Chapter 29: Knowledge, Shadows, and Smiles

The books arrived quietly, almost imperceptibly, just as Harry had commanded. No fanfare, no grand delivery that might alert the watchful eyes of the Order. Just a faint whisper of magic across Grimmauld Street, and then, nestled silently in the corner of an alley he went and picked it up, a leather-bound trunk appeared—sealed with the intricate, subtly shimmering sigil of the Mage Association, a mark of their precision and discretion.

Harry opened it slowly, a thrill of anticipation coursing through him. There were sleek, modern volumes, reinforced with enchanted plating that hummed faintly to the touch and shimmered with intricate magical circuitry woven directly into their very structure. Arcane glyphs, pulsed and shifted between pages as though alive, dynamic, and responsive to his gaze.

Titles caught his eye, He was curious about what they had gotten him and had looked them over.

"Mana Coding." This was in essence what mages learn in the beginning, control over the very essence of magical energy, allowing for deliberate shaping and imbuing of power, something far beyond mere incantations.

"Fundamental Laws of Magical Space-Time Manipulation and Travel Theory." The concepts of space time, creating pocket dimensions, or traversing between different points in place.

"Magitech." This volume tantalized him with the prospect of weaving technological principles with magic, From the brief read it seems to be a relatively new study of magic not even up to half a decade.

"The Weave of Reality:" This was perhaps the most crucial, delving into the nature of magic, Unlike Winx, mages/Magician's goal with magic was to reach the core of magic, the root of magic. To understand what it was and this was a book on the findings on the basics. It wasn't really a huge finding of someone's research but the basics of what most magics know and should know.

Harry grinned a wide, genuine, almost feral smile that stretched his lips, reflecting both his intellectual hunger and his burgeoning predatory nature. This was precisely what he needed.

This was the key to unlocking the true potential of his Authorities, to move beyond raw, instinctual power and into something controlled, precise, and utterly devastating.

Authority was a power that a Campione understood instinctually, that they could use easily as moving an arm. But that doesn't mean that they could simply flex that arm and make a trick shot in basketball, but with training and understanding and most importantly imagination, you could use your authority in ways that couldn't have even been thought possible.

He flipped open the first volume, his eyes drinking in the complex diagrams, the multi-layered theories, the elegant mathematical equations that described the very essence of magic in a way he hadn't seen.

A powerful spark ignited within him—one that felt both like Harry, the curious wizard, and Jacob, the eager student of lore who yearned for something more to understand.

He could feel the abstract ideas knitting together already, his mind effortlessly weaving the Mage Association's precise, almost scientific, logic into the chaotic, Campiones had an immense affinity for magic and quick understanding and it was showing now more than ever.

He saw solutions, pathways, What he would no doubt have found difficult before was now easy to understand.

His Authority, The Oneirothrone, currently a potent tool, could be used better, its dream/reality-bending influence made more precise, more far-reaching, perhaps even solid enough to manifest tangible effects with greater control, allowing him to subtly alter the world, or even minds, with chilling efficiency. The greater he understood how something works the less it would take to copy and create with this authority.

It's like using imagination magic, it uses a lot of power to do something because magic was substituting for the lack of knowledge but if you know how it works it lessens the amount of magic used.

Fenririan Rend, This was what he had plans for in the future, its ability to cut even the world itself was something he wanted to master. Why? Well after waking up as Jacob and Harry, His mind had wondered if the other worlds out there were real too, and if so then he wanted to explore, he didn't want to spend his centuries here when there was infinity out there.

But for now, he had a lot of problems with trying something like that. It's like Minato's Flying Raijin, he could open a portal, yes if he used all his power but he didn't have an anchor and with that, he would just yeet himself into the void of infinity.

He shivered remembering the Apparition, what he saw. Yeah No. he wasn't getting himself lost in that darkness.

He focused on his books.

He was evolving, rapidly, intellectually as well as physically, absorbing knowledge at an astonishing rate. The boundaries of what he could achieve with his powers were stretching, becoming vast and undefined.

Hermione found him reading on the sofa in the drawing room the next day, a thick, reinforced book spread across his lap, its pages glowing faintly, his emerald eyes intense and focused, utterly absorbed in its intricate diagrams. She smiled, a rare, soft expression of satisfaction that only a fellow bookworm could truly appreciate. "Look at you, Harry. Taking your studies seriously already, even before the term starts. I knew you had it in you. Perhaps even a Head Boy in the making?" she teased gently.

Harry didn't look up, his gaze still fixed on a complex diagram illustrating mana flow through different dimensions. "It's our fifth year, Hermione. Despite Voldemort being out there, I'd like to pass my O.W.L.s. It's a bit of a tradition, isn't it? And frankly, the practical applications of this theory are far more interesting than memorizing incantations." Yeah right.

Just then, Ron entered the room, munching loudly on a piece of toast, and promptly choked, sputtering crumbs. "Bloody hell, mate," he gasped, once he'd recovered, wiping his mouth. "You're turning into Hermione! What's next, you'll start lecturing me about house-elf welfare or the ethics of transfiguring furniture?"

Hermione beamed, clearly delighted by the comparison. "That's not a bad thing, Ronald. At all. In fact, it's quite commendable." She stepped closer, her keen intellect overriding her usual manners, and peered at the book over Harry's shoulder, her eyes widening slightly at the complex symbols. Her brow furrowed almost immediately.

"Harry, I haven't seen this one before. This isn't a standard textbook. It's certainly not in the Hogwarts curriculum, nor any of the approved texts for our year, or even NEWT-level for that matter. Where did you get it?"

"Found it in the library," Harry lied smoothly, not even bothering to look up, his voice utterly casual. He knew she'd suspect, given her encyclopedic knowledge, but he also knew she'd likely drop it, prioritizing their fragile peace.

Hermione's frown deepened, her sense of order and adherence to rules offended. "But Mrs. Weasley and Dumbledore both said we weren't allowed in the Black family library unsupervised. They specifically warned us about dark artifacts and dangerous spells. It's supposed to be restricted!"

"They didn't tell me," Harry said without looking up, his voice carrying a subtle edge of defiance, a quiet, almost dangerous undertone. "And even if they did—I wouldn't care. I'm quite capable of looking after myself, Hermione, and I'm past being told where I can and cannot go in a house that my own godfather owns."

She hesitated, sensing the shift in his tone, a subtle tension in his posture that warned her to tread carefully. Then, with a sigh, she sat beside him, a tentative silence stretching between them.

"Are you… still angry?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes searching his face, a raw vulnerability in her question. "At us? For the summer? For not writing?"

"A little," Harry admitted honestly, his gaze finally meeting hers, a flicker of the old hurt still present in his eyes, a shadow of the boy he once was, sure he had memories of his past life but he was still Harry, was still that boy that they had all become friends with in there first year and they were his friends.

"At you. At Ron. For leaving me alone. But you're still my friends, Hermione. You always will be. We just… need time, and you need to stop listening to everything Dumbledore says blindly. He's not infallible."

"And Dumbledore?" she pressed, her voice even softer, as if fearing his answer, knowing the depth of the rift that had formed.

Harry's eyes darkened slightly, a cold, hard glint appearing within their green depths, reflecting the lingering bitterness. "I'm still mad at him. For everything. For the lies, for the abandonment, for treating us like pawns in his game. For the sheer audacity of his manipulation. That won't change easily, if ever."

A silence stretched between them, heavier this time, filled with the unspoken weight of their recent history and Harry's raw admissions. Just then, Ron, oblivious to the emotional undercurrent, burst back into the compartment, oblivious, loudly asking whether they'd all packed their things for Hogwarts, and if Hermione had miraculously finished her essays yet.

Just like that, the moment passed, the raw emotion dissipating, replaced by the mundane comfort of their usual banter. They talked about classes, about Quidditch tryouts, The mundane concerns of Hogwarts felt increasingly distant, almost irrelevant, in the face of the cosmic forces he was now connected to.

And before he knew it, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues. It was the last night before the new term, the final hours of a summer that had changed everything.

In a darkened, opulent manor nestled deep within the eerie, mist-shrouded Fenlands, a man with crimson eyes stood before a wide, antique mirror framed in serpentine silver.

His reflection was no longer the spectral, disembodied wraith of his defeat, nor the grotesque infant thing Peter Pettigrew had nurtured. His skin, though still pale and unblemished by any imperfection, now possessed a subtle, almost unnerving vitality, a sign of his complete physical restoration. His frame was lean, but filled with a coiled, predatory power that seemed to vibrate beneath his robes, a dark aura of immense strength.

He flexed his long, unnaturally white fingers, watching the veins pulse with ritual-augmented magic, the dark energy flowing smoothly through his revitalized form, responding to his every command with absolute obedience.

The body Peter had meticulously grown for him, infused with ancient, forbidden lore and dark sacrifices, was superior to his last—stronger, faster, more magically reactive, a true vessel for his boundless ambition.

The ritual itself had been painstakingly modified with spells Voldemort had recovered from forgotten texts and forbidden lore, raw fury, and a relentless desire for absolute dominion.

He was back. Truly back. Not a shadow, not a fragment, but a body and more powerful than ever.

And this time, he would not fail. This time, no mere child, no meddling old fool, no twist of fate would stand in his way. He would sweep aside all opposition.

His first act, a necessary and symbolic reclaiming of his power, free his most loyal from the decaying hell of Azkaban. The Ministry, he knew, was weakened, distracted by its internal bureaucracy and paralyzed by fear, clinging to a false sense of security after his supposed demise and his followers are doing something useful for ones keep it that way.

They would not see it coming, blinded by their own arrogance and incompetence, consumed by internal squabbles.

His second, equally vital, act, gather forces. He knew there were still many in the shadows, clinging to their pure-blood supremacy, their desire for magical supremacy, who believed in the glorious vision of Lord Voldemort, the order brought by force and fear.

They would answer his call, drawn by the promise of power and the eradication of Muggle-lovers and half-breeds. Or they would perish, their insignificant lives extinguished as a testament to his revived might. No dissent, no weakness, would be tolerated in his ranks.

Finally, he would retrieve the prophecy, the very weapon that held the key to his ultimate triumph, the final piece of the puzzle. Once he understood its full implications, its intricate wording, he would be unstoppable, invincible, capable of shaping destiny itself to his will.

And the Potter boy, the insolent brat who had thwarted him so many times, would finally fall. His petty existence would be crushed, his very memory obliterated, a final, satisfying vengeance for all the humiliations he had endured.

None shall triumph but Lord Voldemort.

The train rumbled beneath them, a familiar vibration humming through the floorboards, a rhythmic pulse accompanying their journey as they sped toward Hogwarts.

The usual chaos of the Hogwarts Express surrounded them—students rushing between compartments, owls hooting from overhead racks, raucous laughter echoing from unseen cubicles, the scent of treacle tart and old parchment thick in the air, a comforting symphony of mundane wizarding life.

Harry sat with Ron and Hermione in their compartment, listening absently to the chatter, his mind half-distracted by the complex magical theories he'd devoured just hours before, his fingers unconsciously tracing patterns on his thigh.

Suddenly, a subtle vibration tickled his leg, his new phone.

His phone.

He excused himself quickly, a casual ease in his movements that belied the sudden alertness in his eyes, saying he needed the toilet. Without waiting for a response, he slipped out of the compartment, leaving his friends to their conversation, their faces still etched with the innocent concerns of school life.

Inside the cramped, slightly swaying space of the toilet cubicle, he pulled the reinforced phone from his pocket. He answered the call with a quiet tap, his ear pressed against the cool, smooth surface.

"McAlister?" he murmured, his voice low, his earlier ease replaced by sharp focus, every sense now fully engaged.

"My Lord," came Evelyn's voice, crisp and professional as ever, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the train. "We received a vision report from the Miko. It's… significant."

Harry straightened, his body tensing instinctively, every nerve alive, a surge of adrenaline sharpening his senses. "What kind of vision? Details, Evelyn. Is it a descent?"

"A Heretic God. Near Scotland. The vision was powerful, fragmented, but undeniable. No fixed coordinates yet, but magical probability fields suggest a descent within the next two weeks. It could be sooner, given the erratic nature of such manifestations and the raw power involved. We're watching it closely, preparing reconnaissance teams to pinpoint its exact location and nature the moment it fully manifests."

Harry's blood sang, not with fear or apprehension, but with a primal, exhilarating thrill that resonated deep within his Campione essence. This was what he craved, a real challenge, something worthy of his burgeoning power, a true test of his mastery. "Keep me informed. I want to be there before it even appears. I expect immediate updates on its location and estimated arrival. No delays."

"We thought you might," Evelyn replied a hint of something unreadable in his tone, perhaps a mix of resignation and respect. Oh was he getting used to Harry now?

"We shall keep you updated on everything Your Majesty."

"Perfect," Harry said, a single word. He ended the call, the click echoing in the small, confined cubicle.

Harry stared at the small mirror in the phone's back, catching his reflection in the dim light. His face was still his—the familiar untidy hair, the green eyes—but the sharp, almost predatory grin he wore was something… else. It wasn't the boy who used to dread confrontations, who shrank from danger. This was the smile of a Godslayer, a warrior who welcomed the storm.

He hadn't even realized he was smiling, but the thought of fighting another god, made his blood dance with an almost insane joy, a profound sense of purpose.

And he was ready. More than ready. He was eager.

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