"Ugh…"
That was the only thing Harry could manage as he stirred from the thick embrace of unconsciousness. His entire body ached—no, not ached, screamed. It felt as if every single nerve ending had taken a personal offense at him for surviving the brutal battle, each one throbbing with residual divine power and the echoes of Cú Chulainn's relentless strikes. Every muscle felt like it had been battered and kneaded by a giant, his bones protesting their very existence, his very soul weary from the strain of wielding and enduring such immense power.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, heavy lids struggling against the lingering darkness and the aftershocks of divine combat.
Not the ruined, smoking battlefield of Scotland, where he had collapsed. Not a sterile, white hospital room, the typical destination for his injuries in a mundane world. Not even the luxurious, but ultimately mundane, hotel suite he had booked.
But a gentle, warm sky of endless lavender, streaked with soft hues of rose and gold, suffused with an ethereal, dreamlike glow. Soft, iridescent petals, like fragments of pure light, drifted lazily through the air like dream fragments, swirling in unseen currents, carrying a faint, sweet scent that calmed his overstimulated senses. He knew this place. This impossibly serene, infinitely welcoming realm, a sanctuary beyond mortal comprehension.
Pandora's Realm. The sacred space between life and death, where Campiones received their spoils and their mother's gentle guidance.
He blinked once, then sighed, a long, weary exhalation that carried the immense weight of his recent ordeal, the echoes of pain and triumph. "Again?" he murmured, his voice raspy, almost a groan of fond exasperation.
"Of course again, my beloved child," a soft, melodic voice replied, imbued with a gentle amusement that resonated deep within his soul, pulling him fully awake.
Pandora stood above him, her ethereal beauty enhanced by the soft, ambient light of her realm, appearing as if woven from starlight and dreams. She was smiling that strange, knowing smile that was equal parts motherly affection and mischievous delight, her violet eyes gleaming an almost playful glint.
Her long, flowing purple hair shimmered under the dream-sky light, cascading around her and her bare feet hovered just above the floating petals, never quite touching the ground, embodying her otherworldly nature. She knelt gracefully beside him, her movements fluid and serene, brushing his hair gently with her fingers, a comforting, familiar gesture that instantly soothed the lingering throbs in his head.
"You really are more troublesome than your siblings, you know," she teased, her voice a purr of soft amusement, her touch like cool water on his fevered brow, soothing the lingering pain in his head and the residual psychic static from the battle. "They usually take their sweet time before coming to visit their poor, lonely mother again, sometimes centuries pass before they manifest here, content with their newly acquired powers. But you? Twice in such a short span of time, barely a month between visits. Such a devoted son, always rushing back to me."
Harry managed a tired, lopsided grin, despite the lingering pain and the exhaustion that still clung to him, he grinned a playful grin as he decided to indulge her.
"It's because I missed you. Naturally, I had to come back. What kind of son would I be if I didn't?" he joked, his voice still hoarse.
Pandora laughed, the sound bright and warm, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, utterly devoid of malice, a pure melody in the serene realm. "Good to hear, my little fibber. I'll pretend it wasn't because you just wanted the power. Pushing your limits against a truly formidable opponent. You are quite the daredevil, aren't you?"
She continued to run her fingers through his hair, her touch a balm to his battered spirit. Then, slowly, gracefully, she straightened, her expression shifting into something more regal, more divine, her eyes deepening with ancient power and cosmic understanding, becoming the venerable Mother of all Campiones.
"Time to reward my reckless, brilliant boy," she said, her voice resonant, infused with cosmic authority, yet still holding that underlying motherly warmth that uniquely tethered her to him. "You have wrestled with a mighty spirit, one who defied death and sought eternal combat. You have claimed his essence, and now it shall be woven into your own."
With a simple, elegant wave of her hand, golden light surrounded Harry's form, swirling around him like a benevolent storm of pure energy. It felt warm, like a soft wave washing through his very soul.
His divine essence deepened further, expanding and solidifying, incorporating the very aspects of Cú Chulainn's divinity. His soul stretched to accommodate something greater, a new influx of power and understanding, integrating the essence of the god he had just slain, what would he get, his relentless combat prowess, his unyielding will, perhaps even a sliver of his mastery over weapons.
New Authority Acquired. A quiet thrum of immense power settled within him, a feeling of greater completeness that he had grown fond of.
Pandora leaned down once more, her ethereal form shimmering, and kissed his forehead softly, a touch that felt both ancient and intimately tender, imprinting something profound within him, a final blessing.
"Now… go rest, my troublesome child. You have earned your reprieve, and your new gifts await your mastery. And please watch over your new little brother." she finished teasingly.
"…Wait, what?" Harry blinked, his mind, still foggy from exhaustion and the influx of new power, trying to process the cryptic, utterly surprising instruction. A new Campione? Already? Who could it be? The implications, even through his haze, were staggering. The frequency of divine descents was indeed abnormal.
But her smile had already faded into white light, her form dissolving into the ethereal mist of her realm, leaving Harry alone once more, the faint echoes of her words lingering in the lavender-scented air. His consciousness, now re-infused with power began to drift back towards the mortal realm.
Scotland – Battlefield
The Association had arrived swiftly, their precise coordination a testament to their long history of managing the fallout of divine battles.
Evelyn McAlister stood at the edge of a crater large enough to swallow a cathedral, its jagged edges still smoking faintly, a testament to the raw energy unleashed. His coat flapped in the cold, desolate wind, his expression grim.
Behind him, Association operatives, usually unflappable veterans of magical clean-up, stood frozen in horror, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror.
The mountains around them, once majestic peaks, were flattened into broken, pulverized plains, their rock formations turned to rubble. The earth itself was gouged as if a monstrous god had literally clawed chunks out of the planet, leaving behind deep, impossible trenches, vast, smoking pits, and a landscape utterly transformed. The air still carried the scent of ozone and something indefinably otherworldly.
They weren't wrong. A god had clawed chunks out of the planet. And a very young man had fought him to the death.
"This is… what a Campione battle looks like…" one operative whispered, his voice trembling, utterly overwhelmed by the scale of the carnage, by the sheer destructive power on display, far beyond any known magical conflict.
Evelyn said, nothing but his eyes, though grim, held a terrifying understanding, a deep, weary knowledge of these destructive events. "This is what it looks like when gods fight, mortals just get in the way."
He surveyed the devastation, his trained eye calculating the immense cost, the sheer, unimaginable power required for such a display, and the monumental task of concealing it from the mundane world.
They found Harry in the very center of it all, alive, unconscious, half-buried in ash and pulverized stone, his body covered in dried blood and shimmering ichor, the residue of his divine struggle. Despite the horrific blood and bruises, the visible signs of a brutal, near-fatal combat, he looked… peaceful, almost serene in his defeat-induced slumber, like a child exhausted after a particularly strenuous game, utterly unaware of the chaos he had wrought.
Evelyn stared down at the sleeping 15-year-old, his face hardening, a sense of weary responsibility settling over him.
'A child' his thoughts whispered, a desperate plea in his mind. 'He's just a child. No older than the children of my colleagues.'
Yet here he was, laying like a corpse in the crater of a battlefield, having just defeated one of the greatest warriors in Irish myth, a divine being whose very presence could shatter civilizations.
This 15-year-old child had the power to change landscapes at his whim, to challenge legends, yet here he was, passed out, looking like a vulnerable kid, utterly defenseless. A potent mix of awe and dread swirled within Evelyn.
Evelyn's expression darkened, a grim realization dawning, casting a shadow over his features. His mind wandered to the treacherous politics of the magical world, to the insatiable hunger for power that consumed factions. There would be those in the Association, and certainly in other magical organizations, who would see this as an unparalleled opportunity.
To try and kill the boy right here and now, when he looked so defenseless, so vulnerable. To neutralize the "threat" before it grew too powerful to control. Their control.
But Evelyn knew better, his long experience with the other Campiones having taught him harsh lessons. People in the past had tried that, to kill a Campione when they were unconscious, sleeping, or vulnerable after fights with Heretic Gods, convinced of their own cunning and superior intellect.
Let's just say that it never ended well for anyone involved, for the Campiones invariably woke up with terrifying speed, or their Authorities unleashed themselves in a terrifying, uncontrolled burst of destructive power that consumed everything around them, retaliating against the perceived threat. The collateral damage was always astronomical, far outweighing any perceived benefit.
"There will be those in the Association, They will see his power and believe they can contain him."
He looked around at his colleagues, their faces still etched with terror and awe, then down again at Harry, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes, a flicker that quickly hardened into resolve.
"And they'll deserve what they get if they try," he finished, his voice sharp with finality, He had always been the type to not entertain fools, so if someone was eager to die he should just do everyone a favor and die alone.
He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the crater, cutting through the heavy air. "Get him to the hotel. Penthouse. Immediately. And get the clean-up crew here now, mobilize every available resource, every enchantment, every memory charm. We need to erase this from the mundane world's perception before anyone outside our circles even suspects what occurred."
While most couldn't perceive gods there were some who could, hence the protocols.
They moved quickly, efficiently, like well-oiled gears in a complex machine, carefully lifting the unconscious Campione onto a reinforced stretcher, treating him with a reverence.
Evelyn rubbed his forehead, a throbbing headache forming, not just from the exhaustion but from the profound implications of what had just transpired. "One battle in Italy, and now another here in Scotland. Two new Campiones in less than half a decade Why is this happening? Why are they all children? And why are they gods descending with such alarming frequency?"
He sighed a deep, weary sound, the immense weight of a world on the brink pressing down on him, his strategic mind already spinning through endless, worrying possibilities. "I'm getting too old for this…" he muttered, before turning to coordinate the complex cover-up operations.
Despite the sheer, landscape-altering destruction Harry had caused, despite the terrifying power he wielded, he had done good. Allowing a Heretic God to roam free, unchecked, would have been far, far worse than what happened here today. The world had just been saved from a far greater catastrophe.
Hogwarts
Things had devolved quickly. What started as a search for a missing student had escalated into a full-blown panic within the ancient castle walls, a maelstrom of confusion and for some rising anger
Teachers were now fully involved in the frantic search for Harry, their usual composure shattered by the baffling mystery of his disappearance. Dumbledore, finally alerted to the gravity of the situation joined the effort, his eyes no longer twinkling.
And Umbridge?
She was utterly losing her mind, The lack of control, the defiance, was driving her to the brink. "The boy is not in the castle! I knew it! He has absconded! Breaking rules, evading detention, this is grounds for immediate expulsion! He must be—he is—a delinquent, a liar, a dangerous instigator of dissent!"
She shrieked, her voice growing hoarser with each frantic pronouncement, convinced he had simply run away in a fit of petulance.
But she kept being contradicted, her increasingly wild accusations undermined by a baffling phenomenon.
Because students, teachers, even the house elves and the castle ghosts—swore they saw Harry. Hints of him. Glimpses around corners. A blur of robes vanishing into a corridor just as they turned to look, a fleeting shadow, a whisper of magic that was undeniably his.
"I just saw him near the Transfiguration wing!" one breathless Ravenclaw sixth-year exclaimed, swearing on her N.E.W.T. scores, her face pale with frustration. "He was just there."
"I could've sworn he walked past the Charms corridor moments ago," said a bewildered Hufflepuff, rubbing his eyes, convinced he was seeing things.
"I passed him on the fifth floor, by the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy!" cried a Gryffindor, his voice ringing with conviction.
Umbridge convinced it was Harry deliberately toying with her, using some obscure, magic to evade capture, had made it her life's singular mission to catch him. Her pink bow had become lopsided, her hair disheveled, strands escaping from her usually neat bun and her face looked permanently stuck between rage and disbelief, mottled with purple splotches of raw fury.
She was tearing up everywhere, checking every broom cupboard, every forgotten classroom, every shadowed alcove, convinced he was mocking her. She would get faint glimpses, swear she saw him, but always too late to catch him, and it was getting severely on her nerves, driving her to the brink of insanity, making her shriek and sprint through the halls like a madwoman.
Gryffindor Tower
Hermione sat by the common room fire, its cheerful crackle doing little to warm the icy dread in her stomach. The warmth from the flames was a cruel mockery against the cold knot of fear twisting within her. She chewed her thumbnail, her mind racing, trying to find a logical explanation for Harry's disappearance, but coming up with nothing but terrifying unknowns. Her books lay forgotten beside her, her studies utterly neglected.
He was gone.
No trace. Just vanished into thin air.
And every time she thought about it, her stomach twisted into painful knots, a dull ache settling deep in her chest. She didn't know where he was. Didn't know if he was okay.
She knew he wasn't in the castle, that she was certain of, he was out there, alone, without her or Ron.
And that scared her more than anything, The thought of Harry, her best friend, facing unknown dangers alone, without them, without his friends by his side, was unbearable. He was always rushing into danger,
"Come back soon, Harry," she whispered to the flickering flames, her voice thick with unshed tears, her plea echoing softly in the quiet common room. "Please… just come back. We're worried sick. We miss you." The common room was quiet now, most students asleep or in their dorms, but her silent plea, imbued with all her fear and desperate hope, echoed in the empty space, a desperate hope against the growing despair that gnawed at her. She just wanted her friend back, safe and sound.
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