Chapter 38. Faith
Daphne Greengrass
The attack on them was not a surprise.
They left the Great Hall after dinner and were on their way to the common room when it happened. Astoria was lamenting the fact that she couldn't attend the Gryffindor-only party, prompting a consoling pat from Tracey when suddenly their path forwards was blocked and their way back was cut off.
Eleven Slytherins—a mix of sixth and seventh years—cornered them in the narrow corridor. At the front, Pansy stood as the ringleader, glaring at them viciously, making it obvious what was going to occur. A bloodbath. A misplaced vengeance.
Daphne is pleased to say the ambush was a complete failure, an inconvenience rather than a disaster. She didn't give them a chance to gloat, to taunt, or to explain why. It was classic revenge; she understood that. This lot had lost their families to Rayhmir, and since they couldn't touch him, they went after the ones in their reach—namely Neville, Daphne, and Astoria, who were the children of Rayhmir's 'friends'. Tracey did nothing to deserve it, except for staying by her side until the end.
Daphne had discreetly used the power bestowed on her by Harry, signalling Astoria and Tracey to remain close, creating a Safe Zone around them. And then, before the imbeciles could realise how useless they had become, she swept her wand lightning quick and spun on her heels, muttering a spell under her breath, drawing a loop.
"Shields!" one seventh-year shouted, recognising her spell. But the warning came too late. It was already done.
The angry spells shot at her dispersed into nothing, including one Cruciatus Curse that Pansy managed to throw, affected by the mandate that nothing could hurt her in this Safe Zone. It nearly made her flinch, but her faith in Harry kept her from panicking. Her spell, unlike theirs, did not vanish. A ring of force exploded outwards with her in the center, crashing into her housemates, sending them flying. Some crashed into the walls, while others slammed into the heavy armors lining the corridor.
Pained gasps and heavy grunts surrounded her as the attackers curled into balls where they lay, clutching their sore sides or broken limbs.
Just to be on the safer side, she stunned every last one of them.
Then came the time to report them.
Calling Dumbledore was easy. Being attuned so closely to magic has many advantages. She is always conscious of the dome-like ward containing the castle and its surroundings. The tap of her magic against it was akin to a knock on a door. That should've gotten the Headmaster's attention. And it did.
He flamed to their location with a phoenix on his shoulder, calm but prepared to spring into action any moment. His wizened face turned grim at the sight of unconscious, sprawled figures. At his request, she told him everything.
It's the reason why Daphne and her two companions are in the Hospital Wing, having followed the Headmaster after the report. Apparently, they weren't the only ones attacked tonight. Neville Longbottom was also targeted. And unlike them, he didn't come out without a scratch.
He didn't survive at all.
Now he lies before them in a bed, pale and peaceful. No one could mistake him to be sleeping—the torn side of his neck, likely from a cutting spell, makes it clear that he isn't breathing.
Astoria looks angry and shocked, her eyes bright with unshed tears. It seems he was her friend. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, considering how much time Astoria spends with the Gryffindors. Yet, Daphne is not prepared to console her dispirited sister. She herself is running on fumes. If not for Tracey's hand in hers, she would've crumpled on the floor from exhaustion. Pansy and the others were actually going to murder them! She didn't think they'd go that far. But seeing the lifeless body of Neville terrifies and relieves her. They've survived. If she didn't have the power of Safe Zone, she and the two most important people in her life would be beside Neville, dead and cold. She lived because she had Harry's favour. She lived because she forewarned him about the attack on Rose Evans. Her insides clench at the thought of a what if scenario, at the thought of having never informed him, at having never received the priceless boon of Safe Zone.
She watches on in bewilderment as the professors question the ones who ambushed her. They spill the beans and tell them how it was Draco who planned the entire attack. He split the furious and dissatisfied Slytherins into two groups, aiming to kill Neville, Daphne, and Astoria in one swoop.
Unfortunately, unlike Pansy's group, Draco and the others were successful and fled the castle after killing Neville. They knew this would be their last day in the school. They knew it would be their last day as free men and women. Yet, they went ahead with it. They must value vengeance over a good, stable life. They must be really mad to have made this irrevocable decision, to attain a crumb of satisfaction in return for a life of fugitives. They must be s—
"Can you repeat what happened for the professors, Miss Greengrass?" Dumbledore asks, breaking her line of thought.
She tells them how her housemates tried to attack her, how she used the power given to her by 'Rayhmir' to keep herself safe. They don't doubt her, presuming she got that ability because of her family's connection. It's as she's repeating her story when Alice Longbottom barges into the room, followed by her agitated husband.
They both freeze at the sight of Neville's body. Whereas Lady Longbottom falls on her knees and experiences a meltdown, Frank Longbottom yells at Dumbledore, asking how this could happen under his very nose. The Headmaster has the decency to suffer verbal abuse without a word of protest. Once the tirade stops, he explains how Draco Malfoy devised the attack.
"But why?" Frank Longbottom hisses, his face pinched in rage and grief. "Why would the boy do this?"
"Revenge, Frank. That boy lost his father in the Auction. He couldn't get back at Rayhmir. So he chose to go after your son since Alice is Rayhmir's known associate."
Daphne grimaces at Professor Brown's blunt yet astute observation. He could have phrased it better though. Emotions are already running high, stretched to their limits. A grieving couple has lost their son, their sorrow twisting into rage, turning them into volatile beings. One spark is all it would take to shatter the fragile civility holding everything together.
Her fears prove true when Frank Longbottom rounds on his wife, screaming his throat raw as he unloads all his anger and helplessness—blaming her for their son's death, calling her vile, selfish, a whore, and everything in between.
The professors step in to calm him down, to silence him, aware that words spoken in anger can never be taken back. Alice Longbottom endures it all without a reaction, sitting by Neville's side, holding his hand, staring at his face as if waiting for him to wake up at any moment.
Daphne knows how uncomfortable Tracey and Astoria must be. She herself feels like an outsider, watching the Longbottom family tear itself apart, knowing she isn't meant to see this. That it's a private affair. The one sided rage from Frank Longbottom makes her wonder how her own parents would've reacted if she'd really died. Would her mother yell at her father too? Would she call him names for working under Harry? She doubts it. They'd merely accept the empty condolences and relocate her body home, grieving in private before forgetting her altogether. She doesn't think her mother could break like Alice Longbottom. She doesn't believe her father could muster up Frank Longbottom's rage. Her parents don't care about her that much.
"We should go," Tracey whispers, squeezing her hand.
Daphne swallows all the complicated feelings and nods back, drifting towards Professor McGonagall to ask for permission; Dumbledore is still busy pacifying Frank Longbottom, while Professor Evans is attempting to draw a word out of a mute Alice Longbottom.
"May we go, Professor?" she asks.
Professor McGonagall drags her gaze away from the Longbottoms and fixes her with a pitying look. "Where would you go? House Slytherin is not safe for you anymore."
It hasn't been for a while now but she doesn't disagree. "I'm sure there are numerous empty quarters ready to house us."
Professor McGonagall inclines her head. "We prepared three quarters for the Triwizard champions. Only one is occupied presently. Follow me."
Before they can do that, a blonde man marches into the room.
Daphne's eyes widens, and her heart skips a beat. He is the most beautiful—not handsome but beautiful—man she has ever seen. And he looks hundred times more magnificent than the photo in the Daily Prophet.
He wears a fashionable white cloak over a matching white shirt and trousers. His effeminate face is framed by lustrous golden locks, the rest gathered in a loose bun at the back. His deep blue eyes are grave, brimming with immense power, while his full lips draw every gaze like bees to honey.
Wait, is she hallucinating, or does his cloak actually glow? Dressed in all white, with light features, he looks utterly divine, almost ethereal.
Even Frank Longbottom cannot summon his previous rage; he simply gapes at the man.
Dumbledore and the professors don't question why or how he is here. Even Professor Evans looks awed and dumbstruck, as if Rayhmir isn't her own son in disguise.
Astoria and Tracey stand frozen at her sides, unable to tear their eyes away from the impossibly beautiful man.
"Alice," Rayhmir murmurs softly, placing a gentle hand on the mother's shoulder before glancing at Neville's body.
At last, Alice Longbottom stirs from her fugue. She blinks, recognition dawning as her pupils dilate. Then, she tumbles from the bed, colliding into him—clutching him like a lifeline. Her heart-wrenching sobs wrap around them, heavy and damp, suffocating in their grief.
Daphne winces, the grief of a mother striking a chord within her. Astoria wipes her eyes, while Tracey stares at her feet, unwilling to bear witness to this tragedy.
Rayhmir grips Alice Longbottom's shoulders and gently pushes her back just enough to meet her eyes. He wipes her tears away before cupping her face, the gesture so intimate that Daphne instinctively glances at Frank Longbottom, who looks as if he's bitten into a lemon.
"Tell me, Alice, what do you desire?"
There is authority in his words, a weight that presses down on everyone present. Daphne stills, unable to believe her ears. He couldn't possibly do that. He can't—can he? It's impossible.
Alice falls to her knees, gazing up at him with a wretched expression, her voice hoarse yet trembling with hope. "I want my son back."
Rayhmir gives a slow, deliberate nod. "If that's what you wish."
A golden light flares to life, radiating from Rayhmir like a rising sun, washing over Neville's lifeless body. The air hums with power, thick and electric. Time itself seems to hold its breath.
Then—Neville gasps.
His wound is gone. His chest rises and falls in shuddering breaths. His eyes snap open, wide with confusion, before he bolts upright, dragging air into lungs that should no longer function.
"W-What's happening?" Neville rasps, rubbing his head.
Alice scrambles onto the bed and crushes him in an embrace, sobbing in pure, unfiltered joy. Neville doesn't resist—he must remember now. He knows what happened. And he understands that his mother needs this. So he holds her just as tightly, letting her pour out every fear, every sorrow, every moment of agony she had endured.
Rayhmir watches for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a soft smile, he turns and walks away.
No one stops him. No one dares question him.
Daphne is beginning to realise that maybe Harry is really divine—a god. Previously, she thought he was just an extremely powerful wizard who could act like a deity. But now, she doesn't think there is a need to act. He is divine. He is god.
~xXxXx~
The attack on Neville and the Greengrass sisters took me by surprise. It had been a month and a half since the whole Auction mess. Draco never acted like he was planning a last stand—he seemed broken, depressed, and scared, barely speaking at all.
Because of that, I let my guard down. I recalled the clones shadowing my family and friends; there didn't seem to be a need for them anymore. Bellatrix was dead. So was Voldemort. The only remaining enemy was Flamel, and he didn't even know we were enemies yet. An attack from him? Impossible.
That's why I let myself relax.
I should've known better.
Everyone has a limit. Losing his father pushed Draco over the edge, shoving him into a self-imposed do-or-die situation. And a man with nothing to lose can cause untold devastation. He had been biding his time, waiting for everyone to move on, just so he could strike when no one expected it.
Now, he has done it. He killed Neville and fled.
If I hadn't granted Daphne a wish, she'd be dead too, along with Tori and Davis.
Thankfully, this tragedy could be reversed. Or so I hoped.
I didn't actually know if [God of Big Things] could bring back the recently dead, but I was ninety-nine percent sure it could. If it could grant instant regeneration, practically making Iris immortal, if it could warp time itself, turning Rose into an unbeatable force, then resurrection was well within its reach.
And as I step out of the Hospital Wing, a relieved smile tugs at my lips.
My bet has paid off.
Neville is alive once again.
And Alice won't drown in misery because of me.
I'd rather not carry the guilt of a friend's death on my conscience.
I make myself invisible and hurry towards my quarters. Once close, I revert to my original form, push open the door, and find my sisters waiting.
Iris sits like a carved statue on the sofa, perfectly still, while Rose paces back and forth, each handling their stress in their own way.
Under normal circumstances, I would have pranked them while invisible. Not tonight.
I take a seat on the unoccupied sofa, feeling lighter now that Neville is alive.
Rose immediately stomps towards me, standing stiffly, her hands trembling at her sides. "Were you able to do anything?"
"Neville is fine. I resurrected him."
Her breath hitches, but before she can ask how, I continue. "I granted Alice a wish the same way I granted you your powers. She wished for her son, and it worked. Neville is alive again."
Rose stares at me for a moment, then wordlessly flops onto the sofa like a wet noodle. She sighs, closing her eyes, taking up most of the space, and I don't complain when her head finds home in my lap.
"I have so many questions," she mumbles. "But right now, I don't have the energy for them. I'm just glad Neville's alright."
Iris goes straight to the important point. "Did you revive him in front of others?"
I know exactly what she's getting at.
"Yes and no," I answer, absentmindedly twirling one of Rose's stray crimson locks. "I didn't resurrect Neville as Harry. I did it as Rayhmir, so my face won't be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow."
Iris hums in approval. "Good. Creating a persona to perform miracles was a smart move. It would have been even smarter if you hadn't snuck your real name into the pseudonym."
Such a backhanded compliment. I don't argue and just shrug, tracing the bridge of Rose's nose.
She doesn't react when my finger glides downward, nudging her upper lip. But when I push a little further, she rolls her eyes, parts her mouth, and—before I can pull back—my finger slips inside, greeted by a warm, slimy tongue.
The door opens again, and Mum trudges in, collapsing onto the sofa beside Iris.
She looks at me with a storm of emotions, though awe stands out the most. Expertly ignoring the fact that my finger is in my sister's mouth, she says, "I didn't know you could bring people back to life."
"I can't," I reply, my voice steady even as Rose sucks on my finger. "Not exactly. It was a gamble that my wish-granting ability would work. If it hadn't, I wouldn't have been any help today."
Mum scratches her eyebrow, her expression thoughtful. "This will skyrocket Rayhmir's already unprecedented popularity. Unfortunately, it comes with drawbacks. Now that the wizarding world has shackled you with the title of 'Hero,' they expect you to act the part. That expectation will double once they realise you can bring back the dead. They're already questioning why you haven't been donating your 'Cure-All' to the poor. If you remain silent and elusive, your title will soon change to something far less flattering."
I understand exactly what she means.
Before I killed Voldemort, I was just a genius potioneer poised to become filthy rich. But ending the Dark Lord came with both rewards and obligations. Now, I have the power and influence to reshape the political system with a snap of my fingers. No one would object if I ran for Minister. In fact, people want me to act—to use my influence, to step forward, to be something more.
The masses are restless, always looking for a revolution, for a promise of something better. If I don't take control of my image, my popularity will fade, and the same people who cheered my name will find reasons to despise me. I haven't exactly endeared myself to them by doing business exclusively with the rich. The only thing keeping me in their good graces is Voldemort's death and the assumption that I need rare, expensive ingredients to craft my potions.
But now that money is no longer an obstacle, I have a choice to make.
Do I remain the elusive genius who only deals with the elite? Or do I step forward as the people's hero—the savior of the poor and middle class?
Mum's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Alice Longbottom asked me to tell you she'd like to meet with you at her place tonight." A twitch of amusement plays at the corner of her lips.
Rose finally stops sucking my finger and gives me a flat look. "Tell me you're not sleeping with her too."
I promptly drop her head from my lap and push myself to my feet. "Work call, ladies. Don't wait up. I'll be back in the morning."
Mum chuckles. Rose rolls her eyes. And Iris mutters, "Moron."
Contrary to their assumptions, I doubt Alice is calling for me because she misses my cock. Minutes ago, she was staring at her son's lifeless body. The only thing she's lusting for right now is revenge.
And honestly? She's not wrong to want it.
Let's see what she's planning.
~xXxXx~
I floo to Longbottom Mansion in my Rayhmir form. If it were only Alice, I wouldn't have bothered to alter my appearance. But with the possibility of Frank being here, my real identity must remain hidden.
The living room is dark and empty, the flickering fireplace casting restless shadows across the furniture. It's too early for them to be asleep. Where are they?
"Alice!" I call her name.
No response.
With a seed of apprehension firmly lodged in my chest, I check the surrounding rooms. There's no lights anywhere. It's quiet everywhere. Even the kitchen is shrouded in darkness, with half-eaten dinner left on the dining table.
"Alice!" I yell, climbing the stairs to the upper floor, advancing towards the master bedroom.
Apprehension dims, and hope surges at the sight of light spilling through the gap under the door.
Without asking for permission, I shove open the door, praying she's safe.
Alice isn't there, nor is Frank.
"Alice!" I call again, glancing at the ensuite. Maybe she's taking a bath.
"Out here on the balcony." Her reply brings me immeasurable relief. I was afraid Malfoy somehow managed to get to her. It's foolish and irrational, I know, but that's what happens when someone is scared out of their mind. Impossible misfortunes start to seem probable and predetermined.
Moving past the unoccupied bed, I duck through the ornate threshold in the corner and step onto the balcony. It's spacious and picturesque. The balcony is large enough to hold dozens of people and juts over a vast expanse of meticulously maintained lawn. In the distance, a pond mirrors the serene night sky.
Alice reclines in a lounge chair near the balustrade. Besides her, a short round table is laden with wine bottles. She fills her wineglass as I sink into the other lounger.
"Thanks for coming." She smiles, shifting onto her side, taking a slow sip while staring at me.
Her lips mimic a smile, but her blue eyes remain glacial, devoid of warmth—inhuman. It's understandable. Alice Longbottom is kind and decent, but seeing your child's lifeless body shatters something in you.
"Where's Frank? I figured you two would be together, baying for Malfoy's blood."
She lets out a sudden laugh, angry and bitter. "I don't know. He went who knows where once we left the castle. I doubt we'll be together for anything from now on, even for justice."
I listen as she tells me what happened before I reached the hospital wing, before I revived Neville. She repeats all the cruel words and slurs thrown at her—at me. She's right. There's no going back after that. A husband is expected to console and support his wife during a crisis. And Frank did nothing of that. He blamed her for everything and abused her right in front of others, humiliating her in public.
"I'll be discussing separation once he shows up. Our relationship has become too destructive to continue. Neither does he trust me, nor do I want him to. We are done."
"I'm sorry." I fill up a spare wineglass for myself.
She shakes her head, clinking her glass with mine. "Don't be. It's good riddance."
"To freedom, then."
"To freedom and justice."
Justice? It's a strange way to say revenge.
We drink in silence, gazing at the night sky. If the world cared for Alice's agony, the night wouldn't be so bright and beautiful. It would be overcast, heavy with rain. But the world didn't care, indifferent to human suffering.
"I have a couple of matters that need your attention. But first of all, I want to say thank you for what you did." Alice swings her legs down, rising from her chair, perching on the parapet, facing me. Her long black hair flows down her back, a few stray strands hanging over her shoulders, caressing her pale collarbone. The fluffy bathrobe she's wearing leaves a lot of cleavage on display, and it barely goes past her butt, revealing her inner thighs whenever she moves her legs. I know I won't be having her tonight, but I wish I could. She's looking mighty fine in the moonlight, and the scent of her body wash wafts over me with the gentle winds, stirring my loins.
Focusing on her face, I wave off her gratitude. "Neville was my friend before I even knew you. I didn't want to feel responsible for his death."
A true smile replaces her grim one, and her blue eyes regain a hint of warmth. "No matter your reasons, I'll be forever in debt to you for what you saved me from. Neville has always been there for me, a constant in my adult life. I don't know what I'd do if he… goes away."
"I understand." The mere thought of losing my mother and sisters—who are my constants—makes me go blank. I just cannot imagine a life without them.
"Tell me, what would you do in my place?" Alice asks, a sudden gust of cool air sweeping her hair to one side. "I can have them killed with ease. Thanks to our successful auction, I have the influence and reach to hire assassins to eliminate those who dared to hurt my son.
"Or I could strong-arm the Aurors into hunting them down. I could pressure the Wizengamot into sentencing them to life in Azkaban. Both are good options. One grants me instant gratification—their deaths. The other is far crueler: confining them to small cells, where dementors will consume them day by day, bit by bit, until nothing remains but husks of their former selves."
Her voice has gone flat, becoming robotic.
I consider the options. Honestly, I'd just kill them. I don't have the patience to watch them be tortured for life. But I know what she wants to hear. She's not asking me to decide for her—she already has. She just wants validation, to feel like she's doing the right thing.
"If they end up dead, it'll be obvious you had a hand in it." I pause to sip my wine. "You'll ruin your reputation. People like you because you're kind and affable. If you don't mind being feared or villainised, then go for it. Or let the law do its job, just nudge things from the shadows to get your preferred outcome. That way, you get your revenge and keep your reputation intact."
She nods and drops down from the parapet, the motion making her breasts jiggle. "That's what I thought. Besides, I need my reputation for what comes next."
I arch an eyebrow as she kneels before me, her eyes brimming with reverence.
"Tell me, Rayhmir... are you a god?"
I almost laugh. She should know I'm no god. She knows I'm Harry, not Rayhmir. Yet when I meet her gaze, all I see is devotion.
"Does it matter?" I ask, sidestepping the truth.
The truth is, I can use her newfound fanaticism. I've been planning my own deification for a while now. It's been my plan ever since I rolled the 'Cosmic Seed'.
[The Seed]
— A cosmic seed that grows into whatever the user deeply desires. It requires six months to fully take shape. To ensure its success, the user should keep it close, allowing it to grow familiar with them. The seed can be carried as a necklace, kept in a pocket, or held in another cherished way.
At my core, I crave recognition. Worship.
I absently toy with the Seed necklace hanging from my neck. If this unfolds as I envision, the Seed will become my faith harvester. It will let me transmute something intangible—faith—into power. Into levels.
That's the goal. A system, an instrument—something that lets me harvest power through my devotees.
I want to start a cult. A religion. I want to forge a new path to power.
Humans have always created their gods. Now, they'll make another.
Rayhmir. God of healing. God of wishes.
"You're right. It doesn't matter. I just need to have faith in you." She bows her head. "Hear me out. I want us to abandon the business. I want to build a church in your name, a place where people can worship and adore you.
"With an endless supply of 'Cure-All,' I can care for the poor and the needy, and your following will grow effortlessly. Within decades, every wizard and witch will devote themselves to you. Only you can grant salvation from all diseases and wounds. Only you can work miracles and breathe life back into the dying."
"Think about it, Rayhmir—" she leans forward, eyes gleaming. "We have more wealth than we could ever spend. Follow my plan, and your name will be etched into history. A hundred—no, a thousand—years from now, people will still remember you. They'll still exalt your name. Isn't that greater than anything we've planned before?"
She still calls me Rayhmir, not Harry.
Something in her broke after Neville's death. I assume she craves safety, the assurance that something like that will never happen again. And how does she ensure that? By becoming the priestess of a god.
She needs a god, I realise. And I need followers.
She's right. Wealth is meaningless now—I have more than I'll ever need. What I lack is godhood.
"Fine. Do as you wish."
Make me a god.