It didn't take Harry long to realize that the blood ritual had changed far more than just the magic in his veins.
At first, it was little things—a teacup he picked up shattered between his fingers as if it were made of sugar. A doorknob he twisted came away in his hand, metal bent like clay. A chair he tried to move splintered into kindling when he merely bumped it with his hip.
He learned quickly that he couldn't let his mind wander, not even for a second, or the world around him would break.
One morning, as he stood in the courtyard, trying to practice wand movements, he flicked his wrist too sharply—and the wand split clean in two, as though struck by lightning.
Wanda, who was observing from the stone steps, exhaled and set aside her cup of tea.
"You have to stop holding back and start learning how to hold back," she told him calmly.
"That's the same thing," Harry muttered, frustrated.
"No," she corrected, rising gracefully to her feet. "Holding back is fear. Control is understanding."
She approached, placed her palm against his chest, and met his eyes steadily.
"I fought beside a variant of Thor once," she said. "He could crush mountains in his hands. Do you know what he told me?"
Harry shook his head.
"He said strength without control is nothing but destruction."
Harry's throat tightened. "I don't want to destroy everything I touch."
"You won't," Wanda promised. "But you have to accept that you aren't quite human anymore. You're something… more."
He swallowed hard.
"Is that why I can hear everything?" he asked in a small voice. "I can hear the owls in the forest. The water under the earth. I can smell rain before it comes."
"Yes," Wanda said gently. "And it will get stronger the older you grow."
That night, Harry lay awake, listening to every creak and whisper in the manor—every heartbeat, every breath—and tried to pretend it wasn't overwhelming.
But the hardest part of his new strength wasn't inside these walls.
It was when he went back to school.
The football pitch was a muddy stretch of grass behind the school building. It was the place Harry had felt normal—where no one knew about lightning scars or prophecies, where he was just another boy with a scuffed ball and scraped knees.
The moment he picked up the ball that day, he knew he was finished. His hand flexed instinctively, and the leather compressed with a squeal of air. He set it down carefully and stepped back.
"You okay, Harry?" asked Jason, one of his teammates.
Harry nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just… tired."
During practice, he moved too fast without thinking and nearly collided with Mitchell. At the last second, he leapt aside, but even the brush of his shoulder knocked Mitchell sprawling into the mud.
"Sorry!" Harry gasped, helping him up with exaggerated gentleness.
Mitchell laughed it off, but Harry felt sick inside.
Later, in the changing room, he stood with his hands clenched, heart thudding painfully. He couldn't risk hurting them. Not with this strength he couldn't always rein in.
When the team gathered around, joking and elbowing each other, he cleared his throat.
"Guys," he said. His voice cracked, and he hated how young he sounded. "I… I have to quit."
"What?" Jason blinked. "Why?"
Mitchell frowned. "Is this because of today? It's just a bump, mate—"
"It's not that." Harry forced the words out. "It's my… ligaments. My knees. The doctor says I can't risk tearing them worse. They're… unstable."
A lie. But safer than the truth.
"Oh," Mitchell said softly. "That's—bloody hell, Harry, I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Harry said quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I'll still come watch."
"You better," Jason said fiercely, and clapped him on the back.
He had to concentrate just to keep from flinching at the contact.
When he got home that evening, Wanda found him in the library, sitting alone in the dark.
"Did you tell them?" she asked softly.
He nodded without looking up.
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he let himself lean back against her.
"I liked feeling normal," he whispered.
"I know," she said.
He didn't say anything more. And neither did she.
It was Sirius who suggested the next step—something to help Harry reclaim a piece of his past instead of losing more of it.
"Have you ever been to Godric's Hollow?" Sirius asked over breakfast a week later.
Harry looked up from his toast. "No."
"Would you like to?"
Harry hesitated. The thought of standing over his parents' graves made his chest ache—but there was a pull, too. A need to see it for himself.
"Yes," he said finally. "I want to go."
"Then let's go," Sirius said, with a decisive nod. "Before the Ministry finds some new excuse to get in our way."
Wanda, who was stirring her tea, looked thoughtful. "While we're there… I'd like to bring James and Lily's remains back here. It's safer than leaving them in a public cemetery."
Harry looked at her, startled.
"You can do that?"
She nodded calmly. "America and I can move them gently, without disturbing the remains. We'll bury them in the manor grounds, if you'd like. Close to you."
Harry's eyes burned. "I'd like that very much."
They went at dawn, traveling by America's shimmering star-shaped portal.
Godric's Hollow was silent under a soft veil of frost, its gravestones glistening silver in the early light. The churchyard was empty, save for a single blackbird perched on the fence.
Harry stood between Sirius and Wanda, looking down at the simple headstone:
James Potter, 1960–1981
Lily Potter, 1960–1981
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Finally, Sirius broke the hush, his voice low and rough. "They'd be so proud of you."
Harry swallowed. "I hope so."
"They would," Wanda said firmly.
America, who had been respectfully waiting by the gate, came forward. "We're ready."
Together, Wanda and America worked. Their hands glowed with soft magic, so delicate it barely disturbed the frost on the grass. The earth parted silently, without a shovel lifted or a single clod falling.
Harry watched as a pair of simple wooden coffins rose from the earth, weightless under Wanda's power. She cradled them in midair, as if she were carrying sleeping children.
Sirius bowed his head.
"We'll keep them safe," Wanda murmured.
Harry nodded, wiping his eyes.
They walked back through the swirling star-portal, leaving the churchyard empty and still.
The coffins were laid in the manor's private garden, under the old oak tree that Harry loved. Wanda and America set new markers—simple, carved with care.
James and Lily Potter
Beloved Parents, Always Remembered
Harry stood there until the sun was high overhead, his heart too full for words.
At last, he turned to Sirius and Wanda.
"I think they'd be glad I have you," he said quietly.
Wanda put an arm around his shoulders.
"And you have us," she promised, "forever."
And for the first time in weeks, Harry felt truly at peace.
The morning of the football match dawned bright and clear, with the kind of crisp autumn air that made Harry nostalgic for simpler days. Even though he'd left the team, he still felt a twinge of excitement when the coach announced they'd be traveling to St. Benedict School in Erling for the away game.
Jason and Mitchell had insisted he come along.
"You're still part of the team," Jason told him stubbornly. "Even if you're not on the field."
Harry hadn't argued. He liked the idea of one last day riding the school bus, feeling ordinary.
They arrived before noon, the bus bumping over the cracked pavement and coming to a halt near a sprawling brick building. The St. Benedict crest—a silver stag—was painted above the arched doors.
As soon as the coach let them off, the players jogged onto the field to warm up. Their chatter and laughter drifted back to Harry, who hung behind, hands stuffed in his coat pockets.
He watched for a moment—Mitchell running drills, Jason practicing headers—then turned and wandered along the gravel path that led around the side of the school.
He had no idea why he felt restless. Maybe it was because his life had become a swirl of chaos magic, divine power, and secrets. Maybe he just needed to breathe air that wasn't charged with the taste of thunder.
The school grounds were quiet—most students were either inside or gathered on the football pitch. He passed a tall window where a teacher was erasing a blackboard, then turned a corner into a narrow courtyard shaded by ivy-covered walls.
That was when he heard raised voices.
"No one cares about your stupid books, Granger!" a boy sneered.
"Yeah," another chimed in. "Think you're clever just because you read all the time?"
Harry slowed to a stop.
There were three boys—bigger, older. They had cornered a girl in a navy cardigan, her back pressed against the brick wall. Her hair was wild and brown, frizzing around her shoulders. She clutched a stack of books so tight her knuckles were white.
"I—I'm just trying to go to the library," she stammered, her voice too small.
"Oh, the library," the tallest boy mocked in a falsetto. "Little know-it-all Granger."
And before she could move, he slapped the books from her hands. They hit the concrete with a hollow clap, scattering pages and a blue fountain pen that cracked in half.
Harry's jaw clenched. He hated bullies.
He took a step forward, ready to intervene—
And then he saw it.
The laces of the tall boy's trainers began to snake around each other, twisting with a life of their own. The knot cinched tight, tying his feet together.
It happened so fast the boy didn't notice—until he tried to take a step back and pitched forward.
He crashed face-first onto the concrete.
There was a sickening crack and a smear of red where his nose met the ground. He howled in pain, clutching his face, while the other two boys stared in horror.
"Wha—what did you do?" one of them demanded, rounding on the girl.
"I—I didn't do anything!" she cried, her eyes huge with shock.
It was obvious to Harry, though. That hadn't been an ordinary trip. It had been accidental magic. The shoelaces hadn't knotted themselves—she had done it, without realizing.
Before the bullies could accuse her further, a teacher burst into the courtyard. The two boys began babbling about curses, and the injured one was half-carried, half-dragged away, his face bleeding.
The girl sank to her knees, gathering her books with trembling hands.
Harry walked over, crouched beside her, and picked up the cracked fountain pen.
"Here," he said softly. "Looks like you could use a hand."
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were large and brown, framed by long lashes. She had a smear of ink across her cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice still shaky.
He helped her stack the books neatly—science textbooks, a worn copy of The Hobbit, a little grammar workbook. When everything was gathered, he offered her the pen.
"I'm Harry," he said. "Harry Potter."
There was no flicker of recognition in her eyes. No gasp. No wide-eyed awe like he would have got from wizarding folk.
Instead, she smiled—a little shy, but grateful.
"I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."
He extended a hand, and she took it. Her fingers were cold from shock.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She nodded, brushing hair out of her face. "I… I think so. They always pick on me. Because I like books. Because I answer too many questions."
Harry gave a wry smile. "Better books than football, I suppose."
Her brows lifted. "Football? You play?"
"Used to," he said. "Not anymore."
"Oh." She hugged her books to her chest. "Well… thank you for helping me. I… I don't really have any friends here."
"Everyone needs friends," Harry said.
She looked at him uncertainly. "Would you… maybe… like to sit together? When the match starts?"
He hesitated. Part of him thought he should go back to his team, stand with Jason and Mitchell and pretend nothing had changed. But another part—the part that remembered what it felt like to be alone and overlooked—knew this was where he needed to be.
"I'd like that," he said.
And when Hermione smiled, it was like a little dawn breaking over her pale face.
They left the courtyard side by side, the ink-stained pen tucked into her pocket, and Harry felt something ease inside his chest.
Maybe he wasn't as ordinary as he'd once been. But he could still be the boy who stood up for someone.
Even if he had the blood of a god.