From Hogwarts to Olympus Ch.7 (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Chapter 7- Capture the Flag

AN: Well nvm my 'this time for sure' comment. But again, 7-8k turned to 19.5k and forced me into multiple rewrites, sorry.

Beta'd by Basilisk, and Deathwish. Really hope you enjoy!

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None save the Aphrodites would truly contest that Capture the Flag was unquestionably the true ultimate of all Cabin challenges in Camp Half-Blood. Not only did it usually mark the end of the week, but the sheer prestige surrounding the event surpassed anything else by a mile and a half. And the abundant rewards that fell in the winner's lap made up but a tiny piece of it.

One thing he'd learned of in his time with Chase: honour and glory made for the biggest part of the Greek tenet.

Kleos was the true immortality for any Hero. To give up everything one hold dear, may it be wives, children, love, or duty, in pursuit of the only thing that mattered; the glory of indelible legends. To have their names be sung in the streets of Olympus, and their deeds be remembered in stories and tales, even if that path led them to their death.

That was what being a Greek hero meant.

And as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder alongside his fellow demigods, Harry realised he was witnessing just the slightest hint of that Kleos in action with his own eyes.

He could see it on their faces. In their fingers that gripped their weapons and the eyes that trembled with flames. These young men and women, barely as old or older than him…they thirsted for the elixir of Greatness, same as him.

Once they'd eloped within the cover of the woods, things had turned hectic for the Blue team as Chase, Castellan, and Fletcher began rattling off instructions, turning the group into a buzzing beehive of activity. Demigods started forming lots and heading deeper into the forest—all so grim and sombre, he could believe he was in the midst of war—ready to conquer their enemies and bring glory to their Cabins.

In the blink of an eye, three teams of Apollos and Hermes quickly scattered within the darkness as scouts. Then slinked away a group of undetermined demigods—led by the Stoll brothers—to the sinistral edge of the forest, intending to arc behind the enemies and create pure chaos, and, hopefully, lure a few into false trails. Another duo—whom Harry couldn't recognise beyond the blue plumage—took the Flag from Chase and disappeared deeper south. Finally, a large mixture of demigods from all three Cabins, led by Athena's Malcolm Pace, darted through the edges of the border, to ambush any they encountered and meet them on the opposition's Flag if possible…

That left about a dozen or so of the most experienced and oldest Demigods from all three Cabins, making up the main bulk of Blue team…along with Harry and Percy. At last—after each shared more than one look of unease, wondering what fate awaited them—Castellan headed over and led them some ways off, darting through the trees and shadows alike to come upon a small clearing that sported a little creek gurgling over a pile of rocks.

Then he delivered their instructions.

They were to be on border patrol. The Creek served as the main boundary that separated the Red and Blue teams, and their job was to passively stand there until an enemy wandered by. Harry was sure there would eventually be a modicum of action, when the other team stumbled their way over to their side…

But it wasn't enough. In the end, he was Greek through and through, perhaps more so than most. The idea of Kleos resonated with him deeply and he would not be stuck standing uselessly in the sidelines whilst the rest stole away the scene.

Soon as Castellan stopped speaking, Harry made his feelings clear. "I wish to fight upfront."

There was no hesitation in his demand.

Percy's betrayed look did encourage a sliver of guilt within him, but it wasn't enough to suppress the sheer hunger of a chance, of an opportunity, to go all out for the first time since he'd arrived here.

"You sure?" Castellan immediately knew what he'd meant, yet made a show of hesitating, glancing at Percy and back. "There wouldn't be much danger here. Better to stay put and learn how things work in your first go."

Harry wasn't fooled. "I'm sure."

…Then his scar stretched into a smile and the boy dropped his facade. He had a sliver of suspicion, had he not been the first to open his mouth, Castellan would've offered to take him to the frontline himself.

"Will you be fine alone?" The boy asked Percy in passing concern that Harry felt ninety-nine percent certain was faked. "No one should bother you…well, not for a while, at least."

Percy opened his mouth, looking like he might object, before pausing and glancing at Harry with a frown. Then he shrugged. "Sure. Not like I can't handle myself, right?" There was a note of self-deprecation in his blithe words, and Harry couldn't help but wince.

Now he felt a bit worse about abandoning his fellow newbie…

'But the game is the game.' His thirst had grown only stronger by standing amid like-minded individuals, and a tiny creek simply wasn't enough to quench it. He would've offered to take the boy along, but right now, the best place for him to be was beside a source of water, and the Creek should play that part perfectly.

Castellan waved him to follow, and soon the two were heading whence they came from, leaving Percy and his little creek behind.

Once they caught sight of the main team again—who had beat a cautious pace, pressing deeper into enemy territory—the older demigod turned to him. "Now, as much as I'd like to say I brought you along out of consideration for your wishes, that's not entirely true." He paused, smiling a smile that held all the seeming of a demon that was dreaming. "I may or may not have something of a job for you, and it may or may not concern your friends from Cabin Five, who I'm guessing would like nothing more than to refigure the structure of your face."

"I'm listening." He said plainly, brushing away his brief unease.

So long as it wasn't standing idly beside a tree or playing skip with a patch of rocks, he was game for anything.

"Well…you're gonna have to go solo for a while, I'm afraid."

Then Castellan explained his plan. Gradually, Harry's smile broadened more and more.

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Within the woods of Half-Blood Forest, the Night was absolute. Quiet and destitute. A dark canvas of shaded mystery; one, which no one would look to explore, unless unusual circumstances forced them to.

The pitch of the dark was contested only by a special trio of luminescence.

One was the sprinkling of glowing fireflies that spread through the entire forest, their faint twinkling pushing back the black around the densest thickets with each synchronised blink. The second was the shining moonlight that broke through the clouds, lightning up the woods in its bright silvery radiance just a tad.

If one tried hard enough, they could even hear a marr in the silence; the occasional howling in the distance, like a hidden disaster about to strike. The wretched retches and growls from deep within the dark woods... It reminded Harry of the Forbidden Forest a little too much for his liking.

On the other hand…darkness was his ally. And a nigh-omnipotent Song acted as his guide tonight.

Ignoring the unseen voices, Harry raced through the Half-Blood Forest on his lonesome, his feet a blur and his body low and hidden. The lessons from his Dryad teachers were finally bearing fruits as dried leaves crunched beneath his winged boots, his pace barely slowing as he leapt past broken branches, bigger rocks, bushes and curled roots polluting the uneven ground.

If there had been a spectator, out of all those that contested the night's void, they would've, without a doubt, noticed the third source the fastest. For it was a humanoid figure, glowing a faint golden brilliance from head to toe, a blue plumage sticking out the top…

Or, at least, they would've done so, had the figure not been hidden from visual reality beneath an extraordinary Cloak of Invisibility, only his shoes visible in the night, as he held up the silken, shimmering cloth of his mantle in a pinch, to not fall upon the ground in a tangled mess. Sadly, that bit of his shoes weren't entirely wreathed in darkness either; while they weren't glowing golden from the Celestial Bronze, the white wings at their side had a faint glow of their own…

But there was no one to not see him, and no one to see that bit of white blur, and so Harry kept running, the little wings on his feet fluttering only minutely.

The Winged shoes had been a gift from Castellan. "It's an investment." He'd said with a small smile that held all the honesty of a liar. Even his Song warned him the boy meant something deeper than a win in a weekly Capture the Flag, but it was neither urgent nor grave. Not yet.

So he stayed from acting.

How and why the boy carried an extra pair of sneakers along, Harry had no clue. But he couldn't underestimate their utility, even if he wanted to. He'd already given them a test drive, and found, to his relief, they weren't too difficult to use. While he'd plonked into a bush in his first test, and kissed a Dryad's trunk after driving into a tree headfirst on his second, he'd eventually stumbled to the conclusion that it wasn't too different from riding a broom...just, the central balance happened to be more on his feet than his waist.

Contrary to the popular opinion of one, Hermione Granger, Harry was an excellent flyer. Always had been, in fact. Just because he didn't attend the tryouts to play under the captainship of an utter imbecile did not mean his skills fell short to Malfoy of all people.

The point was, the Winged-boots suited him well; they allowed him to fly, and he was actually good at it. While there was a bit of unnatural unease at being above-ground for too long—something he'd never felt before, back in England—it wasn't enough to stop him from enjoying their comfort.

…They also looked bloody cool and now belonged to him solely—Castellan had made that clear, for some reason. Though his instincts warned him into caution, unless it began blaring of an insistent threat, he would wear it with pride and skill...and hand some Ares their arses while he was at it.

His job for tonight was simple. Be a bait and catch some fish.

Soon, his nigh-invisible figure had left the boundary creek far behind, heading deeper into the enemy territory. The rest of the main party were scattered through the forest behind him, ready to take down any Ares bold enough to make a straight break to the Creek, and wait for him to do his job. There had been a few noises of complaints and raised voices on why they must wait for him to do anything, but Castellan had held firm and no one dared speak against him. Didn't help Lee Fletcher actively stood to his defence.

Since when the latter of the two felt such confidence in his competence, Harry had little idea. Nonetheless, he promised himself to repay the trust someday.

Before long, the distinct noises of clashing steel and human yells reached his ears, being the second to warn him of an ensuing conflict ahead. The first was the change in the Song's tune.

Harry came to a halt behind the width of a thick tree—though first making sure it wasn't a Dryad with a politely raised question—before leaning against its bark and peering past its edge. Ahead, four figures danced within the woods under the illumination supplied by the moon. One sported a red plumage, whilst the rest shared blue ones.

Yet the red was holding his own, if only barely.

One of the blues darted in, glint of glowing Bronze flashing in his hand, but the red was ready and batted the thrust away with a bludgeoning whack of his shield. The other blue tried capitalising on the opening, but the reach of a sword was longer than knives, and a horizontal warning slash cutting through the air in front of his face held him at bay.

That was when the third Blue raised his hands. Suddenly, a flash of white floodlighted that part of the woods in painfully bright tones. Had there been a Sun in the sky, it might not have been so effective. With only the faint glow of Moon up their heads though—and their eyes already adjusted to the dimness—it must've felt like the most powerful torch being pressed straight into their retinas.

The effects were instant. All three melee fighters stumbled back violently, with flinched eyes covered by their hands and agonising groans in their throats.

"Damn it, Alabaster!"

"Do you need a special invitation to give us a warning!?"

The third blue did not reply, simply holding his palm out once more. Harry himself had barely reacted to the flash, partly because he was still some ways away from the quartet, and partly because the Cloak blurred the worst of it away.

He did not wait to find what other party tricks their resident magician had up his sleeve. The trio were still stumbling with their palms on their eyes, just barely starting to regain their bearings. It gave him enough time to bundle up his Cloak back in his pocket and resheathe his sword. Then he cast a quiet finite to remove the large Shield stuck to his back and leaned it against the tree bark, before quickly equipping his bow and nocking an arrow.

He slowly knelt on a solid branch-like aerial root, knee digging in the hollow of the wood, and took aim. For a brief second, his arms shook with excitement and the rush of adrenaline for his first kill—for that's what it felt like—but a quick willing of Occlumency, and a pair of stable hands were suddenly stretching his bowstring to his jaw, the limbs of his bow bending taut…he released.

The arrow zipped through the dark, plutonian winds like a glowing missile. To his credit, even slightly disoriented, the Ares Demigod immediately sensed the faintly golden projectile torpedoing through the air towards him and brought his shield to bear, but he was simply running on guesswork and the arrow was just too much of a blur.

It honed in straight into his thighs, bypassing all of the armour.

The boy was instantly down for the count; his knees buckled, and his sword and shield slipped away from his grip, the arrow having sliced deep into the flesh even through all that padding. Groaning, he quickly ripped his helmet and threw it to the side in a clear surrender, before hobbling along on one leg, gingerly pressing back onto the flesh surrounding the stuck arrow-shaft.

The fact he wasn't already on the ground, screaming in pain, was a testament to the absurd durability these demigods possessed.

'As do I, now.'

The other three blues had turned to him, but Harry was already skipping away, feeling greatly accomplished.

"Thank you!" The yell came from behind, sprawling a wide grin on his face.

One down, many more to go.

Scenes like such played out all around the forest. Individual groups of demigods engaged in a scuffle, and the defeated ones were forced to remove their Helmets and surrender. He didn't halt to help out all the blues, for his job tonight was quite different. There was also the threat of other groups of reds, scouting and scouring the forest one fallen branch at a time, but his Cloak kept him hidden from their eyes and his Song kept him hidden from their path.

Every so often, he would whip out his wand and cast the Point Me! spell—one of Hermione's rarer finds in the Library, for whenever his ADHD-addled self managed to get lost in some mysterious corner of the Castle—keeping to the north-west of where he'd originally started.

Castellan and Chase didn't truly know where his query would be, but they had made some educated predictions. Sadly, Harry had no other Tracking spell, so he had to rely on their mugglish-way of doing things, using his eyes and instincts to scan the woods and hope he found them.

As he trekked along on his lonesome, for but a few uneventfully quiet minutes, a worry that he'd missed his target in this darkness slowly started welling up within him…but fate be so kind, that was precisely the moment he finally caught sight of a group of seven red plumaged figures, all Ares, all bluster and muscles and meanness, sauntering through the woods like they owned the place.

His heart sped up as he took cover behind a small thicket of interlocked trees, their branches twisting amongst themselves to leave tiny gaps for him to peer through.

Clarisse, he instantly recognised, the big, pig-eyed brute about an inch or so taller than him. Alongside her were Mark Bellandi, Sherman Yang, Anthony Bismal, Abigail Bakirtzis, and two others he'd never bothered to catch the names of. All save Mark were marked in his book of 'Faces that Need a Stern Arse-kicking to'. For a second, he felt the urge to whip his wand and launch a chain of his most reliable Curses, but held himself back.

He had to be careful here. Against any one of them, he was confident he would prevail on his own, even with all their physical advantages. But against seven?

Harry quietly bundled up his Cloak and equipped his shield again. No, a surprise attack wouldn't work here. After the initial spell blizzard, any still remaining would pile up on him rapidly. He would rather not be caught trying to haphazardly push a flowing clump of cloth in his pocket while his enemies bore down on him.

Considering these thugs, they might actually tear his Cloak apart just for shits and giggles…

He paused, eyes drawing to the wings upon his shoes. 'Or would they?'

The Seven were taking their sweet time walking through the woods, all with smiles and laughter in their eyes, as if they'd already won. In the distance behind them, the Flag of Ares fluttered prominently in the trunk of a broken tree, a couple of thickly muscled children of Hephaestus standing guard by its side.

An exciting plan rapidly began forming in his head, but Harry forcibly shook it off before it could take hold. His job was simply to lead the Ares away, towards the spot Castellan had designated. There would be other opportunities to play the hero and wrap his own fingers around the Flag in the future.

With no further preamble, Harry took a deep breath, calming his mind behind a solid layer of cold, cynical logic, drawing more deeply than ever upon his Occlumency...and stepped past the cover of the entwined trees.

Even glib and flippant as they looked, they honed in on him instantly. Hard not to, glowing as he stood like a human-firefly.

"What the...?"

"…One of the blues?"

"How is he here?…"

Harry spoke no words. The Seven had only the time to mutter and furrow their brows, squinting at his figure in a moment of pure, alarmed bewilderness, before his wand arched through the air. "Vermillious Displodo!"

The yell was accompanied by a flash of red that brightened his surroundings for a flicker of a second, before tearing off towards his opponents.

Bewildered or not, the Ares gang reacted on prompt, all leaping away from its admittedly predictable path, with only a single one being forcibly dragged away by Clarisse. What they certainly did not anticipate was for the crimson comet to halt in place a pace away from their reach, hanging in mid-air, its red glare reflecting on their comically baffled mugs, like an unheld blood-coated lantern…

Their combined flinches as it exploded into a shower of sparks the next second—recoiling like a bunch of kicked dogs—warmed his soul even through the coldness of Occlumency.

But he wasn't done yet, and quickly readied himself to put on a performance of a life-time.

His stage-chuckle echoed through the once again dark forest, eerie in its emptiness. "I know your father is famous for always being humiliated some way or the other," He taunted, voice flat and cold, ringing through the woods. Sending a swift, heartfelt plea to the war god for forgiveness, he continued, "But I didn't expect you to be such cowards on top."

He could see their momentary befuddlement rapidly thinning under his words, glimpse a genuine hate-like rage set in their features as all straightened up, brandishing their weapons…Now they looked the part of a thug gang about to proceed upon their next execution.

'Perfect.'

"Potter." Clarisse snarled. "You're dead." The spear in her hand sparked with electricity.

Now it was his turn to huddle behind his shield, for with no logic nor hesitation, the girl instantly cocked back her entire body, like a Chaser readying themself to shoot, before uncoiling forward in a burst of motion. He had but a single, conscious moment before the sparkling glint of sharp metal came hurtling towards him through the same bloody path in the air, and his Song blared its noisiest, most powerful alarm ever.

Harry moved.

Instantly, his right leg bent back to brace for impact, his left arm bringing the massive shield forward in tandem, and his head instinctively sought the safety of its cover, just in time…. For the next second, the spear clanged against his shield like two hollow rods of steel banging together, pushing his entire body back through sheer force.

He felt the impact like an electric bludger to the chest. But that itself wasn't too high a concern; just as he was about to shrug off the attack and proceed with the next step of his plan, his body began to seize up, like a thousand ants biting at his skin, first numbing his fingers, then climbing up his wrist and shoulder, and down his torso…

The spear itself had failed to penetrate his shield, but the electricity on its tip had done its job well to stupefy him.

'Ah. I see why the Song never stopped blaring.'

And it still hadn't shut off; like an insistent ping of alarm, it warned him of a quickly approaching attack, letting him know loud and clear—it wasn't over yet.

The weight of his shield had easily managed to overpower his now-paralysed arm, bringing it down and allowing his vision of the front to clear up…what he saw would eclipse the brightest sunshine and wilt the most fragrant daisies.

An enraged bull in orange Camp shirt was barreling towards him at full sprint, her wild snarl leaking spit out of her mouth that trailed past her cheeks from the sheer wind of her pace. A step behind her trailed the rest of her siblings, almost as bloodthirsty, and far better armed, stampeding towards him like a horde of wild boars.

It was a sight that would drive fear in even the toughest of mortal fighters of this age.

But, perhaps out of necessity, for the first time ever, Harry was deep within the perfect emotionless state of an occluded mind. Beyond the merest ripple on his mental shield, he stayed patiently poised as the figures drew closer, waiting to regain some feelings in his limbs—which did not take long at all. Calmly, he shook his hands, before pocketing his wand back, and unsheathed the glowing Bronze bar at his waist. Just in time to meet the first charge.

Instead of driving straight into him—like he would've expected any time of the day—Clarisse tried to be smart and misdirect his focus, feinting a tackle at his knees, but lunging towards her spear instead. His Song read her like an open book.

With the rhythmic guidance of his instincts, Harry stepped forth to intercept her, bashing his shield forward to rearrange Clarisse's nose. At the very last moment, she threw herself to the side, backing out of the reach of his sword with a scowl, all her bluster and over-powering charge forgotten.

He took the chance to hook her spear with the tips of his Winged boots and lobbed it far away to the side.

"You really think you're so much more better than us, don't you, Potter?" The girl growled, circling him as the rest of her siblings approached, eyes flickering to her fallen spear and back. "I should've known you were a little freak like her when Avris and Jack keeled over in the middle of kicking daylights out of you. But that's fine…you've disrespected my Cabin enough. By tonight, the entire Camp will know what a punk you are."

Suddenly she lunged at him again, her hand equipped with a bloody dirk-like dagger out of nowhere. Normally, even heavily armoured as he was—and against an opponent vastly outmatched in weapons—he still wouldn't have volunteered to fight someone like Clarisse. She was simply too good.

This time, he reacted without thinking. His shield moved up to block the dagger perfectly—bouncing it away like a rubber stick—and he retook the initiative, launching a series of lightning quick slashes, all heavily favoured by the choice of his weapon.

It was a custom make; a Kopis, but far longer than most, stretching at about twenty-five inches. The metal glowed faintly ethereal in the darkness, just like the rest of him; made of pure Celestial Bronze, and commissioned from the Hephaestus specially for him—through his own hard-earned Credits—after Castellan had failed to find him a weapon of his own in the armoury. Unlike most Kopis, however, it was double-edged, allowing for greater flow and combinations.

So when he launched his flurry of slashes, supported by the design of his sword, his sheer quickness should've been unmatched by any save Castellan and a few of the more agile from Ares and Hermes.

…And yet, the blade failed to touch Clarisse every single time. Like a stream of flowing water, she danced and ducked beneath the slashes while rapidly backing away, even parrying one to the side by catching the edge of his Kopis between her dagger's blade and hilt…had someone else tried that, they would've lost a few fingers, without a doubt. Even him.

He could feel she wasn't faster than him, nor did she have some godly instincts to fall back upon. Her skill was born through sheer experience; those ugly pig-eyes, reading, predicting his movements.

Even having a solid grasp of how far she truly outclassed him in melee, Harry would never have expected something like such from a daughter of Ares. They were usually not famed for finesse.

That being said, he still kept Clarisse completely on defensive, for that was really all she could do. Weave and dodge and parry out of his relentless strikes; without a true weapon, she was comically outclassed. Harry would've kept pushing, trying to nail at least one cut—a single slash could often decide most duels—but the rest of her Cabinmates soon arrived and he had to let her escape within their safety.

'My armour is slowing me down.' The thought struck him out of nowhere as he caught his breath, but he didn't disagree. The short spar had made him realise—with a sinking disappointment—that he'd really messed up his choice of equipment. He could see why most gave the giant, cumbersome thing a pass now. While he was stronger than any muggle, it wasn't enough to lug another thirty extra pounds of hard, unyielding metal on his person without giving something it return. And that something came in the form of speed and dexterity. To make matters worse, there was another fifteen pounds in his shield to constantly juggle with…

Suffice it to say, Harry had traded his effectiveness for safety, and his Song had assisted in it; he really needed to figure the thing out sometime soon.

Ahead, the seven Ares had started spreading in a slow circle around him, boxing him in like an injured prey they refused to let escape.

"Oh, what is the fearless Potsie going to do now?" Abigail cooed. "Didn't think of this when you decided to jump us in our own turf, did ya, you dammed Pommie?" She twirled her twin short swords, creating a beautiful sphere of flashing bronze and steel, clearly intending to intimidate. Without his Occlumency, it might have even worked.

"What, indeed?" Harry forced his lips into a mocking smirk, met each and every single face with clear impunity—all readying to deliver onto him their own definition of divine justice—and then clicked his heels. "How about this?" The Wings on his shoes fluttered to life.

With a jump to the sky, he flew away.

For a hot moment, the seven simply stood there, blinking like fools, the second time that night. Or was it the third?

And then…

"What do you think you're doing? Go!" Clarrise screamed at the top of her voice, witlessly outraged, as if her dad just snatched away all her fun toys. He would know, Dudley had made it his go-to response, once upon a time.

The seven stumbled after him, screeching and yelling obscenities into the gloom. But unbarred by bark and branches of the ground, he was simply too fast. He led them on a merry chase, through the bushes and the trees, past the clearing of the four demigods, back towards the little Creek. He flew low and slow, the white wings fluttering just a few feet above ground; enough to dodge any desperate attempts at sniping him off the air, but not enough to make it seem hopeless.

As he drew closer to his destination, he shot another comet of red sparks in the air, this time as a signal. Smarter opponents would've instantly caught onto his slippery intentions, but Ares simply took it as further provocation against their Cabin colour and cursed him anew.

Harry had never been more grateful for below-average intelligent life on Earth. He would eat his own wand if a single Ares was capable of crossing ninety in any IQ test at all.

Of course, his own path wasn't quite empty of obstacles either, for most of the trees towered high and their trunks were always in punching distance with his face whilst he zipped through their thicket. And though he'd gotten used to levitating through his feet, he was far from a master Shoe-rider. Once or twice, he came close to clipping unto some of the thicker trees, but luckily his Song was always there to the rescue. A few times, he did collide against a couple of mysteriously emerged branches, but with his hefty shield leading the charge, he burst through the wood like an unstoppable flying juggernaut.

He could only count his lucky stars none turned out to be the living kind; he did not wish to face retaliation from the forest people so soon into his tenure with the Greeks.

Curiously, as he zoomed through the trees, he realised no one from either red or blue team had stumbled upon their chase the entire time, but soon waved it away as Castellan's doing. All that mattered was his flight, occasionally dodging some dagger-throws or lobbed rocks, and the herding of Clarisse's ilk back towards the boundary creek, away from their own Flag.

Despite his initial misgivings, the plan worked out perfectly.

There were a thousand different things that could've gone wrong. As a mere novice, it would've been easy to get lost within the gloom of the deep woods—especially when he held little confidence in casting a spell mid-flight, at least not without dropping his wand first—but the guidance of his Song kept him from straying, and soon, he burst out of the last bush that marked the boundary, the sight of the familiar clearing ahead greeting his eyes.

Slithering through the middle of the otherwise empty glade, a stream of water glittered with the face of the pale moon, gushing over a pile of rocks. The shadows yonder obscured the clearing's edges, hiding the trees behind a sinister murk that deepened alongside the night.

Save the empowered darkness, the Creek was just as he had left it. Down to a tee, with the figure of his fellow greenhorn sitting upon one of the wet rocks morosely, looking simultaneously rebellious and bored out of his mind.

"Percy!"

The boy shot to his feet in an instant, frantic hands grasping at his resting sword, bringing it to chest-level in a two-handed grip awkwardly. Then he span around to face him…only for his large helmet to suddenly slide over his eyes from the rapid pirouette. A couple of wasted seconds trying to regain his vision later, the demigod finally laid eyes on his airborne figure, gaping wide-eyed. Had Harry not been in the midst of flitting over to the other side of the creek, he would've given a sarcastic thumps up.

Then the boy glanced at the stampeding army of brutes hot on his heels and blanched anew.

Grunting, Harry made a final leap and stumbled into a landing beside his fellow green-eyed demigod, kicking just enough dust to trigger a sneezing cough in the poor fellow.

Ignoring the yells from behind, he cast a frowning gaze beyond the Creek, scanning the empty shadows abound. "Where are the rest?"

"What rest!?" Percy yelled, hysterical, as he wiped at his eyes and nose awkwardly through the helmet. "The enemy's right there!" He pointed desperately with his sword tip—both arms extended, holding the hilt—like he believed Harry had yet to notice the small herd of boars chasing after him.

With a deepening frown, Harry swept one last glance around the empty clearing, and made the only obvious conclusion he could: the promised ambush was either delayed or completely abandoned.

They were on their own.

On the other side of the glade, Clarisse and her gang finally converged together, panting and scowling, their anger having only swelled into lividity throughout the futile pursuit. Though some were likely beginning to wonder if this all hadn't simply been a plan…

That lasted until they caught sight of Percy. Then they looked as if Christmas had arrived early for the Cabin of the Reds.

"Cream the punks!" Was the braindead war cry that made them raise their weapons in united daftness and begin charging. Only this time, their shimmering rage and bull-headed aggression was tempered by caution, and they drew closer at a light stride of defensive formation. Some fixed their eyes on his wand, some on Percy, whilst the rest kept a constant watch over the dark horizon beyond.

Evidently, his actions throughout the night had wisened them to be leery.

Still holding onto the serenity of his Occluded mind, Harry tilted his head, counting their steps passively. He simply knew, from the soft hum in the tune of his Song, it was on their twenty-first step that the battle would truly begin.

"Brace yourself." He advised Percy, taking a few steps away from the Creek himself in preparation.

His fellow Blue, however, stayed rooted in place. "…You want to take on half the Ares Cabin alone!?" His voice pitched higher and higher, ending with a girlish yelp.

Harry hummed, side-eyeing the boy. "I'm hardly alone."

He'd meant only to mollify the boy, but it seemed to miss the mark completely. Percy still looked on the verge of popping a vein, though this time with a fair bit of alarm directed at him. Harry did not need to wonder why, for he could see it reflected in his sea-green eyes; his cold, blasé demeanour would warrant some questions by itself, but his apparent unconcern was playing odds against the threat they seemed to face.

He was far from unfazed, of course, but that was one negative side-effect of Occlumency he really couldn't bypass.

Sighing, he waved at the boy. "Just distract a couple of them, I'll take care of the rest."

As far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to decide. He'd followed Castellan's plan to the letter. Failure from the other side was not his concern.

He was finally free to do as he pleased.

Cracking his neck, he re-equipped his wand and shot one last whizzing bundle of red sparks into the suddenly Moonless sky as a signal—a plausible excuse, should he be blamed for jumping the gun too soon.

Then he tossed his shield to the ground, followed quickly by the bow awkwardly hanging around his shoulders, and the quiver strapped to his back. His earlier bout had assured him there were only two things he needed tonight.

His magic and his sword.

"…Great, so we're doing this." Percy muttered, seeming to have calmed enough to realise his unfortunate lack of options as the enemies quickly closed in on the Creek. "How exactly am I supposed to distract them? Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm not exactly good at this. I'm guessing you have some Athena-like plan tucked away in your backpocket?" His eyes flickered to the discarded items, but sadly he would find no mysterious guidance hidden in there.

"I do have a plan." Harry turned to face the rushing demigods. "Just stick close to the water, I'll handle the rest."

"—Wait, what'd you mean 'stick close to the water'? What's that gonna do?"

But he was no longer paying the boy any heed. Two against seven were odds most would consider suicidal, but he had realised quickly that was simply on par for the course of a Greek demigod's life.

Tonight, he aimed to embrace it with open arms.

As the Ares began crossing the Creek, holding their weapons and shields at ready, he finally put his hastily drawn plan into motion, stepping forth into a basic Duelling form.

"Alarte Ascendare!" His wand sliced through the air, the tip swirling with a faint orange glow that quickly weaved a net of magic to take hold of the water below.

The moment the seven—all having spread apart for their charge—shoved their feet shin-deep in the tranquil stream one by one, the water splashing to their jeans and pants leapt up and began climbing their forms like ants, crawling through the crevices of their armour-crested chest and up the naked skin within…

For a few seconds, apart from tracing his movements like a hawk, none noticed anything suspicious—the spell was not one that produced a light show, affecting with only a sudden bang—and before they could do more than register the sudden chilly wetness infiltrating their clothes, Harry smoothly shifted into his second spell motion. "Glacius!"

Like a chain of dominoes falling, a small part of the Creek began crystallising to ice almost instantly. From the main source at their feet and climbing up their chests, a thin layer of bluish-white quickly solidified every which way the water had slithered to, condensing all the moisture in the air.

Alarmed yells and squawks filled the night as the Ares thrashed in the now-glaciated part of stream, with Clarisse's 'Get out of the water!' going mostly unheard, for the process was surprisingly quick. While the stronger of the seven managed to break free, shattering the layer of rapidly building frost by flailing and floundering their limbs, the rest found themselves quickly suppressed, the ice jamming the joins of their arms and feet, with some of the icy tendrils trailing up their necks like living threads where the water had climbed, forming sharp icicles that bit into their faces. A few grimmer ones even penetrated their ears and noses…

Harry watched on, breathless, as his handiwork performed beyond even his wildest estimations.

And then it was done. In the aftermath, a trio of figures stood still in the silent Creek, encased within a patchwork suit of ice, arms and feet stuck in a timeless pose, their faces distressed and struggling…and there was nothing their siblings could do save for quickly scrambling out of the water, using their swords and shields to break through the sheets of newly-formed ice and get the hell out of dodge.

Then to add the cherry on top, a most surprising event unfolded. Clarisse herself was stuck behind some mini-icebergs and tried to crack the mounds of cold by driving her spear down its face. The ice shattered promptly…but the spear dug deep enough to touch the water, and the sparks on its tip spread through the stream, shocking its owner something fierce.

In a comically wild conclusion, the leader of Red team went down face-first into the icy water, laid low by her own stupidity, and her siblings quickly overtook her to wade over to their side of the Creek.

'…Well, that's one way to go out.'

Harry did not wait for them to recover. Even with Tyche's apparent blessings, four against two—Clarisse was already beginning to stir—were still no odds he would fancy for himself. Drawing his sword, he searched for the calm serenity of battle-focus as he eyed only two existences. One, his opponent, and two, the song of the battle.

First came Sherman Yang. Dripping wet and turning slightly blue, the boy glared at him, his beady dark eyes containing an insidious edge under the shadow of the night as he raised his sword and the Aspis shield.

The Song began humming, and, glowing Kopis dancing through the air, Harry bore down on him hard and fast. The boy had only the time to raise his shield and brace for impact before his sword struck down like a warhammer.

The terrible clang of metal announced the start of the battle, finally shattering the stifling silence of the night.

His sheer strength had driven Yang straight to his knee, but the boy was hardly alone. Before he could so much as cock his hand back for a second strike, the searing whisper of his Song blared an urgent warning and he was forced to quickly duck beneath the flash of glowing Bronze, feeling the wind of its sharp passage missing him by inches.

"That was a killing blow." He commented lightly, parrying down a follow-up slash and calmly backing away. The fury boiling in his heart yearned to gorge upon the girl, to eat her alive—kicking and screaming—but he held it tight behind his shielded mind.

"No, it wasn't." Abigail snorted, the corner of her mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. "Just a crippling one." She was taller than him, he realised, from up-close. Taller and…'thicker' his mind supplied with passing discomfort, 'All in the right places.'

He quickly extinguished the entire line of thought with extreme prejudice, taking quick, short steps away from the girl.

"What?" Cocking her head, she raised her twin swords, the edges glinting at him in clear challenge. "Did I scare ya off that easy, dude?"

Harry quietly rolled his eyes. 'Dear Merlin, but the Ares love the sound of their own voice.'

That was when the third demigod finally stepped up beside them, lending Yang a hand to drag the boy up. Thick dreadlocks swung around his otherwise unremarkable pale face, still containing a few random flecks of icy frost, while his other hand supported a massive Greatsword, towering over all present.

He was the only one Harry didn't particularly wish to see with a broken skull, yet here they were.

"Mark." He greeted with an inclined head, completely ignoring Abigail.

They weren't friends, he wouldn't say, but the boy was one of the few level-headed Ares that chose to respect Harry's grit and stubbornness in the Arena, instead of finding some subtle dig against their Cabin.

"Damn, you did well to hide your abilities all this while." Mark huffed, catching his breath, as he leaned down on his Greatsword for support. Behind him, Yang was busy doing his best impression of a shivering bulldog. "The first thing that French girl did upon arriving here was wave her little stick and turn Sebastian into a rodent." He chuckled. "Good times."

Then he straightened up, plucking his massive sword from the earth and leaning it over his shoulders. "Well, it don't matter now, I guess. Sorry about this, Harry."

Nodding back solemnly, Harry raised his wand. "Yeah, me too."

Then he started blasting the poor souls apart.

"Stupefy!—Depulso!—Expelliarmus!—Flipendo!" His fastest chain burst out of his wand with no warning nor preamble, his hand a blur to his own eyes.

One after the other, the blobs of red, white, and blue streaks lit up the dark glade beneath their radiant paths, spread roughly between his three targets as they whizzed through the air.

Of course, the trio were some of the best Ares had to offer, and were already quite guarded against his shenanigans—and likely experienced against Wizards. The moment he started casting, they acted.

Bounding over to close the distance, their figures moved with great pace and greater grace. He wasn't surprised to see Abigail expertly weave past her spell like a dancer—furrowed eyes never straying from his wand—nor Mark batting away the Stunner with the massive flat of his blade.

But they had never been his targets.

Of the three, Yang was clearly the weakest. Tired and shivering, the boy desperately brought up his Aspis to block the crimson flash. Unsurprisingly, the moment the Disarmer melted against his shield, the glowing Celestial Bronze sphere was sent flying into the distant shadows, pried from his fingers by force. There were no more defences to hide behind, and no more help to arrive; blinking owlishly, the boy could do nothing but eat the follow-up jinx square in the chest, and proceeded to be flipped in the air like an omelette, straight back into the Creek, where he and his sword—still clutched in his flailing hands—dropped down with an audible thud, the water not deep enough to cushion the fall completely.

Harry cracked his neck and focused on the remaining duo. 'One down, two more to go.' They should never have given him any space. With enough leeway, he could pick apart any Demigod from a distance.

Belatedly though it came, the pair had already stumbled to the same realisation, for they continued on without so much as a glance backwards to find what happened of their sibling, brandishing their weapons and stampeding towards him, no more mockery in their eyes nor lips.

Harry began casting anew, though not before tapping his foot to get the wings fluttering again. With a sword in his hand, he had less to fear a melee than ever before, but he'd be a fool to engage two superior opponents at once, even with the help of his magic.

The two seemed to realise his plan and promptly divided themselves, Abigail proving a tad faster than Mark and quickly leaving him behind. With her but a few paces away, Harry had only one shot to get a spell off, and he chose to stick to the basics.

What spell should one use when faced with superhuman opponents potentially capable of point-blank dodges?

His wand twisted through the air, a sharp mutter leaving his tongue, and suddenly the ground in front of him was awashed beneath a curtain of raging fire, blasting back heated air onto his face. The part of the glade grew significantly warmer and brighter for a scant few seconds, and while Harry's vision was obscured by the fiery trail, he felt, rather than see or hear, Abigail leaping away with a muffled yell.

"Who's shooting killing blows now, you asshole!?" Her dry, raggedy voice coughed out over the whooshing of the flames, incensed and in pain.

"Not a 'killing' blow." Harry mocked, echoing her own words. "Just a burning one." His Duelling form felt a tad more awkward now, he absently reflected; not only because the wand was held in his off-hand, but also as he was forced to adjust his form to accommodate the weight of the sword in his other one.

But that hardly mattered now. As the flames in the front dissipated into smouldering embers, Harry stepped forth to meet his last opponent—the boy having received ample warning from Abigail's mishap and surviving the worst of the fire without so much as a scorch mark.

'Finally.'

After leading the group of Ares on a wild goose chase through the forest, and then outsmarting them with magic, he'd at last managed to whittle them down to the 1v1 he'd been dreaming about since the start of the Challenge. It was time to test his growth against one of their best, and, perhaps, claim the honour of defeating one in straight combat.

He should've realised how foolish the thought was.

In the very first exchange, his Song blared an insistent tune to disengage and take flight, to continue whittling them down from a distance, but in a moment of false bravado that he mistook for confidence—and his own thirst to prove himself—he held his ground and raised his sword.

The moment the glimmering Greatsword and Kopis met in the air, Harry knew he'd vastly overestimated himself. He'd tried to parry away the opposing strike, to guide it gently to the side, but instead found his arrogance punished by the massive blade delivering a blow that almost popped his shoulder out of its socket, his blade knocked away like a plastic toy, barely still held in his hand.

On a good day, he could usually match Mark in strength—they never went all-out in training spars, but there shouldn't be this much of a disparity—the problem was, a Kopis simply wasn't made to go toe-to-toe against such a behemoth. Realising this too late, he found himself quickly backtracking, but the Ares Demigod was no fool. He advanced with deliberate precision, his greatsword gleaming ominously in the dappled light filtering through the forest canopy behind.

Then came an onslaught unlike anything Harry had ever faced. Attack after attack, the demigod advanced with a fury beyond human. Each swing was executed with half-lethal intent—packed with enough power to shatter stone—his movements fluid and calculated, a testament to years of honed skill.

Every slash and thrust Harry deflected left behind a dull, pounding pain in his arm and wrist. The Song screamed at him to evade all the strikes bar none, to dance around the onslaught and rely on speed and agility to offset the brute force of Mark's strikes.

Yet, to do so consistently against a weapon of such great reach—even with his Song's guidance—demanded a level of skill no one could achieve with a mere two weeks of training. Especially against an opponent like Mark, who had been at it for a far longer time and wielded the massive thing with a pace and precision Harry found nauseous. His strikes came from directions he would've believed improbable, twisting through the air like a whip, each one but a preface to the next. One moment Harry was scrambling under an overhead chop, the next the Song was howling of an incoming Reverse slash that left him no opportunity to counter. Each time he was forced only to react and move according to his opponent's pace, for anything else would see him losing limbs.

He doubted even an armed Clarrise could hope to dominate him to this degree.

'Shouldn't have dropped the bloody shield.' He cursed, frustration bleeding through the widening chasms within his Occluded mind, as he was slowly but surely pushed to the very edge of the clearing, towards the deep woods behind.

Though he couldn't bring himself to fully regret the decision. Throughout the night, his wand had done far more damage to his enemies than any other weapon.

But it couldn't help him here.

They moved at a pace few mortals could follow, their blades a tornado of glowing metals, and the shrill clangs of their contest showered the night beneath a constant rhythm of lethality. It took him every ounce of strength and cunning at his disposal to deny Mark the quick victory he sought, as he became naught but a ball of reaction and desperation. Forming intricate wand movements and uttering perfect pronunciations was the last thing on his mind. He couldn't even leap into the air to utilise his Winged-shoes—likely something Mark had already fought against and knew to prevent—no matter how much he tried to find an opportunity for both.

As they fought on, each narrowly avoided blow seemed to strain his muscles further, the dull pounding quickly accumulating into a raging fire beneath his skin. His Ares opponent, on the other hand, appeared to be his exact opposite, striking out again and again as if drawing on a source of unlimited strength and endurance.

It was ridiculous.

Yet, despite Mark's superior skills, and the nigh-unbearable amount of pressure he was forced beneath, as well the harsh awakening of realising how far he still trailed compared to the best, Harry soon came to a startling realisation…a part of him was enjoying the duel.

Enjoying the narrowly avoided slashes, enjoying the perilous dance with the death, enjoying holding onto the battle with the edges of his teeth, the stubborn refusal to yield that burnt within, like a fire of desperation, as he ducked and weaved and parried away the powerful blows, everything held together by a single thread of guidance from his supernatural instincts, and all in an effort to deny Mark that final blow…

Above all else, however, he enjoyed the familiarity of being on the blade's edge; one way to salvation, one way to the end.

Something stirred within.

That part, he realised absently now, was the same primal thing that had so desperately wished to belong, the part that had looked upon the myths of heroes in awe and dreamt of them so powerfully he could almost believe it was real. And now it was.

Slowly but surely he felt the chasms of Occlumency widen, felt the shield give beneath the heightening emotions, felt the serenity transform into something…unrecognisable. Yet familiar.

He was going to win, Harry suddenly realised. He simply knew it. Not because he was better, but because he willed it.

And there, on the precipice of disaster, feeling his grasp over Occlumency slipping…he finally saw.

A note in his Song. Quiet, weak, flickering…almost uncertain. Amid the dwindling whirlwind of warnings and guidance, his Song seemed to sense something…an opportunity. A golden warmth that grew nearer and stronger the longer he held on.

As if on cue, Mark's attacks started quickening, the ceaseless onslaught that seemed to show no end now marred with a twinge of desperation. They held little of his earlier finesse, and while the Ares Demigod was a more skillful warrior, quicker he was not. Harry weathered the storm—this time, far easily—and before long, the last of the winds were taken out of his sails and Mark began to slow down, like a well-oiled machine finally pumping out one last batch before catching rust.

"Merda!" The boy cursed in fluent latin, disengaging, as he took his first steps back in the entire battle, the behemothic sword almost slipping out of his hand as he rested it on the jagged ground—an unfortunate result of their Duel. "You don't ever give up, do you?"

Harry stayed silent. He could've flown away there and then, the wings on his shoes ready and fluttering, but chose not to. The cards of the battle had changed hands.

"Fine, if that's how you wanna play."

Then his opponent tried something new. Giving up on bludgeoning him to death, the boy tried instead to catch him off-guard with tricks. He picked his sword with surprising quickness and came in with a low feint that turned into a Cross thrust, the inclined edge of his blade rushing towards his knees…and Harry sidestepped the blade with an almost contemptuous ease, his own Kopis striking out—his first true counter in their entire duel—and scored a hit on his opponent's naked forearm, drawing first blood.

'Ironic.' Harry smiled faintly, now feeling the rush of certainty, as the golden shadow drew nearer still.

Scowling, Mark proceeded with a shower of fake lunges to open up his defences, sliced low and high by rapidly changing directions, charged forward like a bull only to twist mid-motion and sweep at his legs in hopes of pulling him down…

None of it worked. His instincts could peer ten feet through his attacks, and they were only three feet deep. To his credit, Mark realised this soon enough, but his earlier bout of unceasing attacks had truly taken the wind off of his sails. If Harry had wanted, he could've fought back and taken at least some semblance of control over the fight now, perhaps even put an end to it after a brief struggle—a far cry from his earlier hopeless situation.

But he waited.

…And his patience was promptly rewarded as the Song and the Sight reached a crescendo. He embraced the darkness wafting from within, as the old song and dance with death summoned the power resting deep, the hold of Occlumency involuntarily losing ever-more.

His vision cleared like he was seeing the world for the first time, and his Song whispered to him directly like an old friend. He was aware of Abigail pushing herself to her feet behind Mark's large frame, he was aware of Clarisse dragging herself out of the Creek, having rescued the rest of her siblings. He was aware of Yang throwing himself to dry land, shivering and strengthless, while the rest of his siblings converged on Percy. And though he could see none of it with his own two eyes, he was aware of Percy ignoring the charging demigods in favour of picking up the same bow he'd thrown down earlier, all for a chance to help him.

The Song howled in triumph.

An arrow—for a mortal eye, out of the blue, no clue nor cue—whizzed past Abigail's knee, and lodged itself a few inches beside Mark's feet, startling the boy something fierce.

'This is it.'

"What the—!?" The boy jumped back, shooting a scowling glare behind, turning, for just a second, his back onto him…

Harry did not miss his chance. His veins went dark with terrible power, the pounding pain in his arms all but disappearing, as he twisted in place and let his wand leap into the air.

"Expelliarmus!" His bellow echoed through the stillness of the night.

But something wasn't right. The crimson that the spell spewed in its trail as it bore down upon Mark contained a sliver of parasitic darkness—an inky black line wiggling in its flash.

Then the spell hit; both sword and boy were blasted backwards.

Mark himself skidded through the ground as if dragged by an unseen force, while his glowing Greatsword spun through the air and lodged itself blade-first into the ground, a dozen or so feet behind.

For a few seconds, nothing moved on this side of the clearing…then came a low groan that quickly turned into an agonising cough as Mark slowly pushed himself to sit up.

"Gods curse this!" The boy panted, trying and faltering to push himself up his feet. "I even knew those exact words; the French witch…Witch?" His words slurred like a drunk. "Yeah she—she was quite fond of them, so not my first time…getting disarmed." Forcing himself on his knees, he attempted to stand up, only to stumble back to the ground the next second. His eyes were drooping and unfocused now, faint gleams of darkness swimming in his iris like spindly worms. "But those never affected me like this—I like—I feel…so drowsy. Like someone's sucking my soul out. What did you even—"

Harry listened no more. Hearing the tune roar in his ears, he stepped close in four large steps, and before the boy could do more than glance up—tired, startled eyes peering at him with no recognition—drove the hilt of his Kopis square against the fore of his red-plumaged helmet.

The pommel struck hard; so hard, in fact, he could see the boy's eyes vibrating to-and-fro before they lost the last of their light. Mark Bellandi fell to the ground, lost to the world for tonight.

One of the most dominant opponents he had ever fought…spread on the earth, witless and senseless, just like that.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed in the sense of victory, feeling the power still ride upon his brow like a dark halo, visible only to his own eyes. His veins were beginning to bulge slightly, expanding and contracting within his very skin, the outline of black so clear he could feel it beat within like a heart. He simply knew, with a great certainty, for tonight, there were no Demigods stronger than him in Camp Half-Blood.

He glanced down at Mark's powerless body. 'Two down, few more to go.'

Straightening up, he peered across the glade that was darker than ever before, a smile tugging at his lips.

He could feel it upon him now, so close, so powerful…the stench of death. The lack of life, or what could be. The mysterious darkness that came from the stygian depths, the power of the night's shade, that seemed to dwarf even the hiding Moon overhead…

He had only ever felt its touch so heavily once before, in the Chamber beneath the Castle, just as he was about to be gorged by the Basilisk. Even then, it had flashed through his veins for but a single moment. His body had been entirely unsuited to contain such power.

But now…now he could feel it. The darkness enshrouding him within, syphoning the life out of the world; the ground that lost its colour beneath his feet and the patches of green that turned to brown—some crumbling straight down to dust.

Harry could almost touch it.

'And why shouldn't I? It is mine.'

Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hand up, tilting his head to observe the black lines coursing within his veins, before extending one finger to press against the world, against the shadows that bent along, and claim this strange, unfathomable power as his own…

"No!" A shrill scream chose that moment to intrude upon him, assaulting his ears like an unwanted guest. "You schist-pit!" Mud-caked and sweat-smeared, Abigail stumbled towards him, face twisted in a scowl as she peered down at Mark's prone body. "What did you do!?"

And just like that, the power was broken.

Harry blinked, shaking his head as his vision shifted and the Song grew soft again—weaker even, without his Occlumency to keep his focus.

He realised what had happened at once.

'No, no, no…!' Desperate, he tried to hold onto the feeling, to hold onto a smidgen of it's whole, but there was nothing left to gather; not even a grain of sand he could feel slipping through his fingers.

The Halo crown over his brow had simply vanished away like a fever dream.

Desperate still, he raised his arms wide, yet no lines of darkness ran across them anymore. He whipped his head up and down, left and right, but the world was as it always was, and the Night remained still and alive, just as mysterious as ever.

The truth settled in the only daunting conclusion there was: the dream was broken, and with it went his strange tryst with the darkness. Disappointment threatened to crush his soul. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine what it felt like to hold the power in its whole, imagine the herculean strength that had gripped his limbs, and the taste of shadows that infected even his magic…

But it was no longer real.

And yet, he somehow knew now, with no doubt nor uncertainty, that it resided within his soul somewhere, perhaps like a neighbour to his magic, perhaps something else entirely…but he also knew now, that there was something that kept him away from accessing it freely. In small amounts? Sure, he had done it before. But bringing out its full potential? That needed something special. There was a barrier within that held him back.

A barrier he could've broken tonight.

Irritation welled up within as he turned towards the Ares girl. She was glancing at him askance for some reason, the slightest bit bewildered. But Harry felt nothing but disgusted with himself for even thinking this brute of a creature could be perfect in any way.

Even as he stood there, a part of him still reeled from the sudden, unexplained loss of his power. It had struck him hard; left him weak and hollow in all ways a being could exist, crushed beneath the lack of what once was, and what could've been.

Harry did not enjoy the feeling.

And the cause of all his ailments tonight stood there with impunity, insisting on being an eyesore, still having the audacity to question him.

"What have I done, Abigail?" He repeated her words, voice soft and clear, hiding the rage shimmering at the fore of his mind. "Why, only what I should've done a week ago."

He did not shout, did not curse. Did not voice the bitter words on his tongue. His rage was way past that.

Striding over to the girl, slow and menacing, Harry raised his wand. "What I am about to do to you now."

"Gods curse you." Abigail spat, sneering. But she made no move to pick up her fallen twin blades, nor to defend herself in any way.

Her one arm was tucked underneath the other gingerly, the elbow wrapped with a piece of her own torn shirt. Suddenly, a gust of passing wind picked up the hem of her make-shift bandaid, blowing it away to reveal the tender, red flesh beneath, whence he could easily spy the ugly blisters dancing down her skin…

Taken aback, Harry let loose a snort. "Well, seems like you didn't escape unscathed through the flames." The harshest edge of his rage began to simmer slightly. "And here I thought children of the war god would have at least a little bit of immunity…looks like daddy doesn't share his tricks with his bag of disappointments, eh?"

"Go to the crows, Pommie." The Ares thug snarled, back bent and feet weak, yet still refusing to lay down. "What would you know about fathers, anyway? Not like you've got one yet."

And the rage was back like a rushing Tsunami. "Should've kept your gob shut." He didn't even bother to reshield his mind this time; with the bubbling anger consuming his intent and focus, a wand and a sword in each hand, he stepped forth. "Reducto!"

One flash of white, bright enough to bring daylight upon the glade for a flinched second, and a second powerless body hit the ground on their part of the clearing, struck down as if by the hand of God. For a few rapid moments, sizzling smoke wafted from the large gash torn in Abigail's Linothorax armour, whilst her limbs lay sprawled awkwardly—almost bent lifeless-like.

Harry did not pay her a second glance. The Song hummed a gentle tune of life and he knew she wasn't dead nor dying: beyond that, he didn't give a rat's arse. His anger had flashed away as quicky as it came, taking with it his surge of strength. He faced, instead, towards the boundary Creek, where Clarisse and her gang had surrounded Percy, busying themselves in playing with the food as each took turns knocking him down. It was surprising to witness; apparently, even dipping in ice and tasting a slice of defeat hadn't dampened their natural spirit of bullying. One would think even an animal would learn its lesson after being whipped enough, but it seems the Ares were a different kind of beasts entirely.

Sighing, Harry glanced at the sky, feeling so bloody drained. The moon had worked its way to a different part of the sky by now, and all he wanted was to sit down and take a breather under its fickle radiance.

"…But I guess this is what separates achieving success from greatness." One required adequacy, the other demanded more.

With a deep breath, Harry leaped into the air once more. He supposed he had just enough to deliver a final whipping. It had been a long night, yes, too long in fact, but what better way to draw the curtains close than a happy ending?

Soon, the cold winds were once again curdling at his face as he rocketed yonder, the ground blurring past beneath him. The Ares demigods had yet to notice his rapid procession, and he would've liked to keep it that way for as long as possible. His entire body still felt like a cruelly-wrunged rug and he was more than happy relying on his wizard-side to win the remaining of his battles, even if that meant launching a sudden bombardment of spells to pulverise their bones.

He would answer Chiron for the rule breaking later.

Sadly, that was the moment Clarisse shot a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. Her eyes widened. Then, slowly, her gaze darted to the fallen bodies of her siblings. Lips curling, she mouthed his name with a sneer.

Harry hastened to the Creek.

To one side, Sherman Yang was still half-sprawled on his back—chest heaving deep breaths, body shivering, but a red-plumaged helmet present on his head all the same. The rest were only just taking notice of his arrival, having pushed Percy more or less to the edge of the water stream—tiny mounds of ice still floating around its surface.

Before the soles of his feet had even touched solid ground, Clarrise was already marching her way over, her spear crackling wisps of white and blue at its tip.

Harry expected nothing less. He still didn't draw on Occlumency, his Song but a whisper of its true strength, barely audible in his ears. Instead, he let his wand dance once more.

"Depulso." His voice was soft, and the gentlest glow of red jetted forward.

Clarrise did not even move. She simply tracked the spell as it missed her by two full feet, bounding past to hit a stupefied Percy and hurling him straight into the Creek.

The Ares girl turned back, incredulous surprise quickly transforming into a cruel, mocking grin. "Tired already, Potter? One duel and you can't even aim straight?"

Harry simply smiled.

Behind her, Percy pushed himself to his feet, still half-submerged in the shallow water. There were no more injuries present on his visible body; even the skin beneath the slits of his lacerated shirt looked pale and whole.

Clarisse took no notice. Neither did her many siblings, who'd turned to him almost instantly.

"You've always been a slippery one, haven't you, Potter?" Her eyes darted to his fluttering shoes and back up, the spear of electricity pointing at the ground passively. "If you've got the guts, face me fair without using cheap tricks."

Harry barked a laugh. "Look who's talking. You seem to forget there are four of you and one of me." She scowled, opening her mouth to reply, but he quickly rode over her. "Though I suppose I can't expect any better from a daughter of Ares. You've got just enough brain to function, and all of it is taken in preventing you from stabbing yourself."

That did the trick.

Her gob slammed shut. Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. "Erre es korakas!" With the bitter curse her herald, she once again began her charge, flanked closely by a couple of her brothers.

Behind them, Percy dragged up his sword from the shallow depths of the Creek.

But Harry had little time to watch. The snarling face of his enemies quickly closed in on him—Clarisse's electric spear held forward like a javelin—so reminiscent of Mark he felt a moment of unease grip his limbs.

This time, however, Harry did not care to test his melee limits. As the tip of her spear spun through the air, he leapt and leaned, smoothly drifting backwards through the air, like a feather gently blown away by a gust of wind. His wand was already in motion.

"Stupefy!"

With a frustrated snarl, Clarisse twisted herself to dodge, but did not pause her steps.

He changed his aim. "Expelliarmus!"

This time, Anthony Bismal rolled forward, and the red whiz jetted past his head.

"Stupefy!"

And the dance continued.

Stunners and Disarmers left his wand every few seconds, and unerringly, the Ares demigods dodged and weaved and ducked. It wasn't too hard either; in the air, his form was far too terrible and his aim not quite as true. He was also a good distance afar for them not to see the glowing blobs coming.

That being said, there wasn't much they could do either; the moment any of the three managed to close even a dozen feet into his radius, Harry took flight and glided away, deeper into the forest, tracing the length of the Creek that came from the depths of darkness, the trees closing in on the banks as the blade's boundary ended. And the Ares trio followed along every time, like mindless little beasts frothing at the mouths, always growling, always stumbling…

He could've used a more varied variety of spells from within his arsenal of course, could've tried to mow them down one by one with a chain or two, trap them with quick utility charms—though he doubted something as lucky as a repeat of the frozen lake was possible. But his will was already shaken and drained throughout the night, and his focus felt flimsy without Occlumency. He especially did not dare utilise the more fouler spells in his grasp; not only because a successful hit could very well prove fatal, but worse, an unsuccessful cast in his condition could prove just as fatal for him.

Dark magic was quite vile like that.

Fortunately, he did not need to defeat Clarisse.

The moment she and her siblings had turned their backs on Percy, his fellow demigod transformed into Achilles reborn. The lone Ares who'd remained behind stood no chance. Before he could so much as raise his voice in surprise, the much smaller boy had whacked his helmet clean off of his face, his silent yell going unheard by all.

Then the boy crept up, silent and cautious like a prowling wrath, quickly closing the distance between the furthest still-standing Ares thug…

Harry had only just changed his position, knowingly heading even further up the bank of the Creek, when the boy made his move. The pommel of his sword struck out; one hit and the opponent should've fallen to the ground.

Somehow, the Ares Demigod threw himself to a side just in time, taking only a glancing blow on his ears.

His curses drew the attention of his siblings.

Clarisse took a single glance backwards. "Go!" Her bellow had her one remaining brother bounding for the boy instantly.

At the exact moment, Harry took off in a burst of wings and speed.

Sneering, the Ares counselor prepared to meet his dive-bomb, her spear angled to the sky…and he whizzed past her like a stone slinged through the air, letting her spear hit naught but the chasing winds.

It was the second time she'd fallen for his feint tonight. That surely hurt.

The other demigod must've caught wind of his passage, for he turned around instantly, raising his shield…but Harry was prepared.

From this close, even a lack of ground couldn't hamper his aim.

"Expelliarmus!"

The boy gaped, his fingers forcibly pried from around his gear, and Harry finished him off with style—the bottom of his boot finding a clean connection against the brow of his opponent. The light faded from his eyes before his back had even touched the earth.

Ahead, Percy had managed to take the upper hand of his bout as well, his movements so beautifully sharp and perfect even Mark could learn a lesson or two. Another lurking opponent at the Ares demigod's back struck the final nail in his coffin, his panic at keeping both in his eyesight costing him dearly; before he could even twist his head to fully take Harry in, Percy's shin slammed home against his knee—easily dislocating the cap—and the follow-up shield bash blasted his head back like a boxing target.

The last of Clarisse's siblings joined the ground, all united in their…sleep.

His lips curled up.

And then there was one.

Together, the two turned to Clarrise; Harry still hanging in mid-air, and Percy stepping up directly beneath him.

Face twisting in a wretched grimace, red enough to shrug off the Moon's silvery grace, Clarisse upended her spear. She opened her mouth, uncharacteristically hesitant, before snapping it shut. Her hate, the sheer anger she'd nursed against them both throughout their entire stay at the Camp…it was suddenly replaced by shame for just a second.

Harry cocked his brow.

By all means, the girl should have surrendered. She had just witnessed Percy sending her brother to sleep with a single whack of his shield, whilst he himself had remained a constant threat throughout the night, eliminating four of her siblings, five if you count the Ares bloke he'd shot along the way…

Yet, her eyes set in eternal stubbornness. "Let's get this over with." She began her final advance.

Say what you may, Clarisse La Rue sure was no craven.

Percy shot a glance upwards, but Harry didn't even bother acknowledging it. There was nothing to decide.

"Gladly." He glided forth, wand twirling downward.

Even alone and half-defeated, Clarisse clearly wasn't about to let them dictate the pace. She came at them hard and fast, sprinting towards Percy first—who did not flinch away—her spear trailing a path of whitish-blue crackles through the air…

It was the sound that drew them all short at once. Wails, but not quite. Screeches and whoops, perhaps, growing louder by the second. The Ares Couselor clearly recognised it, for a startled realisation set in her features the next second. The noise grew stronger still.

'A roar of a thousand souls.' Harry finally settled, slowly spinning through the air. Rumbling, thundering, like the cheers of a House after a Quaffle cleared the post, the sound drew nearer still…

The woods parted back above the downward edge of the Creek, where Sherman Yang had managed to struggle back up his two feet. The next second, dozens of demigods sprawled out of the darkness, as if spawning on the spot, a familiar banner of red ugliness wafting through the air in their midst, held high by Castellan himself.

Clarisse cursed.

There was nothing more to do; quick as a whip, the Hermes Counselor crossed over the Creek, back into friendly territory, and the banner began to change. The red turned silver and the boar and spear twisted into squiggly lines that quickly formed a huge Caduceus.

Then the Conch horn was blown by a trotting Centaur that appeared from the other side and that was that. The Blue team picked up Luke over their shoulders as if he'd fought half the Ares Cabin himself. Wide grins and wild joy in their faces as they looked up at him; Lee Fletcher, Lorrèn Whiskers, the Stoll brothers and Dantes, the usually-haughty Athenas, Layla…

'Should've just stolen the damned flag.' A sharp, bitter pang throbbed in his chest, but he quickly shook it away. His time would come.

"This was a trick…" Clarisse hissed from behind, apparently still in the midst of processing the sight. "All of it, a fucking bait…?"

Harry laughed, brushing away his ire, as he leaned forward to glide towards the rowdy, victorious crowd, with Percy following suit beneath him. "You really didn't know?" He snaked a glance backwards before turning away dismissively. "I bet your siblings managed to figure it out half-way through the chase but kept quiet, 'cause of your own bloody ego—"

It happened faster than he could blink. A loud blare of warning in his ears, almost splitting his head in two by sheer strength; he couldn't even so much as manoeuvre his body out of the way in mid-air before a great, titanic force slammed into his back, driving him straight down into the earth with a disastrous thud, his helmet bouncing off of his head.

Renewed yells reached his ears. Percy's panicked ones, intermixed with Clarisse's schadenfreude. Then a new set of voices raised from afar.

Uncaring of all, Harry groaned, feeling all the creaks in his body complaining anew. To his side, a fallen spear crackled with electricity.

'She attacked me.' He realised. Incredulous, he twisted to glance down at the back of his armour, pushing himself to his knees. The metal was dented but ultimately unbroken; quite evidently, of course, considering his innards were still intact.

Then the second realisation set in. 'She could've killed me without the armour.' No leather vest was stopping that sort of attack.

From the depths of his exhausted being, the dying embers of his anger roared back to life once more, burning just beneath his skin. The Ares, it would seem, had a special talent in infuriating their opponents.

Fingers scrambling in the dirt to pick up his fallen wand, he pushed himself to his feet with effort, ignoring a spike of pain in his right shoulder. Before he'd even turned to face his opponent his wand was already poised and ready, though it looked like his fellow Demigod had been a shade quicker, already engaged with her in battle.

It wasn't much of a battle, truly; even with his magically enhanced aptitude beginning to weaken, Percy was still better armed and held all the advantages. Without her spear, Clarisse was no better than any average fighter, and was being mercilessly pushed back.

Harry followed.

At the front, he could spy a small group of celebratory demigods and one big centaur quickly bounding over from the Creek's clearing, their earlier cheer replaced by whisperings and frowns. Most still lingered back, to thump each other's backs as if they'd done something special, but Harry held little care for them right now.

Only one thing mattered.

He took careful aim at Clarisse, waiting for a single, clear shot.

"That shall be all!" Chiron's voice suddenly rang across, and the two fighters disengaged at once. "No more fighting, if you will. We have our victor for this week's Capture the Flag! Congratulations are in order…to the Blue team!" The cheers started once more, all the way across the glade and up the Creek banks. "New schedules and chore lists shall be updated by tomorrow. But now…'tis the time to revel in spoils of battle, may you be the vanquishers or the vanquished." He gave them another significant glance.

Harry was not satisfied. His body was on the verge of giving out; he had run it more ragged today than ever before. And the Ares had done their best to break it time and again.

As Clarisse shouldered past Percy with a sneer, making her way over to retrieve her spear, he realised with a dawning breath…he couldn't let this go.

His wand hand, still half-hung in the air, raised up and pointed straight back at Clarisse's face.

"Mr. Potter!"

Before any more protests could join Chiron's, he poured in his rage and anger, his bitterness and angst, and let his wand dance. "Sectumsempra!" At the last moment, he had the sense to lower his aim, and a near-instant flash of white was all that announced its success.

It still took her in the chest. She'd flinched away, but not fast enough to dodge something invisible, and the only sign that anything happened for a few seconds was a strange sound of torn leather…and flesh. He could see a momentary confusion set in Clarisse's eyes before they widened.

Then, like the prequel of true horror, the Linothorax armour came undone into ribbons, and the girl went down screaming beneath a shower of blood. Seven sword-like slashes materialised from her shoulder to stomach, jagged cuts that were quickly drenched in red as her blood seeped through.

Tensions rose up immediately. Shouts and yells, the outrage and clamouring of a choice few…it drowned out any remaining semblance of cheer from the Demigods, may they be blue-plumaged or red. The few Ares who'd managed to find their feet—alongside those who'd survived—hollered for his blood, quickly stomping up the Creek's bank with clear intention to resume fighting.

To his surprise, a large chunk of Blues rose up to his defence almost immediately, roaring just as ferocious against the handful of Ares. If pushed, he could've been convinced that Hermes and Apollo Cabin might come to his aid after a fashion—he was particularly close with the latter—but to see Chase of all Demigods standing there, blonde hair flapping in the cold winds, holding a dagger ready as she glared across the clearing…it caught him off-guard, to say the least.

And he would be lying if he claimed it wasn't bloody relieving.

Amid all the mess, Clarisse was quickly registered a cube of Ambrosia by Chiron, and his near-fatal attack became nothing but a small skirmish wound.

Letting his tense body relax, Harry turned towards the sky, simply breathing. Sweat and pain mingled throughout his body, and all his eyes demanded was to shut-close and fall asleep.

The music in his soul had changed as well, he realised; grimly, it whistled a tune of lingering danger. But not towards him.

The stand-off between the two teams did not last for long.

"Demigods!" Chiron thundered up, the strength in his voice taking all by surprise. "This has gone far enough. Any seen baring their weapon past this point shall be forced to muck the stables for the next two weeks." The Centaur shot a specific glance at him, brooking no argument.

He need not have bothered. The weapons were sheathed before he'd even finished his threat. Grimacing, Harry pocketed his wand as well.

The Centaur continued, "Save your anger for the next week. I daresay you shall not lack for—" He drew his words short, stiffening up as a howl, shiver-inducing and too close for comfort, spread through the trees behind them, echoing in its ghoulish growl.

The Demigods straightened up. Mere seconds after the promised threat, their weapons freed their sheaths once again.

Chiron did not berate them. "Stand ready!" He barked, perfect Ancient Greek escaping his tongue. "My bow!"

The trees behind them shook, and the Demigods turned to the darkness together, the archers and Elite fighters quickly making their way over. He himself stood with his wand poised—Percy stepping up just beside him, though the magic of the water had finally vacated him—yet his eyes couldn't help but scourge for his fallen sword.

Suddenly, the high-pitched, pulsating note of his Song turned into a continuous whistle; softer, calmer, than the usual threats he faced, but no less lethal. And he could guess why; for the behemothic silhouette of shadows that stepped out of the woods looked something straight from Hagrid's catalogue of 'friendly' monsters he never wished to meet.

"Archers at the front!" Chiron bellowed orders at once. "Take aim!"

A black hound, Harry finally decided, as moonlight illuminated its saliva-dripping maw. The size of a full-grown hippogriff, perhaps larger, sporting red, magma-eyes and a set of fangs bigger than Clarisse's dagger. Silent through the bushes, she prowled closer—for he was certain it was a she now—the red in her eyes scourging the gathering of demigods, before fixating upon Percy.

'No!' He stepped ahead of his fellow newbie, wand raised to snap out a quick Shield or Stunner if needed.

The monster refocused on him, inhuman crimson peering into his eyes, almost curiously.

Something tickled at his edges. Like a sense, trying to connect; it gave the similar feel to the skeleton he'd managed to summon back in the Chamber. But this hound was no skeleton; she was thinking, alive, with her own will and strength…her supplication demanded worthiness, and right now, barely keeping his feet under him as he was, Harry did not feel worthy.

The monster turned her gaze back on Percy. Whatever that was, Harry had failed.

Yet he had no time to be disappointed. He saw it a moment before it happened; the tensing of the Hound's shoulder, the hind legs bending slightly as she readied itself…and then came the pounce.

"Percy, run!" Chase yelled out in warning, but the hound was too fast.

He swirled his wand, yet for the first time his Song was relaying conflictory notes, one urging to take control of the monster, the other acting like nothing was wrong—likely for him, it was true—and that jarred him out too much; his spell missed the moving-canine by a quarter of a feet, and her single leap had her sailing over his head, the frighteningly freakish claws extended to scour feet-deep valleys into Percy's body.

"Attack!" Just as the razor-sharp claws began to close down, there was a cascade of thwacks, and the night sky was suddenly filled with the rain of a dozen golden-tipped arrows, unerringly honing in on the creature's hide.

Harry dived out of the way, bowling Percy backwards, as the monster's body fell down like a puppet with its strings cut. Her neck sprouted a cluster of shafts, the dark, furred skin quickly crumbling into black dust.

The monster fell dead at their feet.

For reasons unknown, he felt a profound guilt as the majestic body slowly began melting away into the shadows, devoured whole beneath the ground. He didn't know if he could've subjugated her or not, but he fully believed the creature meant him no harm.

"What the hell was that!?" Someone shouted from behind him, the demigods beginning to stir.

By some miracle, no one was injured. The only groan of pain in the battlefield came from Clarisse, the ruins of her tattered armour still littering the field.

He glanced at his fellow newbie. "You alright?"

"I guess." The boy sounded uncertain, eyes still fixed upon the patch of torn floor where the monster had disappeared.

Harry could understand. Another second, and the boy would've been turned into a minced pie.

Chiron trotted up next to them, a bow in his hand, face set in grim lines.

"Di immortales!" Chase was right beside him. "That was a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment. They don't . . . they're not supposed to . . ."

"Someone summoned it," The Centaur grimly noted. "Someone inside the camp."

The rest were quick to converge around them; Castellan being the first, the banner in his hand forgotten. Harry couldn't help but eye him with suspicion; if there was one Demigod inside the Camp he did not trust, it would be the Hermes Counselor.

"It's probably one of the newbies." A snide voice piped up, and he turned to pick out Sherman Yang hiding amid his siblings. "I'd hedge my bet on Potter, what with him waving his little stick around the whole night. Did you see how that thing looked at him? Like it was waiting for orders—"

"Quiet, child," Chiron rebuked harshly, before Harry could retort with another Sectumsempra. "Whoever it was, we will not know for certain tonight. I feel it prudent to…" He trailed off, eyes darting at the sudden green glow manifesting beside them.

Gasps and pointing spread through the ranks of Demigods, and Harry quickly whirled along as well.

It was a glowing hologram that had caught everyone's attention; a three-tipped spear—or a trident, Harry faintly remembered—gleaming a soft emerald in mid-air, exuding a pressure not unlike something he'd felt only from the two Olympians.

Slowly, like a halo of power, it spun above Percy's head.

Even though he'd never seen its like before, Harry had an inkling of suspicion on what it was.

"Your father." Chase muttered beside them, her blonde hair matted with sweat as she worried about a lock between her fingers anxiously. "This is really not good…"

"It is determined." Chiron announced, and all around them Demigods began dropping to their knees. Even the furious bunch of Ares.

Stunned, his heart an ashen ground, Harry tried to follow suit…yet his legs wouldn't bend.

"My father?" Percy finally snatched his gaze away from the fading symbol, glancing at Chiron, then at him.

The boy seemed more bewildered than happy

"Poseidon." Chiron bowed. "Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of horses." He straightened, and his voice sent chills up the spine. "Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God."

Harry felt his world crashing. A pair of hands tugged at his armour, but he remained stiff as a statue. The sense of power, of accomplishment, for everything he'd achieved tonight…it disappeared away in a flash.

As the night drew to a close and the Demigods began heading back towards the Cabins—some whispering and pointing, some chittering and cheering, some simply fuming—Harry found his feet to be a pair of automated metal parts that moved of their own accord. He didn't share in Percy's joy and nervous excitement, his words simply entering and exiting his head one way through the other, his only stock of response an absent nod and light humming.

Most of his focus remained at processing the last event of the night. Suffice it to say…it wasn't the happy ending he'd been imagining.

He had theorised who Percy's father was, of course. Just as he'd theorised his own. But he'd expected either for neither to be claimed or him to be the first. After all, what could Percy do that he couldn't?

'Defeat enemies with a sword, apparently.'

He tried, desperately to believe none of it meant anything, but the truth was…it did.

He and Percy had achieved victory against improbable odds; it was safe to say theirs were the most heroic of actions for this Capture the Flag. But if Harry were allowed a moment of arrogance, he would admit he was the one who'd done the lion share of the work.

Yet, he was not the one being rewarded. Percy was. He was not the one being praised; Castellan was. He was not the one credited for their perfect plan; Chase was.

The only thing he'd gained tonight were an old pair of flying shoes. And even that came from someone's generosity rather than his own accomplishments.

As they entered their dingy, old Cabin, Harry begged off from their very much rule-bending after-party, as the Stoll brothers revealed their stock of alcoholic beverages. Even Castellan raising a toast for him, acknowledging his actions, felt flat and unmoving.

Quietly, he tucked inside his tent, ignoring Percy's goodnight as if he hadn't heard. Stripping his armour that he'd forgotten to return, he placed it alongside his sword that he had remembered to pick up. Yet, like some twisted last-laugh from fate, he found the exhaustion that had gripped his soul wither away. He lay there, twisting and turning, until the last whoop and cheer from the party became ancient history and silence entrenched Cabin Eleven.

He lay there for a long, long while.

Unblinking eyes stared at the dark cover of his colourless tent, his unprotected mind blackening his thoughts, leaving him raw and hurting. He tried to force them shut and drift off, but the events of the night refused to vacate his thoughts, the memory playing behind his eyes again and again…

And so Harry Potter laid there, prone, unblinking, thinking, cursing, cursing until the night dawned into the earliest beginnings of morning. Cursing his father and his mother, cursing the fates and the gods…

He wasn't proud of the depths in hell his thoughts chose to wander. Wasn't proud of the old, ugly bitterness that spewed in his heart…but he couldn't help it.

Since the moment he'd arrived at the Camp, he had done nothing but excel. His only true comparison had been Percy, and every single time bar none, Harry had blown the kid out of the waters.

Yet…here he laid, one of the many unclaimeds of Camp Half-blood. And Percy was about to have his life changed for the better. In the absent recesses of his mind, he'd wondered many a times before, if perhaps the reason his witless excuse of a godly father hadn't yet claimed him was simply because he could't; some ancient pact, perhaps, or some mysterious divine logic…

Now it was all laid moot.

Poseidon, Lord of the Seas, one of the three heads of Greek Pantheon, had claimed his son. And he…he still remained in the tiny corner of Cabin Eleven. There was no excuse.

Ultimately, it wasn't Percy's fault, he decided. He was blaming the boy just as he'd blamed Jane. Punishing them for sins neither ever committed; it was something far too down for his liking. No, only the adults were at fault here. They always were.

Harry snorted. He almost couldn't believe he'd just compared immortal, omnipotent gods to mundane adults, but right then, he found little difference.

As the first cry of the day resounded from the Hen House, Harry finally forced his eyes shut with a sigh. The adrenaline born of angst wore off, and the subsequent exhaustion hit like a troll's club. His body stilled as if an immovable stone at the bottom of the ocean, and his mind refused to produce a single more thought.

When he finally slept, however, his dreams were dark and heavy.

----------------------------

The next morning, the doors of Cabin Three were opened for Percy with little fanfare.

The empty spot on the floor where his bedroll used to lay seemed like a personal taunt crafted specifically for Harry; a mark of another failure. He simply couldn't decide if it was his or his father's.

He soon found the latter was far easier to blame.

That day, he unceremoniously staked a claim upon Percy's spot, and not a single soul uttered a word of protest. If that was because the news of his battle against the Seven had somehow spread throughout the Camp overnight, or simply because the dark storm brewing on his face was fresh for all to see, he didn't know nor particularly cared. He simply transformed the spot to his liking—picking up another bedroll from the store and charming it as he had his own, before dumping all the equipment save his wand and Cloak inside.

It was barely enough to provide him with some solace, but he felt assured he would put the night's incident to the back of his head eventually…unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about the whispers and chattering of Camp Half-Blood.

The hottest topic amongst the demigods, of course, revolved around his fellow newbie. Evidently, that term did not suit him anymore. He had his own Cabin now, own rules and regulations to follow, and own bloody schedule to pick whatever tasks he wished.

Harry had only ever felt this kind of envy once before. It wouldn't have been so infuriating, had the boy not complained about it. Every. Single. Time. He wasn't so self-centred as to not know how different personalities worked, but what boy of twelve on this planet would choose to share a shoddy room with two dozen other males? Who in Merlin's name would want to mingle with thieves and knifers, every single one of whom was on the lookout for their next big prank, when the alternative was owning a bloody mansion-like Cabin that belonged only to him?

Percy Jackson, that's who.

Still, he tried to be civil with the boy, tried to commiserate with him, to show at least some sympathy over the 'hardships' he was facing, no matter how much he felt like spewing blood…

He failed.

In fact, the boy called him out almost instantly, and it was here Harry realised…there was a crack in their fledging friendship. A wound, simply widened—not born—from the flecks of his envy and bitterness that showed from time to time, no matter how tightly he tried to smother it deep within. His lack of empathy over the ridiculous situation did not help the matter in the least.

It had started some time past, he eventually worked out, back at the start of the Capture the Flag. When he'd decided to abandon the boy and chase after glory…Percy remembered that. Remembered how easily he had left him alone. And while their united stand against the Ares might have given him a chance to mend the schism, he'd fluffed it quite spectacularly.

And Harry was far too proud to apologise. Far too…afraid. To seem weak, to admit fault, even when he knew what was right and who was wrong…

The result was Percy spending more time with Grover the Satyr.

Instead of tackling the issue, Harry consolidated all his anger, all his reignited hatred and bitterness—at his family, at his father, at Grover the goat—and transferred it all onto the Arena.

That, at least, did not fail him.

His newfound ferocity was such that most of the demigods learned to stray clear of the grounds whenever he was present. And from amid those who stayed, his list of willing sparring partners slowly dwindled down to a big fat zero. Occasionally, a wary Clarisse might wander by sneering, though her visits and taunts dramatically lessened when his sword almost brained one of her bigger brothers.

The boy laid unconscious in the infirmary for three whole days.

The only person who neither flinched nor backed down from the challenge was Castellan. In fact, he pushed him harder than ever, most of their duels now a one-on-one sessions. He made him repeat manoeuvres no beginner had business learning, worked him on his footwork and coordination, then finished with full-blown duels that lasted anywhere from mere seconds—usually with Harry disarmed or sprawled on the ground—to over a dozen minute.

"I have a feeling you'll need it." The older boy had said on one of their routine sessions, waving at his facial scar. "Wouldn't have gotten this had I been more prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Harry had asked, but the demigod stayed vague.

He especially focused on having him multitask with a Wand and Sword in each hand—a style Harry had since embraced as his own—making him change arms to remove the discomfort of off-balance.

With Occlumency—something he'd begun practising religiously every night again—making trivial work of dividing his mental focus, Harry took to it like fish to water. He learned to use Protego as a substitute for real shields in mid-battle, waving his wand and sword in different motions at the same time—a task that would have otherwise proved almost impossible to learn without some mental nudges. Not under the time constraints Castellan seemed to believe he was working at.

"Gods don't care about us, Harry." The Hermes Demigod had shared on one of his rarer bouts of honestly, when they'd taken a break that had eventually devolved into mundane talks. "Wondering why your father hasn't claimed you yet is a useless task; they are gods. It is in their nature to be fickle and uncaring. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Harry had always thought of Castellan as a shady, untrustworthy figure, playing under mysterious goals of his own. But for the first time, he wondered if the goals he carried might not be as outside the path of his own ambitions as he'd once believed.

That night, dreams began plaguing his mind.

----------------------------

As the days sprinted past, and his bitterness was slowly hammered down into hard grit, Harry quickly realised the time he'd spent brooding on his lonesome had made him subconsciously ignore the happenings of the Camp. There was a noticeable air of suspense gripping all demigods now—even the Ares, who still hadn't shut up about his use of 'un-demigodlike' magical powers to anyone who would listen. Not to his face though. Not anymore.

A rumour seemed to be circulating around the Camp. A rumour of something big and grimlike and exciting, spoken in hushed voices by the hopeful Half-bloods abound. Huddling around the firepit, they whispered of a quest; the first in many years. They spoke of a prophecy delivered before his and Percy's coming. A prophecy that had barred the demigods from partaking in any adventure outside the camp, even to this day. A prophecy that would unfold upon the emergence of someone special; a powerful Half-Blood whose arrival would lift the draught from upon the Camp.

That special someone, of course, just happened to be Percy Jackson, the Son of the Sea God. The first demigod in many decades to be claimed by one of the Big Three.

With anticipation, however, also came fear. Campers all around were terrified of the boy. Of the fact that he was one of the Big Three's and no monster would cease its thirst for his blood, even if it must claw through the Camp borders…

Harry never told anyone, but all of this somehow tied into his dreams with horrifying accuracy. They changed like flickers of flames, sometime on a beach, sometimes an abandoned Island. Sometimes underneath the earth, and sometimes in a pit so deep he felt his mind tear at any tries to remember the details. Only five things remained constant; the imagery of an eagle, a horse, a skeleton, a bolt that was always, always in his hand…and a voice.

It spoke only one word. 'Choose.'

The dreams reached their crescendo on the morn of his third week in the Camp. The Sun was particularly weak this day, but even more unusual were the dark clouds that lingered at the edges, barring the rays from gracing the Camp. Harry had just arrived back at his Cabin after a quick but rewarding session of Archery—finally, finally advancing to the next stage—when he found himself face to face with a tiny Satyr.

His face scrunched up in annoyance. He would have chased the goat-boy away, pronto, had he not opened his mouth and spilled out all the details in a hurried bray.

The subject of his matters…it left Harry almost breathless.

"…And Chiron wants me along?" He once again asked the tiny-horned boy, furrowing his brows on his insistent nods. "Why?"

Grover the goat fidgeted. "W-well, you know Mr. D wanted to kill—I mean, decide what Percy's fate would be…"

"Right."

The boy hesitated, glancing over his shoulders, before delivering a nervous bleat. "...It's been decided he would go on a quest."

"Right."

"...Chiron thinks you're one of those who are supposed to be on this quest."

Harry kept his emotions hidden. "And why is that?"

"W-well, if you'll come with me…they're waiting for you."

Harry inclined his head, and looked back inside the Cabin. Most of his equipment was still lingering within his bedrolls, though he doubted they would leave for this quest right away.

With a sharp nod, he joined the boy. "Lead the way."

They marched straight towards the Big House.

Along the path, Harry did his best to interrogate the goat-boy, but found it a far more difficult venture than he would've expected from a stuttering dim-wit.

"Can you at least tell me who else will be going?" He finally asked, exasperated.

But Grover had either gone completely deaf of hearing, or the young Satyr really didn't wish to open his mouth

Harry snorted. Normally simply being in the boy's presence would've irritated him, but he honestly couldn't summon a lick of irritation at this moment.

For he was far too busy desperately holding onto his Occlumency, trying not to break in a happy jiggle.

'A quest. Finally.' Grinning until his cheeks split would've looked too uncharacteristic of him, but there was nothing more he wanted at that moment.

He had wondered if he'd sabotaged his chances by driving a wedge between him and Percy, but perhaps there was some hope yet. Why Chiron decided upon him all of a sudden—especially after making him muck out the stables following the night of Capture the Flag—he didn't know, but surely there must be a reason. The gods might've gone blind, but the Camp must've picked up on his growing prowess. And his unique skills would be useful in almost any situation…

Whatever the reason, he was motivated not to fail.

They soon arrived at the lightly crowded front of the Big House. He could spy a restless Chase prowling the deck back and forth, beside a patiently sitting Chiron and a Percy who appeared as if he'd received his death sentence. The trio caught sight of them upon arrival, and the latter gave him a sickly smile.

Slightly surprised, Harry nodded back.

"Mr. Potter." Chiron's lips tugged up in a grim half-smile. "Glad you could make it. How much has Grover explained to you?"

"Absolutely nothing, except that I'm selected to go on a quest alongside Percy." He shot the goat boy a stink-eye.

Grover bleated nervously.

"Actually, I believe that should about do it. Before we explain anything more, I must have your answer, please."

Harry frowned, glancing at the rest of the audience. Percy found grave interest in a patch of grass nearby, while Chase looked as if she'd swallowed something bitter. He had a feeling his inclusion in this quest wasn't without its contentions.

He turned back to Chiron, who seemed staunch on his words to not spill anything before his agreement.

But there was no other choice for him.

"I'm in."

The reactions he got widely differed from each other.

"Excellent!" Chiron exclaimed, "There will be much to discuss, I'm sure. Would you like to take the chance to explain everything to our young friend, Percy?"

Chase gave a scoff.

Finally, a flicker of annoyance wormed its way into his heart, cutting through the thick excitement.

"What're you scoffing at?" He shot back in an instant. "I'm pretty sure I'll be far more valuable than you."

"Please," She rolled her eyes, grey eyes looking down on him. "You won't even know how to reach our destination without my help."

"Ah, that must be because you're so well-travelled, yes? Though I was of the assumption you hadn't even laid foot outside New York on your own." He smirked. "At least I have my magic."

If looks could kill, Harry would be attending his own funeral.

"Children, please." Chiron raised a hand, whilst Percy looked more and more resigned. "You will have a difficult journey ahead, I have no doubt. Often times, you will find yourself tested in ways you haven't even dreamt of. It is time you understand the gravity of your situation; a quest like this is no place for childish rivalries."

Chase scowled, folding her arms.

Harry simply shrugged, not bothered in the least. All he had to do was ignore the squealing know-it-all and enjoy the finer aspects of this quest.

With three people who didn't really like him. 'Great. I've done harder things.'

"I'll get him up to speed, Chiron." Percy stood up, dusting away his pants as he jumped down the deck. "C'mon, Harry."

Soon, the small meeting was dispersed and two pairs left the Big House their separate ways; him and Percy, Grover and Annabeth. Harry was guessing the other two were included in this quest, woe though it was.

"So…start from the beginning?" Percy glanced up at him.

He didn't know if the boy realised, but this was the first time they'd spoken to each other in two days. The last one had been in Chase's class, where his latest row with the Athena Counselor had the boy snapping at them both.

Harry nodded back pleasantly as if nothing was wrong. "Yes, please."

"Well, I've been having these dreams, you see…."

The boy went on to explain a set of visions faintly similar to his own, and Harry quickly drew the conclusion they were likely seeing a prophetic scene.

'Likely why I was chosen.'

He was meant to go on this quest. It felt far more relieving than he'd expected.

As him and Percy headed back towards the Cabin, the boy finally relayed the prophecy he'd received, though the discomfort on his face was easy to read with each spoken word.

"Four shall go west, and face the god who has turned;

To fight against fate, only to be spurned;

With a child of the dead, a choice shall be made;

To return what was stolen, or let war be the trade."

The boy paused, hesitant. His eyes flickered to him, almost guilty, before he shrugged. "That's—yeah…that's about it."

Harry did not believe him for a second; something truly vital was being hidden from him. But he couldn't even bring himself to interrogate, far more captivated by the implications of only those four phrases.

"The god who has turned…" He turned back to Percy.

"Hades. Or, at least, Chiron thinks so."

His entire body froze for a second, before he forced himself forward, quicky occluding away his shock. 'It doesn't matter.'

It did not matter.

Apparently, saying it twice did not make as much of a difference as he'd been hoping.

As the boy went on to explain the rest of the details, Harry finally formed a solid picture in his head. If he understood Percy correctly, the quest required the retrieval of a stolen lightning bolt…or else there would be a terrible war.

A war created by the choice of a child of the dead.

'Choice.' His thoughts turned to his own dreams, and he couldn't help but be discomforted.

War was the exact thing Harry had been preparing for all this while. Didn't this quest go entirely the opposite direction of his goals?

'…That must be my choice.' Sudden chill leapt up his spine.

He didn't wish to get ahead of himself, but if it was truly…him, the prophecy referred to, then he would once again have an option.

Surely he wasn't going to simply betray Percy for some glory?

They might not be good friends, especially after their recent differences, but they'd still stuck with each other ever since their arrival here.

'But haven't I already betrayed him once?'

He'd left him behind, like a friend of convenience he could use and dump whenever he wished, just to participate in a battle…could he truly claim himself to be a moral person? The kind to do the right thing, and give up selfish ambitions? Him? Who couldn't even apologise for his wrongs? Who holds grudges at the slightest slights and was never quick to forgive?

The fate of the world rested in the hands of someone like him?

The words of the prophecy tugged at his heartstrings all the way to their Cabin.

If he was presented the option between glory and righteousness again, would he truly make the correct choice?

With his mind twisted in a knot, Harry set about his day, abstaining from answering his Cabinmates inquiries and simply preparing for the long journey ahead.

Ultimately, he decided he was reading too much into it. Prophecies were never plain nor simple, the Greek histories attested to that much at least. He wasn't even certain he was a child of the dead—unclaimed as he'd remained—let alone imagine himself as some important figure in a divine Prophecy.

Whatever the fate held for him, he had a feeling things were about to get real strange.

----------------------------

AN: Whew, finally done with this fic for now. I've already started writing MGO and I might have a small surprise soon but no promises. I've been trying to up my writing speed, and as things have really stabilized irl, I'll be attempting to post multiple chaps per month again.

I've also gotten into the bad habit of never being satisfied with what I've written, so it makes my speed all the more slower...I must have thrown over 10k words in the trash by now, on top of the rewrites and constant edits I keep doing until I find that 'just perfect' spot. For the next few chaps, I'm gonna try going back to shorter chaps to help me get out of this habit. I apologize if my quality suffers for it, but one chapter per month really isn't the level I wish to aim for.

Anyway, let me know what you thought of this chap! I know the fight scene dragged on a bit, but hopefully it was enjoyable enough. Next up is MGO Ch.38.

That's about it for now, see ya in a bit and have a wonderful day!

P.S: I've been out of the loop for a while, and only now caught up to the fact that patreon has really changed. Any chaps I think not suitable from now on I'll be posting in docs or pdf file just to be safe. Hope that doesn't turn anyone off!