The skies over the Scottish Highlands darkened—not from a storm, but from power.
High above the clouds, gliding effortlessly between thunderheads, soared a creature of legend.
The Thunderbird—six wings slicing through air with grace and speed, golden feathers gleaming with raw energy, and electric-blue eyes flickering like captured lightning.
But this was no wild beast from the western myths of North America.
This was Harry Potter, reborn as something more than wizard, more than mortal—the son of Thor, god of thunder.
Harry flew freely over the clouds, basking in the raw elemental energy of the storm he himself had conjured with a single thought. The storm responded to him, bending like a living creature. He rode the wind currents with ease, occasionally letting loose crackles of lightning that danced between his wings.
Down below, small villages watched nervously as thunder boomed and forks of light split the horizon. But there was no rain. No destruction. It was almost as though the storm was alive… and joyful.
Inside a magically concealed glade near the edge of the forest, Hermione Granger stood holding an enchanted telescope, staring up at the golden streak darting across the sky.
"He's… breathtaking," she murmured.
Wanda stood beside her, arms folded. "And dangerous. He's learning fast—too fast. The way the storm obeys him now... I've seen elementals who couldn't do that after decades."
Sirius leaned lazily against a tree. "Well, when your dad's a literal god of lightning, I suppose you get a few shortcuts."
Suddenly, above them, there was a sonic crack—BOOM!
A golden arc of lightning struck the ground just ten feet away, and before the smoke cleared, Harry appeared, fully human, brushing a few sparks off his shoulders.
"Sorry," he grinned. "Still working on the landing."
Hermione blinked. "That was… lightning teleportation, wasn't it?"
"Yup." He nodded proudly. "I call it Thunderstep. I've been practicing it for weeks. It's like Apparition, but you don't need to focus as much on the destination. I just travel along ambient lightning paths."
Wanda raised an eyebrow. "You realize most magical wards don't stop elemental travel. That means you can bypass almost any barrier."
Harry's grin widened. "Exactly."
Hermione looked awestruck. "You're turning into a walking myth, Harry."
"Correction," Sirius said, smirking. "Flying myth."
Harry chuckled and tossed his soaked cloak over a bench. "Also, you're not gonna believe what happened earlier."
"What?" Hermione asked curiously.
Harry looked mildly annoyed. "I got chased."
Wanda narrowed her eyes. "By what?"
"Two wizards. Probably bounty hunters or rare creature poachers. They saw me in Thunderbird form when I was flying over Loch Lomond. I didn't think anyone was watching—then BAM! Next thing I know, I'm being tailed."
Sirius frowned. "Did they try to attack?"
"Not directly," Harry replied. "But they tried to trap me with a net charm. One even shouted something about selling Thunderbird feathers on the black market."
Hermione gasped. "That's barbaric!"
"They didn't get close," Harry assured them. "I flew straight up—like really up. Where broomsticks just give up and cry. Then—" he snapped his fingers, "Thunderstep. Left them crashing into each other."
Sirius laughed loudly. "Good lad!"
Hermione walked up to him, still amazed. "You're telling me you can now fly, teleport, summon lightning, and bend weather at will?"
Harry scratched the back of his head, sheepishly. "Well… yeah. I think I can even summon localized thunderstorms now. I just haven't tried it near people."
Wanda smiled slowly. "You should be careful. That kind of power will attract more than just bounty hunters."
"You mean gods?" Harry asked.
Wanda nodded. "Not just Asgardians. The moment you start shaking magical ley lines with your teleportation and weathercraft… everyone will notice."
Hermione gripped Harry's hand tightly. "Just promise me one thing. No matter how powerful you get… you'll still be you."
Harry squeezed her hand back. "Always."
Just then, a voice called from the front door of the Manor. It was America, holding a tray with drinks.
"Are you three done with your lightning gossip? Because I brought butterbeer, and I'm not waiting."
They laughed and made their way back inside, Harry trailing slightly behind, gazing at the fading storm in the sky.
He felt it.
The hum of energy beneath his skin. The call of the skies above. The weight of storms waiting to be unleashed.
He was Harry Potter, but not just the Boy Who Lived.
He was the Stormborn, the Son of Thunder, the Thunderbird Animagus—and the skies now answered to him.
The days had grown warmer around Highlands Manor, though the skies still rippled occasionally with distant thunder—no doubt a side effect of Harry's new powers. The once-quiet mansion nestled in the Scottish Highlands now pulsed with life and magic. Curious magical artifacts, enchanted paintings, floating lanterns, and ancient relics collected by Wanda from distant lands gave the manor a museum-like atmosphere. Sirius had even installed a magical jukebox that only played 1970s wizarding rock.
It was becoming more of a sanctuary than a home—a magical refuge for those caught between worlds.
Hermione Granger was now a frequent guest.
She often arrived with a satchel full of books and a mind full of questions, and left with new spells, laughter, and the occasional enchanted trinket. Once, she stayed an entire weekend studying a floating map of ley lines that Wanda had bought in Tibet.
Even the Grangers had visited once, marveling at the grandeur of the manor. Mr. Granger had been fascinated by the self-washing dishes in the kitchen, while Mrs. Granger nearly fainted when a coat rack bowed and offered to take her handbag.
But this evening, it was Hermione's time to return home.
"I wish I could take you there with Thunderstep," Harry said with a sigh as they stood in the manor's arched entrance, looking at the cloudy sky above.
Hermione tilted her head. "You've said that before. Why not, exactly?"
Harry raised a palm, and faint arcs of electricity crackled between his fingers. "When I Thunderstep… my entire body becomes lightning. Pure lightning. Anyone near me would be… well, vaporized."
Hermione blinked. "Oh. Right. Yes, I'd very much prefer tea and scones over spontaneous combustion."
Harry chuckled. "Exactly."
And so they took the Knight Bus, which screeched to a halt outside the hidden wardline near the manor. The triple-decker purple monstrosity wobbled and blinked with magical lights, and as always, Stan Shunpike gave Harry an awkward thumbs-up.
They sat side-by-side on lurching chairs that kept changing color every few minutes. Hermione clutched a book to her chest, while Harry stared out the window, lost in thought.
"I think you've made this bus famous again," she teased.
"Please don't tell me I'm trending in some wizarding magazine."
When they arrived in Earling, the neighborhood was quiet, lit only by warm streetlights and the faint golden glow from the Granger household windows.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger were delighted to see them.
"Tea?" Mr. Granger offered. "We have lemon drizzle cake as well."
"I'll never say no to lemon drizzle," Harry replied.
The sitting room felt warm and familiar, filled with cozy furniture and framed photos. Harry sipped tea while Hermione discussed a new Arithmancy theory with her mother. He looked on with quiet affection, enjoying the peace of a normal evening.
But as the night stretched on, he finally stood up and smiled.
"I should get going," he said, brushing a spark of residual static from his jacket.
"Be careful," Hermione said, walking him to the front steps.
"I always am," he winked.
Harry stepped onto the quiet road outside the Grangers' home. The stars twinkled faintly overhead, and the wind was still.
He rolled his shoulders, focused, and raised his hand. Electricity began crackling at his fingertips.
But just before he could vanish into lightning—a low hum filled the air.
Suddenly, a ring of multicolored light descended from the sky, surrounding Harry in a blinding swirl of rainbow energy.
"What the—!"
The ground vanished.
With a thunderous boom and a flash of light, Harry was pulled through the Bifrost.
When his feet touched stone again, he stumbled slightly, sparks still flickering around his hands. The air here was thinner, the light golden and unearthly.
He stood in a circular chamber made of glowing gold and swirling energy. Across from him stood a tall, imposing man in golden armor, his dark eyes glowing faintly like embers.
A massive sword stood behind him, embedded in a control pedestal.
The man didn't blink.
"I am Heimdall," he said in a voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "Welcome to Asgard, son of Thor."
Harry blinked.
"…what?"
The chamber shimmered with divine energy, high-vaulted ceilings glimmering with golden patterns and arcane runes that pulsed with life. But all of it—the majesty, the gleaming walls, the guards in shining armor—meant very little to Harry at the moment.
He was stunned. Disoriented. A little annoyed.
Because the last thing he expected when stepping outside the Granger home was to be kidnapped by a rainbow-colored beam and dropped into a strange room.
He looked sharply at the tall man beside him, golden armor gleaming.
"You kidnapped me," Harry said bluntly, lightning crackling faintly across his shoulders. "Without warning. Without permission. That's—kidnapping, mate."
Heimdall turned his gaze to Harry calmly, his voice deep and patient. "It is not my place to kidnap anyone, my prince."
"…Prince?" Harry blinked.
"I merely obeyed the All-Father's order. He commanded me to retrieve his grandson, should I ever see him again."
Harry's brows knitted. "Sirius never said anything about this… about being taken to Asgard."
"Your godhood was sealed through ritual," Heimdall said as they walked through an arched passage toward the heart of the palace. "But your blood—Thor's blood—runs in your veins. And Asgard has felt the return of that blood."
Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. "Brilliant. Mum's going to hex me into next week when she finds out."
Heimdall gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
They stepped into the Golden Walk, and everything changed.
The Asgardian guards on duty straightened to attention as Harry passed. Servants and nobles whispered to one another as they spotted the a boy with dark hair, striking electric blue eyes, and the subtle current of divine lightning that pulsed around him. His black jacket shimmered with latent sparks—flickering as if the storm walked in his shadow.
"He looks like Prince Thor," someone murmured.
"But younger… leaner…"
"Is he—?"
"Could it be?"
By the time they reached the Great Hall, anticipation was thick in the air.
The grand doors creaked open, revealing the throne room of Asgard, bathed in the light of a thousand golden braziers. The air was rich with the scent of sage and steel.
Harry took a single step in—and froze.
There, seated upon the golden throne at the far end, was Odin, clad in dark gold armor, spear resting beside his seat, a single eye gleaming beneath his helm. His presence was... heavy. Myth made real.
Kneeling before the throne were two men.
One broad and golden-haired, built like a titan. The other lithe and angular, dressed in emeralds with a subtle smirk that vanished the moment he turned around.
Heimdall stepped forward and raised his voice, booming and reverent.
"I present to you… Harry Potter of Midgard, son of Thor, Prince of Asgard."
Silence followed. Deafening silence.
The man with blonde hair turned first, head snapping around.
"What?" he breathed, eyes wide. "You are—?"
Harry stepped back instinctively, his shoulders tense.
The darker-haired man turned next. His emerald eyes, almost too familiar, narrowed in confusion.
"Impossible," he said.
But Odin—Odin stood.
Slowly. Carefully. As though unsure of his own movement. He looked down at the boy who now stood halfway across the hall—lightning dancing at his heels.
Harry met the god's gaze. He swallowed thickly.
"…Hello?" he said awkwardly. "I think you're my… grandfather?"
Odin descended the steps, each footstep echoing. He came to a stop in front of Harry, towering over him. His single eye stared deep into Harry's soul, as if reading his very essence.
Then, as if time sped up—
"My grandson," Odin murmured. His voice cracked.
Before Harry could react, Lady Frigga rushed from the side of the hall.
"Is it true?" she gasped. "Is he really—?"
Her hand rose to cover her mouth as she saw him. She didn't even wait for Odin's response—she simply rushed forward and pulled Harry into a warm, trembling hug.
"…I don't even know you," he muttered softly, but not unkindly.
"I know," Frigga whispered. "But I have waited to meet you for so long, my child."
Odin placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We thought your are a mortal like the rest of them. But I can sense it you have Asgardian lifespan."
The blonde man approached then—face pale with disbelief.
"…I'm Thor," he said. "If what they're saying is true, then… I'm your—"
"Wait," Harry interrupted, holding up a hand. "Don't take this the wrong way, but…I can't call you father."
Thor blinked.
Loki let out a low snort.
"…I like him already," he whispered under his breath.
Harry looked around, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Look. I'm sorry for being rude. But I've got people back home. A mum. Sister, Godfather, Friends. I can't just stay in… space-palace. I came here by accident."
Odin's voice lowered. " I bought you here to meet you. You can go back to Midgard and comeback to Asgard after your loved ones are long dead and gone because Asgardians live more than five thousand years old. Couple of hundred years is nothing for us. But how about you visit Asgard once a while?."
Harry looked from Odin to Thor, to Heimdall standing silently at the gate, to Loki who was still eyeing him like a puzzle.
"I will talk with my mother and make a decision," Harry said at last. "But don't expect me to call anyone Dad just yet."
Thor smiled—warmly, shyly.
"Fair enough."
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