The Divine Ascendant

Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light, but the faint warmth did little to soften the cold, burgeoning tension gathering in the drawing room. It was a space Harry had chosen for this inevitable confrontation with dumbles, a neutral ground, or as neutral as any room in Grimmauld Place could be.

Harry sat alone by the window, the faint hum of his own power a steady counterpoint to the quiet creaks of the ancient house. He didn't need to turn when he heard the familiar soft creak of the door opening behind him; his heightened senses had announced the Headmaster's presence heading towards him long before he even reached the room.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore said gently, his voice a warm, comforting balm. "Might I have a word? I trust you're settling in well?"

The voice was kind, warm. Grandfatherly.

And completely, utterly, calculated. Harry felt the subtle layers beneath it—the quiet probe, the feigned concern. It was the same subtle manipulation he'd experienced for years, only now, he recognized it for what it was.

Harry rose slowly, turning from the window to face the Headmaster. He met Dumbledore's gaze, his own emerald eyes holding a new, unreadable depth that reflected simmering defiance.

"Sure, Headmaster. Always a pleasure," he replied, his tone polite, but edged with a subtle, almost imperceptible coolness that Dumbledore, for all his perception, might just miss or simply ignored.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled a practiced gesture that did little to hide the sharp intelligence and keen observation behind them. He gestured toward the opposite armchair, a plush velvet one that looked far too comfortable for the emotionally charged conversation about to unfold.

"I thought it best we speak in private, Harry. There is… much I would like to understand, young man. Your recent actions have caused a certain amount of… confusion, both to myself and to others who care deeply for your welfare."

Harry raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge in the gesture, betraying no sign of discomfort or argument. He settled into the seat, feigning a casualness he didn't entirely feel, though his outward composure was flawless.

The two sat across from each other, the silence stretching for a long, weighty moment, thick with unspoken questions and carefully guarded truths, a battle of wills playing out in the quiet room.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore began, his tone soft, almost melancholic, yet layered with an undeniable undercurrent of subtle admonishment, as if addressing a wayward child. "Why did you leave your relatives' home without informing anyone? Surely you knew that such an action would cause considerable worry, not just for myself, but for those who care about your wellbeing—your friends, Sirius. They were quite distraught by your sudden disappearance and the lack of communication."

Harry met his gaze evenly, a thin, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, a shadow of the Jacob within him.

"No offense, sir," he began, his voice calm, cutting directly to the heart of the matter, "but you're just my headmaster. I didn't realize I needed to get permission to leave home Especially during the summer, when I'm not even at Hogwarts, and therefore, not under your direct supervision." His words were direct, unyielding, a stark contrast to his past deference.

Dumbledore's fingers, intricately laced together, tightened ever so slightly, a fleeting moment of frustration betraying his otherwise composed demeanor. He recovered swiftly, his gaze unwavering, maintaining his facade of benevolent concern.

"Still, Harry, a simple message, a quick owl, would've sufficed. Even if not for me, then for those who care about your wellbeing—your friends, Sirius. They truly were quite distraught, and the silence only fueled their anxieties and fears for your safety."

Harry's thin smile widened, devoid of humor, a cold, brittle curve of his lips. "Funny thing about that, Headmaster. I did write. Several times, actually. To Ron, to Hermione, to Sirius. Even a few to you, just out of courtesy, despite the... silence that had already begun. And yet, not a single reply. Not a word from anyone. I assumed my messages were… unimportant. That I was unimportant."

His eyes held a knowing glint, challenging Dumbledore

Dumbledore's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching almost imperceptibly, but he maintained his calm facade, his eyes still twinkling, though the light seemed to dim slightly.

"I see," he said, his voice a low, even tone, smooth as polished stone. "A regrettable oversight, no doubt. Communications can be… unreliable at times, especially in the midst of… pressing matters. And where did you go, Harry? What truly happened to you during this period? Your magic—it's… different now. Unfamiliar."

His gaze intensified, trying to penetrate Harry's new aura.

Harry leaned back, a comfortable ease in his posture, his eyes gleaming with amusement, Dumbledore couldn't possibly possess.

"I don't know what you mean headmaster. I have never felt better in my entier life. I'm sure it's nothing you need to worry about sir."

There was a distinct, almost imperceptible flash in Dumbledore's eyes, a flicker of annoyance that quickly vanished, replaced by a subtle hardening, a guarded watchfulness.

The grandfatherly smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes anymore, replaced by a calculating glint. "Harry. This is not the boy I knew, the one I sought to guide towards a brighter future.."

"I've simply grown and mature on my own," Harry corrected, his voice sharp, shedding the last vestiges of politeness, his tone cutting through Dumbledore's carefully constructed narrative.

Dumbledore looked at him for a long, unsettling moment, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee, the rhythmic sound a subtle counterpoint to the tension.

His eyes, usually so sharp and knowing, were now probing, searching desperately for something he couldn't quite grasp in Harry's transformed essence. The silence hung heavy, filled with Dumbledore's unspoken calculations and Harry's unyielding, defiant resolve.

"What would your parents think," Dumbledore said slowly, his voice dropping to a low, mournful tone, dripping with carefully constructed sentimentality, a last-ditch effort at emotional leverage, "what would James and Lily feel if they could see you now, Harry. They would be heartbroken to see you like this. So closed off. So… combative. So far from the loving, trusting boy they would hope to have grown into, the one who would have valued guidance and cooperation."

That did it.

The carefully suppressed anger surged, hot and sudden, a roaring inferno within Harry's core that momentarily overshadowed his composure, making his vision momentarily blur with a red haze.

The casual manipulation, the emotional blackmail, the blatant disrespect for his parents' memory, twisting their love into a weapon against him, it was a step too far, a line irrevocably crossed.

The sheer audacity of it.

Harry stood, his chair scraping loudly across the floor, the sound a harsh punctuation mark to the tense silence. His voice was ice-cold, every word sharp as a shard of glass, cutting deeply.

"Then maybe they shouldn't have died, Dumbledore, and left me to be raised in a bloody cupboard, treated like a slave by my own relatives! Maybe then they could've taught me what not to do, instead of leaving me to figure it out while you watched from afar, content with your own grand plans and your 'greater good'!"

His chest heaved with the force of his words, the pent-up bitterness of years finally erupting. Magic rushing forth from him.

Dumbledore's eyes widened in genuine shock, the carefully constructed facade finally cracking, revealing the surprised, almost fearful man beneath. His mouth opened, but no words came out, his usual eloquence failing him in the face of Harry's raw, unadulterated fury.

Silence fell like a dropped blade, heavy and absolute, slicing through the air.

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his body rigid with barely contained fury, vibrating with the power he wielded. His eyes, burning with a golden light that flickered like embers, bore into Dumbledore with the intensity of a true predator.

"You don't get to use them against me," he grated, his voice low, a primal warning that resonated with divine authority. "Not ever again. Their sacrifice is mine to honor, not yours to exploit."

And then, with a barely contained rage, he was gone, vanishing from the room as if he were never there, leaving Dumbledore stunned and alone in the silent, tension-filled drawing room, the phantom echo of Harry's rage still lingering in the air.

The Training Room

The training chamber Sirius had shown him was quiet, buried deep in the far end of Grimmauld's lower floor, a point of Black family eccentricity.

Dust still clung to the walls, motes dancing in the dim light filtering from the single, heavily warded torch, but the room itself was vast—reinforced stone, built-in enchantments designed to contain explosive magical output, and a row of combat-ready stone golems that reactivated with a low, thrumming pulse of magic.

Harry stepped into the center of the chamber, his eyes burning with the residual anger from his confrontation with Dumbledore. He needed to release it, to channel the raw, volatile power surging through him before it consumed him.

He raised one hand, his bare palm, towards the nearest golem.

Power surged from him, a tangible wave of raw energy that vibrated in the air. The first golem, a hulking construct of dark granite, rumbled to life, its stone limbs creaking as it lumbered forward.

Harry launched himself forward.

What followed was less training and more pure annihilation. The golems, though formidable by wizarding standards, stood no chance against the unleashed might of a Campione.

His Authorities flared through the room like wildfire—the dream-bending reality of Oneirothrone twisting the air, the conceptual rending power of Fenririan Rend tearing through defenses, lucidity, and cold rage fueling every devastating blow.

He twisted the air around a charging golem, making it stumble and fall into itself, shattered by an unseen force. He shattered magical barriers with a mere thought, pierced enchanted armor with conjured blades of nightmare, manifestations of his dream-authority. Each attack was precise, overwhelming, and absolute.

One by one, they fell. Some dissolved into shimmering dust, others exploded into fragments of stone, and others simply collapsed, their internal magical mechanisms twisted into uselessness.

And Harry kept going, the fury driving him, a controlled explosion of divine power. He didn't stop until every last construct lay in a heap of shattered rubble and swirling dust, the air thick with pulverized stone.

When the last golem disintegrated into nothingness, Harry stood amidst the ruins, panting, his chest heaving, but a profound calm settling over him. His magic pulsed steadily around him, a powerful, self-contained aura, the space humming with residual power, bearing witness to the devastation. The anger, so sharp moments before, had been purged, leaving behind a clear, almost serene focus.

He exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath, the last tendrils of raw emotion dissipating.

And finally—calmed. Ready to think clearly.

After a while, he sat against the far, unbroken wall of the training room, pulled out his reinforced phone, and dialed the embedded into the magical contact sigil.

A moment later, Evelyn McAlister's crisp, polite voice crackled to life.

"Your Majesty. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

Harry's tone was level, devoid of any lingering anger, now purely business. "Indeed. I had no intention of calling so soon. I need access to some of your archives, Evelyn. Specifically, volumes on advanced magical theory. Enhancement. And any documentation you have on Magitech experimentation if it exists within the Association. I'll require them delivered to my current location, discreetly."

He was interested in them, thanks to Jacob he had a renewed interest in magic and a thirst for it. He had wanted to have something as a hobby to help clear his mind when he was stressed.

Evelyn was quiet for a beat, processing the unusual request. "I can certainly get you curated volumes, Your Majesty. Will you want them delivered to your current location?"

"Yes. Quietly. No fanfare, no tracking charms." Harry's voice was firm. "And more importantly, send me any immediate, comprehensive list of all recent Heretic God sightings, confirmed or unconfirmed, across the globe. If your agents catch wind of one, anywhere, at any time, I want to know immediately. No delays."

Evelyn hesitated only briefly, the urgency in his voice undeniable. "Understood. This will be prioritized. Anything else, Your Majesty?"

Harry glanced around the shattered remains of the training room, a faint, almost predatory glint in his eye. The urge for a true challenge, a real test of his new might, still simmered beneath his calm.

"No," he said, his voice a low, almost satisfied murmur. "Just focus on what I've asked… I feel the need to hit something real next time. Something that actually fights back."

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