He was still angry.
Pacing around the room in anger.
The fire hadn't faded entirely, but it had cooled. The white-hot fury from earlier—the sharp sting of betrayal, of abandonment had begun to settle at the very least and now it was just one feeling.
Disappointment.
He pushed off the door and moved to the narrow bed, sitting down heavily. The room was dim, lit only by a candle he hadn't bothered to light. Moonlight streamed through a cracked windowpane, casting silver across the warped floorboards.
His mind kept trying to return to their faces—Hermione's pained eyes, Ron's stunned silence, Dumbledore's ever-calm mask. But Harry shoved the thoughts aside. Not now.
He couldn't afford to dwell on them.
Not when there were more important things to consider.
He took a slow breath, forcing his muscles to relax. He closed his eyes.
And he turned his thoughts towards something else.
He raised his right hand as he focused on it and a small flame burst forth from it.
It flickered around before twisting and changing into water before changing shape and suddenly a miniature Basilisk.
It looked so real that had he shown it to anybody they would have screamed in terror.
This was one of the two authorities he had gotten from Njorun.
He had researched her after his fight to better understand what he had been dealing with and also to start improving his knowledge of mythos to help in the future.
Njorun is known as a goddess of dreams from the Norse pantheon and sometimes a minor hunt goddess but that varies from what source you're looking at.
After reading and learning more, he understood better how she was able to do some of the things she did in their fight.
And it was this Authority that was the main reason.
Authority of the Oneirothrone.
The power he had ripped from Njörun's dying essence.
He focused his mind and felt it stir within him.
He could feel it thrumming behind his eyelids, at the edge of thought. The realm of dreams, memory, illusion—and reality.
He raised a hand slowly, the Basilisk turning to face him as it hissed and snapped.
He held the power for a while as he changed shapes and commanded it in different ways.
Then it flickered and collapsed into motes of light.
Harry opened his eyes. "Three minutes," he murmured. "Maybe less for larger things."
Authority of the Oneirothrone. The power to bend even reality to one's will by lying to it by enforcing dreams upon it.
The cost had been minimal—he hadn't even broken a sweat. But he could feel the drain, like water leaking from a jug with a small crack. If he pushed too hard, too fast, it would empty him.
He'd need to practice this power a lot.
But still... what potential.
A dreamed fortress, a nightmare weapon, a memory made real.
The applications were endless.
He tapped into it again.
A whisper of heat traveled down his arm as he summoned Gleipnir's Fang. Mist pulled forward and twisted before the familiar blade appeared or rather a copy of it.
He gave it a single test swing.
Felt even the same as the original.
This was how she did it, the fires, spears, and all her other tricks.
Imposing dreams and illusions to fool the world into thinking their real and so they become real.
He dismissed the blade.
The second Authority.
Authority of the Endless Pursuit
Where Oneirothrone was vast and versatile, the Authority of the Endless Pursuit was straightforward.
It was a power he suspected came from Njorun's being as a hectic god, for hectic gods are in beings who descend from myth into the mortal world, abandoning their original roles and duties. Unlike proper gods who remain bound to their domains, Hectic Gods walk the earth in incarnated forms, driven by warped desires or forgotten purposes.
He could guess that as more people associated her with the hunt she gained power and domain over a bit of it.
The Authority let him mark someone—anyone—as his prey. Once marked, he could find them anywhere, even across the world. He would always know the direction. The trail would remain warm, no matter the distance.
And the more fear or exhaustion they radiated, the more power it fed back into him.
He would get faster.
Stronger.
More relentless.
But there was a price.
Every time he used it, he felt the edge of something... primitive. Cold. It made him want to run them down, not just find them. It made him feel less like Harry, and more like a hound freed from the leash.
If he wasn't careful, it would erode the pieces of himself that still cared. That still hesitated.
That still remembered mercy.
But it was power. A terrifying, absolute kind of power.
And one he could not afford to ignore.
He lay back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Anger still churned in his chest. But it had lessened.
He won't deny that he was still very angry but how could he not be.
Maybe it was that as Jacob he had never liked, Ron, Hermione, hell he didn't even like Harry because to him it was always them that seemed to look for the trouble and then complain but jacob also knew not everytime were they at fault. He disliked the characters just on principle.
But he absolutely hated Snape and Dumbles because to him one was a Man-child bully and the other was a lunatic who thought raising a child to be killed later was for the greater good and never even bothered to explain to him until after death and even then he didn't tell him direct just more riddles and so.
All that and his anger toward them were not helping him as Harry right now.
Sighing, he shifted and got off the bed again.
He wanted to contiune staying mad at Ron and Hermione and even Sirius but after seeing what the future, was like or at least a version of the future he couldn't bring himself for any of the shouting he would have no doubt given them before.
Well, it's better to leave things like this for now.
Let them squirm for a bit feeling guilty.
While he takes a nice nap.
That seems fair doesn't it. Them worrying and wondering if he would still be angry at them while he would be at peace for the night and he'd forgive his friends.
Yeah, totally fair.
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