The Council Hall of Olympus was never quiet—thunder cracked along the ceiling, fire hissed from braziers shaped like dragons, and a thousand divine voices usually echoed through the space. But this morning, silence ruled.
Every Olympian was present.
Every throne was filled.
And for the first time in living memory—
Hephaestus stood in the center.
By his own summons.
The gods stared at him in open shock. Even Zeus, seated atop the tallest throne with lightning crackling along his beard, seemed genuinely curious.
Hephaestus never called meetings.
He never wanted to be here.
He preferred the comfort of his forges, the molten fire and the quiet company of creation.
Yet here he was.
Shoulders squared.
Hammer strapped to his belt.
A look in his eye that none could read.
Hermes leaned toward Apollo and whispered loudly enough for several immortals to hear:
"Is the world ending? Am I sleeping? Is he possessed?"
Apollo shrugged. "Either that or he finally snapped and wants us all dead. Place your bets."
Artemis rolled her eyes. "Silence, fools. Hephaestus would not come here without purpose."
Athena leaned forward, voice sharp but curious.
"Hephaestus, you have the floor. Speak."
The god of the forge took a breath that trembled only slightly.
Then he lifted his head.
"I bring grave news."
A ripple of unease moved through the hall.
"I found the Blade of Twilight's wielder."
Gasps, sharp and immediate. Zeus's lightning flared. Poseidon's grip tightened on his trident. Hermes looked like he swallowed a bee.
"Is that really a child like Hera claimed?" Zeus demanded. "Who was that?"
Hephaestus lifted a hand.
"I will explain. But not in rage."
He looked around the hall—at Hera, who went still; at Athena, whose eyes narrowed; at Ares, whose armor vibrated with anticipation.
"Yes, the wielder is a child."
A silence fell heavier than stone.
"A magical child," Hephaestus continued. "No demigod blood. No divine lineage."
"You mean a mistake," Ares snorted. "Something to be corrected."
Hephaestus's jaw flexed.
He ignored the war god.
"This child did not seek power. He did not desire war. The Blade chose him for his heart. His innocence. And when I"—his voice caught ever so slightly—"tried to take his life for Olympus…"
Hera's hand visibly clenched on her throne.
Artemis's eyes darkened like a clouded moon.
"…the Blade defended him. Instinctively. With a force that threw me back and unconscious."
Even the thunder paused.
"You were defeated by a child?" Hermes blurted.
Hephaestus shot him a glare that could have melted metal.
"It was not the child who struck me. It was the Blade."
"I am not here to demand the child's death," Hephaestus said firmly. "I am here to tell you that killing him will not save Olympus."
Zeus's brows lowered. "Explain."
Hephaestus looked directly at him—no fear, just truth.
"The wielder is protected by a wizard. A man named Harry Potter. You know him."
Athena stiffened.
Artemis's fingers twitched toward her bow.
Hera looked down at her lap, expression unreadable.
"He has protected our children," Hephaestus continued. "He has fought monsters in secret. His magic fortified Camp Half-Blood. He is no ally lightly discarded."
Hermes scoffed. "One mortal wizard—"
"One mortal wizard," Hephaestus interrupted, "who forged weapons stronger than the Blade of Twilight."
The hall erupted.
Accusations flew.
Demands, curses, disbelief.
Zeus was the first to recover enough to speak. His voice cracked like lightning across a calm sea.
"Why would a mortal forge weapons stronger than those crafted for the Titan War?"
His eyes narrowed like storm clouds sharpening into daggers.
"Why arm the world against Olympus… unless his intent is to topple us?"
Hephaestus held his ground, though his heart thudded like a drum inside an anvil.
"He forged them," he answered slowly, "because he knew we would come for the child."
Murmurs erupted — outrage, disbelief, dawning realization.
Hephaestus continued, louder:
"Harry Potter told me this himself — if any god lays a finger on the boy, if an Olympian even tries to take his life… he will hand his blades to every enemy you have ever made."
Ares surged up from his throne.
"This wizard dares threaten war with Olympus?"
Hephaestus snapped his gaze to him.
"He isn't threatening. He is promising. And he has the power to make good on that promise."
Athena's eyes glinted — analytic, cold. "You speak of his magic as if it eclipses divine craft."
"He has divine blood," Hephaestus said, the words heavy with weight. "Not a trace — enough that the Blade of Twilight sees him as a rival, if not an equal. Enough that the wards around his home can repel Olympian entry."
Hestia bowed her head — silently confirming what she'd known all along.
More murmurs.
Now whispers of worry.
"If we kill the boy," Hephaestus continued, "the wizard will make Titans and monsters into godslayers."
He looked around the Hall — at gods who once thought themselves unmovable.
"And Olympus will drown in its own fear."
Zeus stood.
The sky itself trembled.
"This council is adjourned," he declared, thunder curling in his voice. "I will speak to this wizard personally."
They came like a tide—quiet at first, then crashing all at once. One by one the goddesses stepped through the mansion's wards: Hera, her composure a hard, cooling flame; Athena, eyes like flint; Artemis, silver-lipped and tense; Aphrodite, furious and hurt behind a mask of beauty; and Hestia, steady as a hearth whose embers suddenly smoked.
They spilled onto the sunlit terrace just as Harry lifted a fork from a white plate. Around him the midday table was ordinary: a loaf of bread, a pot of tea, the cheerful disorder of a home. Teddy was at a corner of the garden with Percy, collecting dandelions; he did not know his guardians had just arrived in a thunder.
Hera did not announce herself. She simply stepped forward, the air growing colder, and every fallen leaf seemed to hold its breath.
"Harry Potter," Hera said, the name like a verdict.
Harry looked up calmly, lips turning into half a smile. "Ladies," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Athena moved first, voice crisp enough to slice metal. "You summoned the attention of Olympus, Potter. You have hidden this child from the council. You have—whether by luck or design—drawn the Blade of Twilight to his hand. You did not inform us. Why?"
A flash of amusement—brief, almost sad—crossed Harry's face. He set his fork down carefully, as if setting aside something fragile and dangerous. "Because telling you would have meant telling Zeus," he said. "And telling Zeus would have meant somebody dying." He met each of their eyes, steady and unafraid. "This is my house. This is my godson. I will not hand him over, to Zeus or to anyone else."
Aphrodite bristled. "Do you think we want war?" she demanded. "Do you believe any of us wishes harm upon Teddy?"
Harry's tone did not soften. "I don't care what any of you wish. I care what you are ordered to do. You swear fealty to that man on the mountaintop. If he decides a child must die to restore a convenience of power, I will not stand aside and let it happen."
Artemis stepped forward, bow half-aimed by habit. "You threaten us with bloodshed," she said coldly. "You stand in the open and tell us you will cut down the goddesses?"
Harry shrugged, as if shrugging off a chill. "Call it hyperbole if you want. Call it a promise if you must. If anyone lifts a hand against Teddy, I will use whatever it takes to keep him alive—including destroying what stands in my way."
Hestia's voice was small but heavy. "Harry, this is not only a matter of warfare. The council believes its duty is to protect Olympus and the world. If Zeus believes the Blade is a risk—"
"He believes a lot of things," Harry answered. "He believes ruling by fear is wise. He thinks a child's life is a ledger entry. I'll say it plainly: I'd rather topple Olympus than hand him a blade made for killing them all."
For a heartbeat Athena's mind ran through possibilities: stratagems, memory-spells, subterfuge. Her answer was not immediately hostile; instead it was the exacting rationality of a warrior who knows the scale of threat. "If what Hephaestus told us is true—if you have forged weapons that could sunder gods—then your defiance is not merely personal. You place the whole world on a knife edge."
Harry's stare hardened. "Hephaestus came here. He tried to kill a child—sent by Zeus or not, it does not matter. He struck first. If Olympus intends to send more blades through the dark and call it justice, they will be met."
Aphrodite's anger cracked into hurt. She stepped forward as if to touch Harry's hand and hesitated. "You could have told us. You could have asked—" Her voice broke. "You did this alone and then set us as enemies by default."
"You would have come armed," Harry said simply. "Whether you did not wish it or not, the moment Zeus smelled the chance, the hunting would begin. I will not let them groom a battlefield in my yard because they feel entitled."
Hera's expression hardened into that pale mask of royalty that had commanded armies and marriages and secrets. She had been the first to defend the child in Olympus' Council; now she regarded Harry with something like respect threaded with calculation. "You threaten Olympus," she said quietly. "You threaten its peace."
"I threaten those who would threaten my family," Harry replied. "There's a difference."
Silence pressed in. Beneath the strained politeness, the women were torn—duty against empathy. Artemis remembered the young faces of her hunters. Athena weighed the strategy. Aphrodite felt the sting of betrayal. Hestia's hands trembled, quietly stoking a resolve. Even Hera, who had sworn blood-oaths, stood with a turbulent loyalty to the child she'd protected.
Finally Athena spoke, voice measured, as if to buy time rather than give consent. "We cannot change what has begun. But we must be certain of our steps. Open conflict will bring monsters, demigods, and gods into a war no one can win quickly. Tell us plainly: what do you want from us now?"
Harry's jaw tightened. He glanced once toward where Teddy sat, playing oblivious under the sun. For a moment, the fierce protector in him softened.
"Leave him alone," he said. "Keep your hands off this home. Keep your thrones from sending killers here. Help me teach this boy to control what he now carries, or step aside. Olympus has options; so do I."
Athena's eyes narrowed but she did not move to strike. Artemis lowered her bow but did not sheath an arrow. Aphrodite's hand fell from her hair. Hestia's face, steady as a hearthstone, showed the ache of impossible choices.
Aphrodite's voice was quiet, wounded, honest. "If Zeus commands it—if you stand against your king—will you still do this? Will you truly take arms against Olympus?"
Harry's answer was a quiet promise. "If Zeus sends men, I will answer. If Olympus sends death, I will not beg for mercy. Teddy is family. That is the only law I need."
The goddesses looked at each other then—at their vows, at their oath to Hera, at the child—and the weight of what might come settled on them like storm clouds. None wanted to break the world. None wanted to fight Harry. None were sure what their duty demanded.
They left as a group, not in triumph but in fractured silence—part anger, part sorrow, and fear threading every step. Harry watched them go, fingers brushing the blade-shaped scars along the bench where he had sat for years.
As the last goddess faded through the wards, he turned toward Teddy, the ordinary boy in the sunlight, and whispered, half to the child and half to fate itself, "We have a lot of work to do."
Beyond the hedges, across the tide of the world, Olympus bent toward decision. Thunder gathered on the mountaintop. War, it seemed, had a way of beginning on the smallest of thresholds: a lawn, a lunch, a man who would not yield.
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