, nestling it among its cursed siblings.
With a wave the box shimmered, then vanished from sight, dismissed back into his personal pocket dimension, carrying its vile contents with it.
Five down.
Two to go. The ring and the snake.
Everything else was either with him or already destroyed by him and he was going to make sure he finished off the snake face before the end of the year he wasn't waiting till the end of the entire school year like always for something to happen.
Just as he dismissed the box, allowing it to blink out of existence into his personal pocket dimension, his phone vibrated, pulling him back to the more immediate threats of his existence.
He answered immediately, his expression shifting, his casual demeanor replaced by sharp alertness, his senses already reaching out.
"My lord," Evelyn's voice crackled, crisp and urgent, cutting through the quiet evening air, carrying the weight of significant news. "We've confirmed it. The Heretic God. Its descent is imminent."
His tone sharpened a low, dangerous rumble of anticipation. "Descending? Where? When, Evelyn? Give me the specifics."
"Descending in the next 24 to 48 hours. Scotland, somewhere between the Highlands. The Miko's vision was clearer this time but still, something interferes with the vision. Pinpointing its approximate location in the desolate, unpopulated moors, away from Muggle settlements luckily. That means either this Saturday or Sunday, likely late evening or early morning."
Harry's heart pounded, a surge of adrenaline, not of fear, but of exhilarating anticipation, a hunger for battle thrumming through his veins. "Good. Excellent. Prepare a plane, Evelyn. I want to be wheels up by nightfall, no later than midnight. I don't want to waste a single moment."
"Understood. No delays. We will have everything ready, Your Majesty," Evelyn confirmed, his voice professional, without questioning the sudden, demanding orders. He seemed to have adapted to Harry's authoritative nature.
He ended the call and exhaled deeply, excitement thrumming in his bones, a primal eagerness for the coming battle, for the raw clash of divine power.
Another god.
His power had grown since his last encounter with one. His understanding of Authority, and magic, had sharpened, becoming a formidable weapon. He is ready to face any challenge.
And yet…
Something still nagged at him, a subtle discord in the grand scheme of things, a question that refused to be silenced amidst the excitement.
Why so many Heretic Gods, so frequently? It wasn't like he was being ungrateful but....
That wasn't how it was supposed to work. In the anime, the light novels, and the Mage Association texts he'd devoured, Heretic Gods were supposed to be rare, singular events, each descent a monumental occasion.
If they kept coming like this, one after another, at such a rapid pace, less than two months since he killed Njorun.
It meant something was profoundly wrong Or something was up. He knew his siblings, the other Campiones, would have been far more powerful if they had this many opportunities, killing gods left and right.
So either he still had some of that Main Character protagonist aura on him, pulling events towards him, or something much larger was unfolding. He didn't know for sure, and he honestly didn't care that much about the why right now. His focus was on the what and the how. More gods to kill, more Authorities to claim, more power to ascend.
Was he sounding like an anime villain? Yea. Will he stop? Hell to the No.
He wanted the power.
Let them come.
He would face them all.
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