At first, Harry let it pass. Teddy was happy, and happiness mattered most.
The boy's days brimmed with lessons and laughter. One afternoon Athena guided his small fingers over paper and showed him how to press ink evenly into the grooves of a tiny homemade book. On another, Artemis knelt in the orchard behind Black Mansion, steadying his stance as he aimed a toy bow at a straw target. Aphrodite braided flowers into his hair and showed him how a simple scent could make even a phoenix chick calm. Hestia baked bread with him, letting his messy hands knead until dough stuck to his wrists, while Hera tried to teach him how to sit like a prince at table and answer questions with dignity.
And Teddy adored it all. He laughed, he clapped, he told Harry long stories at bedtime about everything he'd learned that day. For a time, Harry was content to watch. Teddy was loved, guided, kept safe. What more could he want?
But Harry was not blind. And Harry was not naïve.
One evening, long after Teddy had fallen asleep with crumbs of Hestia's biscuit still on his nightshirt, Harry sat by the fire with a cup of tea cooling in his hand. The goddesses' laughter echoed faintly from the halls — Athena and Artemis disputing something about bookbinding glue, Aphrodite humming as she inspected her nails, Hera's voice clipped but steady as she advised Andromeda on "proper" posture. Teddy's name came up too often in their words. Teddy, Teddy, Teddy — as if his godson were the sun they all orbited.
Harry frowned.
Yes, Teddy was precious. Adorable. But so were dozens of children running through Doce Encanto's shops every weekend. So were the young campers who trained daily at Camp Half-Blood, half-mortal and half-god, some desperate for the attention of the very parents who now lingered here.
Why Teddy?
Harry's eyes darkened as truth crept into his thoughts. It isn't Teddy. It's me.
They wanted him. And because Harry had turned away their subtle advances — or in Aphrodite's case, resisted outright charms — they had turned their efforts toward Teddy. Not out of cruelty, perhaps, but out of pride. Out of a need to prove that if Harry would not yield, then they could still claim through Teddy.
It was a challenge. A game. And Harry was the prize.
Harry set his tea down with a sharp clink.
The next morning, Harry found Artemis in the garden, her silver cloak brushing against dew-wet grass. Teddy was in her arms, head pressed against her shoulder, while she pointed to constellations still faint in the dawn sky.
Harry crossed the lawn. "Artemis."
She glanced back. "You're awake early."
"I couldn't sleep," Harry said. He reached out, and Teddy stirred as if sensing the pull of his daddy's voice. Artemis hesitated before surrendering him, and Harry held Teddy close, breathing in the child's soft warmth.
"Harry?" Artemis asked carefully.
Harry didn't answer at once. He looked at her — really looked. The goddess of the Hunt, radiant and untouchable, who once had sworn to stand apart from love and marriage. Yet here she was, cradling another man's child while her own hunters — the girls she called daughters — waited for her guidance.
"Where are your hunters?" Harry asked quietly.
Artemis blinked. "Phoebe watches them. She is more than capable."
"And yet you're here," Harry said. His tone was calm, but it cut sharper than a blade.
Artemis stiffened. "You think I neglect them?"
Harry sighed. "I think… you're letting a challenge distract you. And you're not the only one."
Later that day, he found Athena in the study, showing Teddy how to fold parchment into precise shapes. Teddy's small face lit up as he managed a clumsy crane.
"Smart boy," Athena praised.
Harry leaned against the doorframe. "Smart, yes. But he's not yours to raise."
Athena's quill froze in her hand. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Harry stepped forward, lowering his voice so Teddy wouldn't hear. "You have your own children, Athena. Children who wait years for a moment of recognition. And you sit here, teaching mine how to fold paper birds. Why?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Because he deserves knowledge. Because I see potential—"
"Because I am not falling for your charm," Harry interrupted.
The silence cracked like thunder. Teddy looked up, puzzled. "Daddy?"
Harry forced a smile. "It's all right, Teddy. Why don't you go show Andromeda your crane?"
Teddy scampered off, clutching the paper bird. The moment the door shut, Athena set her quill down with deliberate care.
"You think this is vanity?" she asked, voice edged with steel.
"I think it started as ego," Harry said. "And maybe it's grown into something more. But it's not fair, Athena. Not to Teddy. Not to your own children. Not to anyone."
For once, Athena did not answer. She only watched him, gray eyes storm-dark.
By evening, Harry gathered them all in the Black Mansion's great hall.
The goddesses arrived one by one, curious at his summons. Artemis folded her arms. Athena carried a parchment roll. Aphrodite strolled in with a lazy smile, while Hera moved like judgment itself. Hestia lingered last, warmth steadying the room.
Harry stood by the hearth, Teddy asleep upstairs, Andromeda keeping watch.
"I've let this go on too long," Harry said plainly. "Teddy loves you all. He learns from you. But I know why you're here. It isn't him. It's me."
The goddesses exchanged looks — ashamed, defensive, thoughtful.
Harry pressed on. "I won't let Teddy become a prize in some contest. He's not a chess piece. He's a child. And while you're here fighting for his time, your own children wait. Some of them need you more than he ever will." His gaze flicked to Artemis. "Hunters who look to their goddess." To Athena. "Daughters and sons who beg for wisdom." To Hera. "Children shunned because of your pride." To Aphrodite. "Half-bloods aching for love that isn't fleeting."
Even Aphrodite's smile faltered.
Hestia spoke softly. "Harry…"
"No," Harry said firmly. "This ends before it escalates. Visit him, yes. Care for him, yes. But not like this. Not as rivals. Not as mothers staking claims." He looked at each of them, voice low and fierce. "If you truly care for Teddy, prove it by being better mothers to your own children. Not by trying to outshine each other with mine."
Silence stretched. The fire popped in the hearth.
Finally, Artemis bowed her head. "Perhaps you are right."
Athena's lips pressed thin, but she did not argue.
Aphrodite sighed, dramatic but quiet. "It's unfair when mortals speak truth."
Hera alone met his eyes, regal and unyielding. "You may regret chastising gods so openly, Harry Potter. But perhaps you are the only one who could."
Harry exhaled. His hands trembled, but his voice stayed steady. "Then let it be clear. Teddy is not your battlefield. Not now, not ever."
And upstairs, in the quiet of his room, Teddy turned in his sleep, clutching his phoenix chick close. The little bird chirped once, as if sensing that battles far larger than itself had shifted that night.
The mansion felt quieter in the days that followed.
For the first time since the goddesses had discovered Teddy's laughter, the corridors weren't filled with their voices. No rustle of Artemis' silver cloak trailing behind her, no crisp sound of Athena lecturing over parchment, no musical hum of Aphrodite filling the kitchen with perfume. Their absence left the air still — and Teddy noticed it.
"Daddy," Teddy asked one evening as they sat together on the wide couch, the phoenix chick dozing in Teddy's lap, "did I do something wrong? Did they stop liking me?"
Harry put an arm around him and drew him close. "No, Teddy. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why don't they come anymore?"
Harry thought a moment, weighing his words carefully. "Because they have their own lives, their own people who need them. Sometimes, Teddy, even if we love being somewhere, we have to go back to our duties. It doesn't mean they don't like you. It just means they're busy."
Teddy's lip trembled for a moment, but he nodded. "So… it's not my fault?"
Harry ruffled his hair. "Not at all. They care for you, but we should let them live their lives. And we'll live ours. Okay?"
The boy leaned against him, small and warm. "Okay."
And to Harry's quiet pride, Teddy accepted it. He still sighed now and then, but he stopped waiting by the window every afternoon. He stopped asking if Aunt Artemis would take him to the garden, or if Athena would bring more paper. He was content when Hestia arrived with warm bread, or when Hera came in her regal stride that somehow softened into laughter when the door closed behind her.
Hera changed.
When the others had still been visiting, she had carried herself like marble — perfectly poised, voice clipped, chin high. She sat in the home theater like a queen in a foreign court, commenting on the quality of mortal film and shaking her head at "how noisy" the plots were. Even her affection for Teddy had been measured, as if she were afraid of how the others might judge her.
But now, with no one else to impress, the mask slipped.
One evening, Harry found her in the kitchen — not the theater — sleeves rolled back as she helped Hestia knead dough. She laughed when flour smeared across her nose, and when Teddy ran in with sticky fingers, she scooped him up without hesitation, ignoring the smudges on her robe.
"Careful," Harry said, surprised. "That's your gown."
"It washes," Hera said with a shrug, a sound Harry never thought he'd hear from her. "Children are more important than silk."
Teddy giggled. "Aunt Hera, you look like a ghost!" He poked the flour mark on her nose.
She kissed his forehead, ignoring the mess. "Then I am your ghost, little one."
Harry leaned on the doorframe, watching. There was no pretense here, no rivalry. Just Hera being… cheerful.
Later, as Teddy slept, Harry sat with her in the quiet drawing room. Hera's golden hair caught the lamplight, and her eyes were softer than he had ever seen.
"You surprise me," Harry admitted.
Hera's lips curved. "Do I? Most mortals expect me to be cruel, or jealous, or demanding. That is the tale Olympus likes to tell."
"You were… different before," Harry said carefully. "When the others were around."
Her smile thinned. "A queen must guard her dignity when surrounded by rivals. Even goddesses." Then she met his eyes. "But here… there is no need."
Harry hesitated, then asked the thought that had lingered in him for days. "Why do you respect me, Hera? You could have ordered me aside like anyone else. Yet you didn't."
Her gaze sharpened, not angry, but intent. "Because you did not bow."
Harry frowned. "Isn't that usually a reason for punishment?"
"From others, yes." She leaned back, studying him. "But my husband, Zeus… for all his thunder, he has never made me obey. Not truly. He commands, I resist. He rages, I defy. That is the way of things. But you—" She paused, voice softening. "You spoke to me as if we were equals. You did not fear me. You did not flatter me. You simply said no. Do you know how rare that is, Harry Potter?"
Harry looked down at his hands. "I only wanted what was fair for Teddy."
"And that," Hera said firmly, "is why I respect you. Not even the king of gods could make me yield, but you… you make me listen."
For a long moment, the only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth.
Then Hera laughed — not the sharp laugh of a queen amused by others' mistakes, but warm, almost girlish. "Do you know," she said, "I have never enjoyed mortal films as much as I did last night? That ridiculous one with the cars that fly? I thought it foolish at first, but Teddy cheered so loudly, I could not help myself."
Harry chuckled. "Fast and Furious. He loves those."
"Furious indeed," Hera said with mock severity, then smiled.
For the first time, Harry saw not just the queen of Olympus, but the woman beneath — one who found joy in flour on her nose, in children's laughter, in being treated not as a goddess above mortals, but as a person among them.
From then on, the house settled into a new rhythm. Teddy no longer looked for the absent goddesses with heavy eyes. Instead, he chased Hera through the halls in playful games of "catch the queen," or sat by Hestia's side as she told stories while stirring soup. The home felt lighter, warmer, simpler.
And Harry thought, perhaps, that was how it should be.
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