Chapter 2: Relics of Power and the Path of Magic
The morning sun cast golden lines across the Potter dueling grounds—a secluded courtyard warded with ancient runes and celestial markings. Most pureblood heirs trained in etiquette and wand postures by age seven. Harrison Strange Potter was reforging the world by age nine.
His mismatched eyes—one brilliant amethyst, the other a deep sapphire—glowed faintly beneath his silver-rimmed spectacles. No ordinary magic coursed through his veins anymore. His aura shimmered with layered power: Olympian grace, Duat force, divine chaos, and eldritch energy carved in burning sigils beneath his skin.
This was not a child born for the mundane.
It was a child reforged by destiny.
He stood at the center of the courtyard, the air charged with silence. Four weapons hovered in the air around him, suspended in glowing circles of magic.
Anaklusmos—Riptide, the celestial bronze sword of Poseidon's son. It gleamed with sea-blessed power, its edges humming with oceanic rhythm.
Jason's Gladius, forged of Imperial Gold, crackled with static and the essence of Jupiter's storms. The hilt shimmered with ancient Roman inscriptions.
Nico's Viking Blade, pitch-black Stygian Iron, wept shadow and silence. Cold radiated from it, not of temperature, but of memory.
Carter's Khopesh, curved and glowing with divine hieroglyphs, thrummed with the energy of the Duat. It pulsed with the heartbeat of a long-lost kingdom.
Each blade pulsed as if recognizing him—fused echoes of gods and kings. With practiced ease, Harrison extended his left hand and let Anaklusmos fly into it.
The sword burst into celestial light. He flowed through a series of forms—Poseidon's oceanic grace guiding his steps. His body moved like water, striking and flowing in perfect unison. Each swing summoned droplets of spectral sea mist that danced around him before fading into the air.
Then, he switched to Jason's gladius. The moment his fingers touched the grip, thunderclouds gathered overhead. With every movement, static energy burst in golden arcs. His strikes were sharp, disciplined, and precise—a Roman general in a child's body. Lightning cracked across the sky, pulled down by instinct.
Finally, the Stygian Iron blade melted into his grasp. Shadows wrapped around him, cloaking his figure as he slipped into darkness. He vanished—reappearing behind a practice dummy, his footsteps shrouded in death's silence. With a flick, the dummy crumbled into dust, consumed by silent shadow.
He exhaled, calling the khopesh.
"Djebai!"
Golden light surged around him, summoning protective wards as he began channeling spells in Ancient Egyptian—glyphs spiraling across his skin like living ink. His voice split across dimensions, layered with the voices of his past lives, each word a command older than mortal memory.
Columns of sand rose and danced, forming creatures from the Duat—jackals, serpents, and falcons—that obeyed his will and disintegrated with a thought.
"I am more than a wizard," he whispered. "I am forged by gods, trained in chaos, born to balance."
---
That afternoon, an owl arrived with a heavy letter sealed in scarlet wax.
> HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Dear Mr. H.S. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on September 1st…
Harrison smiled faintly, the parchment glowing faintly in his divine sight. Traces of Albus Dumbledore's magic laced the letter. There were layers of tracking and compulsion spells embedded, woven with finesse but flawed by intent.
"Trying to monitor me already, Headmaster?"
With a snap of his fingers, a small glyph etched itself into the parchment, nullifying the tracking charm without breaking it. Let Dumbledore think his spells were intact.
"Right on time," Harrison muttered.
He held the letter in one hand and summoned a swirling gateway of sand and starlight with the other.
"Winki," he called.
Pop!
"Yes, Master?"
"I'm going to Egypt. Tell the Greengrass sisters I'll be back by evening."
"Yes, Master Harrison."
---
The First Nome – Cairo, Egypt
The magical city beneath Cairo's sands shimmered with ancient power. The First Nome, capital of the House of Life, pulsed with Duat energy. Wizards in linen robes whispered as Harrison strode down the avenue of sphinxes and animated hieroglyphs, his aura radiating divine weight.
He was both familiar and alien—Pharaoh and prodigy, mortal and immortal.
Hieroglyphs bowed in respect. The walls of sandstone hummed in recognition. Harrison reached the Vault of Artisans, where magic-wrought tools and staffs lined the walls, sealed behind golden glass.
"I seek a wand and staff," he said, addressing the ancient merchant behind the counter.
The man's eyes flicked up. They widened slightly.
"For you, child?"
"For me," Harrison replied calmly. "Child of Chaos. Pharaoh reborn. Champion of Night."
The merchant paused—and bowed.
He brought out a set of raw materials: dragon heartstring, phoenix feather, a core of golden ichor, and an obsidian shard of a fallen star.
With silent focus, Harrison chose two:
Wand: 13", Selenite wood, core of phoenix feather and ichor, naturally resonating with divine and life-bound magic.
Staff: Obsidian wood, veined with starlight, core of shard of the Abyss and Imperial lightning, pulsing with elemental command.
When the wand entered his hand, a pillar of white-blue flame erupted from the tip, harmless but searing to those unworthy. The staff shimmered, pulsing with rhythmic power that matched the heartbeat of the Duat and the storm.
The chamber trembled.
"The gods favor you," the merchant said. "May they not come to fear you."
"That's up to them," Harrison answered.
---
As he stepped back into the courtyard of Potter Manor, the sun was setting. The Greengrass sisters ran to greet him.
Daphne, calm and proud, bowed her head with a small smile. Astoria, full of childlike joy, tackled him with a hug. He hugged her back gently, letting her energy settle his own.
He looked up to the horizon, where the moon was beginning to rise. It shimmered with a faint black glow.
Somewhere beyond the veil of stars, Nyx watched.
Somewhere in the web of fate, Dumbledore plotted.
And somewhere, in a tiny cupboard beneath the stairs of Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry Potter dreamed of freedom.
Harrison Strange Potter would bring it to him.
He was ready.