Divine Intervention - Prologue

ALL CHARACTERS PORTRAYED WITHIN THIS STORY ARE 18 YEARS OLD OR ABOVE.

Summary: Weary from battle and wishing a respite from the losses of war, Harry absconds from Wizarding Britain, leaving everything he knew behind. Armed with the Hallows, Harry travels the Magical World, learning secrets long forgotten and breaking the boundaries of magic itself. However, it’s when he stumbles upon an abandoned temple that his life truly begins to change, drawing the eyes of beings long thought to have faded into history and myth…

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Prologue: The Goddess

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The forest was quiet. Unnervingly so. An unnatural stillness clung to their air, as if the trees themselves held their breath out of fear of making a sound. The absence of life of any sort was palpable. Neither birds nor wind sang a single tune, leaving the breeze listless and empty as it swept across the forest floor. 

The only sound to break the unnatural quiet was that of the soft footfalls of a lone figure.

The figure stepped through the foliage, unbothered and unhindered by the penetrating silence. He walked forward as if on a casual stroll, the glow of his cigarette illuminating his face for the barest of moments as he took a drag, revealing the sharp line of his jaw dusted with a few days' worth of stubble and the glowing green of his eyes. 

Harry Potter took in the forest around him, unflinching in the unnatural quiet that enveloped him. It was why he was here after all. The residents of Malevista, a small Magical community along the eastern coast of Italy, had beseeched him personally, fearful of some mysterious malevolent force that had taken up residence in the nearby woods a few months prior. Wildlife, both magical and mundane, were driven from the forest first. Then came the whispers.

They came in the night—whispers of loved ones lost, voices crying out in despair, and wails of the damned that seeped into the minds of the whispers’ victims, calling them to the forest.

Six had been lost since it began, each wandering into the forest late at night only to never be seen again. Harry would not allow there to be a seventh.

Taking one last drag from his cigarette, the raven-haired man tossed it to the side, incinerating the remains with a pulse of magic before turning his attention to the forest at large. Nothing moved, not even the air itself, yet Harry was not fooled. He could feel the eyes on him. Since the moment he set foot into the forest, he’d been watched. He could feel the whispers wriggling against his mental shields, looking for any crack or crease in his defences. They would find none.

With a sweep of his hand, the darkened forest exploded with light. The blazing ball of light before him burned like a miniature sun, chasing away every shadow and forcing the whispers to retreat with a violent hiss. Harry followed their retreat, using his senses to track the chill of the cursed magic’s trail.

There.

Jerking his arm out, he clenched his fist tightly around the source, his magic responding in kind, wrapping itself around the darkness beyond his sight and pulling it back to him. The forest around him shook as a vicious roar tore its way through the foliage. Whatever this creature was, it most certainly did not like to be restrained.

Smirking, Harry yanked his arm back, pulling the creature with it. Shadows surged out from the treeline, dark ropes of inky blackness that wriggled and writhed against his hold. They coalesced a dozen or so yards away, bubbling and knotting together as they formed into a tall disfigured creature.

Its face was nothing more than a cracked deer skull, its eyeless sockets burning with a deep dark anger as the tall, gnarled antlers shook from side to side. The creature was tall, over eight feet, with long arms that nearly brushed against the forest floor and sharp talon-like claws that looked to be made of rotted wood.

Harry knew what it was. He’d read about such a creature in his travels, and part of him couldn’t help but smile with excitement.

A Leshen.

It was rare to see one so far from the Slavic wilderness. Normally, they were protectors of their forests, though by the looks of the rot and decay covering its arms and torso, this one had allowed corruption to seep into its home and thus its very spirit. No wonder it wandered so far. It was no longer a spirit of protection, but of infectious darkness. The other spirits of its homeland would have driven it out themselves. Harry pitied it in a way, but pity would not stay his hand.

The Leshen roared once more, its claws tearing deep gouges into the ground as twisting roots suddenly exploded outwards, heading right towards Harry. Harry stood unflinchingly as they approached. With a flick of his wrist, his wand appeared, the weight familiar and welcoming in his hand. He lifted the holly wand as the roots grew ever closer. Moments before they could wrap around him and squeeze the life from his lungs, a dark purple spell shot outwards, slicing through the roots and turning them into burning heaps of ash. The spell didn't stop there. It sailed further and further through the air, careening across the clearing in the blink of an eye, where it impacted against the Leshen’s chest. The corrupted spirit shrieked, clutching its smouldering chest in pain.

Not willing to give it time to recuperate, Harry pulled his wand back and twisted it upwards. It takes only a muttered word for storm clouds to form in the cloudless night sky. The darkened mist crackles with energy, bright white light tearing at the edges before–

BOOM!

The entire surrounding forest is lit up as a single bolt of lightning rains down upon the screeching Leshen. Its horrified wail of pain is drowned out by the deafening thunderclap. All that remained as the light receded was a singular smoking pile of ash that was easily banished with a flick of his wand.

Harry sighs as he surveys the charred forest growth.

That was almost disappointingly easy.

However, just as he turns to walk away, the whispers return with a vengeance, as too does a cacophony of screeching howls echoing from the tangle forest. Over a half-dozen Leshens step out from the dense foliage, all as equally rotted and corrupted as their fallen brother. Their combined creaking growls of anger as they glared murderously towards Harry would be enough to send any sane man running for the hills.

Harry, however, only smiled.

-

“Grazie, Signore Potter! Grazie!”

Harry smiled as he shook the councilman’s hand. To say the people of Malevista were relieved to be free of the Leshen scourge would be an understatement. When he returned with the good news, the village had all but been ready to throw a celebration in his name, one that Harry politely declined. Though that didn’t mean he was ready to walk away empty-handed.

“Your payment as promised, Signore!” The councilman gestured to his assistant, a pretty bronze-skinned witch with dark russett coloured hair and light caramel eyes. She smiled shyly as she approached, a thick leather-bound tome clutched in her hands and a dusting of blush on her cheeks.

Harry’s smile turned more genuine as he caught sight of the book. The ancient lettering carved into the spine told him enough to know that it was indeed authentic.

Shooting the young witch a wink that only made her blush deepen, Harry took the leather-bound tome and flipped it open. Aged parchment met his eyes, every inch covered in beautiful Greek text.

τῇ θεῷ ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἴη! τὴν ἐπιστήμην τῶν ἀπορρήτων προσφέρομεν. δῶρον ἐκ τῆς βασιλίσσης τῆς μαγείας καὶ μητρὸς τῶν ἀποκρύφων. εὐλογεῖτε αὐτήν! εὐλογεῖτε Ἑκάτην!

Only through his years of study could he read the words. This book was devoted to the goddess of magic. It was a praise to Hecate and her teachings, sharing the knowledge that the wizards of ancient Greece learned through her. Harry licked his lips in anticipation. This was exactly what he was looking for.

“Thank you, Signore Rinaldi,” Harry said, giving the man a nod.

The councilman waved him off. “It is nothing! You’ve done the people of Malevista a great service! Are you sure you will not stay for the celebrazione?”

Harry shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I must move on.”

“Certo,” the councilman nodded in understanding. “Safe travels, my friend!”

Leaving the quiet village, Harry soon apparated himself back to his room in Venice. The five-star hotel he was staying at came with every luxury one could imagine, and some that one couldn’t, but in that moment, he had only one focus.

Eagerly, he threw off his cloak and settled down into the closest chair. Opening the ancient tome with a glint of excitement in his eyes, Harry began to read. 

For the past ten years or so, the Man-Who-Won had spent his time travelling the world studying every bit of obscure magic he could. Some of what he’s learned could honestly put Voldemort to shame. The megalomaniac had been obstinate in his belief of superiority, so that he failed to see the boundless knowledge just waiting to be discovered outside England’s shores, a failing that Harry most certainly did not share.

From South America to Japan, he’s travelled, learning and honing his magic. Through his travels, he’s taken on contracts similar to the one he completed tonight, challenges against different beasts and dark wizards terrorising innocent people as a test of his skill. His fight with the Leshens was nothing new. Harry has faced all manner of beasts, many worse than the corrupted nature spirits.

He once fought a Nundu in the plains of the Saharra, where the deadly feline’s powers were at their peak. He razed encampments of cyclops that threatened to destroy an entire Swedish village of muggles. Triumphed over hags and malevolent fae in games of wit. Once, he even slew a dragon singlehandedly for an ancient Vampire Queen high up in the Romanian mountains. That was a fierce fight, and it only got worse after he slew the dragon, as the Vampire Queen seemed determined to turn Harry into one of her concubines as a ‘reward’. Needless to say, Harry wouldn't be going back to Romania any time soon.

In all his travels, though, it was his journey to Greece five years ago that stuck with him the most.

He had been charged by the local Gringotts branch to explore a ruined temple some hundred or so miles off the southern coast of Ithaca. It was one obscured from muggles by a thick blanket of magic that seemingly had no known origin. It seemed to coalesce heavily around the temple itself, gathering so thickly there that even experienced curse-breakers found themselves turned away, confused as to why they were even there in the first place.

Gringotts had spent a fortune trying to understand the strange magical wards, if only to circumvent them and obtain the treasures of the temple for themselves. Yet even the brightest minds gold could buy were unable to come up with an answer. The best they could determine was that the magical energy surrounding the isle did not act so much as a set of wards, but instead as some sort of strange ‘Mist’. It was unlike anything anyone has ever seen, and Gringotts, for their part, were stumped.

Which is where Harry came in.

Why they reached out to him? He had no clue. Harry figured the goblins were just desperate and thought maybe throwing the hero of the wizarding world at the problem would work.

Lucky for them, it did.

He arrived at the Island prepared for the worst. Indeed, when he first set foot onto the beach, he could practically feel the magical energy hum against his skin. The air was thick with the strange ‘Mist’, but Harry wasn’t concerned. Over the years, he spent countless hours honing his ability in the mind arts until he was on par with Voldemort himself before the madman’s death. 

It was such a shame all that training wasn’t needed.

Harry hadn’t actually done anything, per se. The moment he stepped past the boundary line that the curse-breakers before him marked, the energised humming just…stopped. The thick veil of magic dissipated, morphing from this overbearing humid fog into a gentle breeze that brushed against his flesh. It was strangely welcoming.

Five Years Ago

Harry took a moment to study the large courtyard before him. Gringotts' description of the temple had painted the image of a crumbling, overgrown ruin lost to time. Yet the oppressive structure before him could hardly be called a ‘ruin’.

Perched upon a cliff along the Island’s western shore, the temple towered over the darkened valley below. The scent of ash and incense clung to the air, yet Harry could see no fire nor the whispers of smoke. Built in a similar fashion to many of the Ancient Greek temples, the high sloping roof was hoisted up by a series of tall pillars. The pillars, however, were not a shining white but cut from the darkest inky black stone Harry had ever seen. They bordered the main structure, inlaid with a myriad of circular silver etchings that gleamed in the moonlight. The entire temple, in fact, seemed to almost glow in the light of the moon. 

Surrounding the central structure were a handful of other buildings, smaller than the main temple but no less grand. To the left stood a strange crescent-shaped building with a roof of dark slate tiles edged with bronze. It had no doors, allowing Harry to peek inside, where a large obsidian bowl was carved into the floor, filled with water. Above, a circular window allowed the moonlight to pour in, where it reflected across the pool's surface. Its purpose was lost to Harry, so he moved on. The other structure was nothing more than a small courtyard surrounded by the same inky black pillars that bordered the main temple. It held no special pool or other such carvings. Instead, the ground itself was an intricate labyrinth of bronze channels that formed a symbol of a full moon with a waxing crescent on the left and a waning one on the right.

Giving the small courtyard a lingering glance, he finally turned to the temple proper.

Two large doors greeted him at the top of the steps. The image of three hooded women with inky black eyes decorated the front. Two of the women stood behind the third, the one on the left smiling with youthful glee as she clutched a dagger in her hands. The one on the right beheld a sterner expression, her back hunched and her clawed hands clutching a writhing snake.

The centre woman, however, stood with a neutral expression, her black eyes boring into Harry while two bronze etched torches blazed in her hands. 

Something about the central woman drew him in. He couldn’t explain it. It was like this pull that urged him forward. Unconsciously, he raised a hand, reaching out towards the ethereal mosaic as if he could touch the woman herself.

‘What am I doing?’ he thought, jerking his hand back inches before his fingers made contact with the door.

There was no telling what sort of nasty curses and jinxes protected this place and he was just gonna, what? Touch the first fucking thing he saw without even checking. Moody was probably rolling in his grave right about now.

Grumbling to himself, Harry waved his hand, casting a myriad of dark magic detection spells in the blink of an eye. Each one came back empty, much to his relief, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take precautions. With a snap of his fingers, the door swung open, a bubble head charm forming over his mouth and nose as he stepped forward. He didn’t notice, as the door swung close, the mosaic change to show only the image of the central woman, her neutral features twisted into a look of utter delight.

Present Day

Harry frowned as he recalled the strange temple. Much to the goblins’ disappointment, the temple had been utterly devoid of gleaming treasures. Besides more extravagant mosaics of the three women, the temple had been practically empty, save for a small room tucked away in the back. Harry had almost missed it, so distracted was he by the rather imposing art adorning the temple walls.

He’d been studying one in particular, a scene of the torch-bearing woman standing tall before a crowd of worshipers. Carvings of starlight were shown to be bursting forth from her fingertips, enveloping the crowd of her followers in a bright white aura. He’d been so entranced by the sight that he barely noticed as a chilling breeze swept past him, pushing aside a thick purple tapestry and revealing a door hidden behind.

What he found inside was nothing short of Hermione’s most erotic fantasy. Tall shelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with ancient tomes of all shapes and sizes. A good few he found were rotted away, seemingly unprotected by whatever magic kept the temple in pristine condition. However, most had seemed to be in at least decent shape, but it had been the large golden etched book sitting atop a gleaming bronze pedestal that caught his eye. Harry didn’t know what had compelled him to open the book. Every natural instinct had screamed at him in that moment to retreat, but it was like there had been some other force muffling those instincts. Soothing them almost. Whatever it was, it’d been enough for Harry to step forward and flip open the first page.

He still remembered his surprise when the Ancient Greek text within shimmered, transforming itself to perfectly legible English.

‘The Age of Olympus’

What followed was a surprise even to him. The strange book was a complete compendium of Greek Mythology, its Pantheon, and beyond. He knew some of the myths, of course. Before Hogwarts, one of his primary school teachers had made the entire class study the Odyssey. A bit of an intense assignment for 10-year-olds, but he hadn't been a very good teacher to begin with.

But the book before him then delved even deeper. To the pages within, the Ancient Gods of old weren't myths at all, but a fact. Grand beings who oversaw the world, their nature ever shifting and changing, beyond what mortals could comprehend. 

Some of the tales he read disgusted him. The abuse that many of the gods subjected mortals to was horrible, but where some gods were despicable, others were kind and nurturing. Including the very goddess whose temple he had stood in all those years ago.

Hecate.

Even now, the name never failed to bring a brush of warmth across his mind. From what the legends said, Hecate was the goddess of magic itself. She was the one who gifted mankind with the ability to wield the arcane arts, the mother of modern-day wizards and witches themselves. He’d become enraptured with the goddess—with the entire Greek Pantheon as a whole, really (Though he could do without the million or so tales of Zeus whoring himself out to anything with a pulse), and hungered to learn more.

Thankfully, the temple’s library was happy to help.

He spent a week on the Island reading text after text. From tomes filled with long forgotten spells and rituals to ancient forms of wand-crafting to even a book about properly preparing sacrifices…that one he only skimmed briefly before putting away with a look of disgust.

In the end, he learned more than enough to become obsessed with the arcane arts of Ancient Greece, and by extension, Hecate herself.

Thus began his new mission, finding any and all information he could on the Greek mythos, whether mundane or magical. He discovered much in the last five years, his power only growing as he mastered the lost magical teachings.

Beyond the spells and rituals, however, was one undeniable fact that Harry was sure of. The Greek Gods weren’t myths; they were real.

He didn't know why he felt so sure, but something in his very soul told him it was true. He’s never felt as powerful as he has when wielding the magic supposedly passed down from Hecate herself. It was one of the many reasons why he was so invested in his search, so he could learn from the goddess of magic, not for power as Voldemort and Dumbledore did before him, but as a tool to wield so that men like them could never harm the world again. Perhaps if he held such a power, his friends wouldn’t have suffered as much as they had during the war…

Harry shook himself from his grief-ridden thoughts. Gods, he needed a drink.

Did he know for sure the gods were real? Of course not, but Harry was willing to bet everything he had that they were. 

Closing the book, Harry stood and snapped his fingers, magically swapping his battle robes for a comfortable set of crisp grey slacks and a navy-blue button-up. 

He would find gods, even if it was the last thing that he did.

Little did Harry know, as he sat at the bar of one of Venice’s more premier nightclubs some time later, that his search would be coming to a very sudden end.

He hadn’t seen her at first, too lost in memories of the past and the swirling amber depths of his drink. But something unseen began to pull at him, gentle at first, like a tide tugging at the frayed edges of thought. He hadn’t meant to look. Yet the world seemed to still for a heartbeat, and in that hush, his eyes found her.

To say her eyes were blue would be the understatement of the century. Blue didn't even begin to describe them. It was as if he were gazing into the restless sea itself—foamy, wild, and impossibly blue, as if the ocean had poured its soul into her eyes and never asked for it back, but her beauty didn't stop there.

The woman’s hair fell in waves of molten gold, catching the light like a net cast by the sun itself. She moved like a siren stepped out of legend, her beauty so flawless it seemed carved from something older than time—mythical and unearthly, the kind that made men forget their names and sailors steer willingly into the storm. Even a Veela would pale beside her.

‘Fleur couldn't hold a candle to her,’ he thought.

Her figure was no less spellbinding. Voluptuous and eye-catching, the kind of shape that artists dream of and poets fail to capture. Full hips swayed with effortless grace, the soft curve of her waist leading to the generous rise of her chest, every line of her body alive with power and elegance. She wore her curves like a crown, boldly, unashamed, as if she knew the world would bend before her and smile as it did. Each step was a slow, deliberate melody, her presence stirring the air like the hush before a storm.

As she drew closer, the air itself seemed to change as well. Her perfume, soft and intoxicating, sweeter than any flower dared bloom, lingered like a secret on the skin. It was the scent of forbidden fruit and faraway dreams.

She stepped forward, those impossible blue eyes locking with his, and Harry realised, with a slow, stunned certainty, that she was coming straight toward him.

Her approach was effortless, a graceful glide that seemed to slow time itself. Her lips—soft and full—held a secret power, curving into a breathtaking smile that both promised danger and offered warmth, a smile that could unravel the strongest resolve as her eyes trailed up and down his form.

As she slid into the seat beside him, the air between them shimmered with unspoken possibility. The faintest trace of her perfume wrapped around him like a delicate spell that Harry was utterly helpless to resist.

She said nothing at first, the silence between them heavy and electric. Then, without turning her eyes away from him, she tilted her head toward the bartender and spoke in a voice as smooth and melodic as a lullaby carried on the breeze. “Apple Martini, per favore.” 

Harry didn’t think twice, nodding towards the bartender to make the woman’s drink.

“You know,” she said softly, her voice like silk, “they say it’s rude to stare at a girl without buying her a drink first.” As if summoned, the bartender appeared, setting a bright red cocktail down with shaking hands. “But it seems like we already skipped to that part, hmm?”

Somehow, Harry found his voice, a lazy smile sliding across his lips despite the hammering of his heart inside his chest.

“Seems so,” he said, leaning forward to offer her his hand. “I’m Harry.”

The woman’s smile turned somewhat amused, yet it was her eyes that caught his attention. The restless sea within grew almost hungry, glowing with a ravenous froth.

“Hello, Harry,” she spoke, her voice plucking the strings of his heart with each syllable as she reached up to take his hand. “You may call me Helen.”

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Author’s Note

This prompt was given to me by a patron, and I immediately fell in love with it. I hope you all enjoyed the prologue, and kudos to whoever guesses the identity of Helen first (I didn't really make it a secret lol)

Thanks for reading!