From Hogwarts to Olympus Ch.5 (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Chapter 5- Welcome to Camp Half-Blood!

AN: First chapter of 2024! Whooo! Over 17k, with another one incoming. Beta'd by Kaladin, Basilisk, and Deathwish. Hope you enjoy!

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Growing up, the concept of admiring someone in life had been a strange one to Harry. What was so great about Newton and Einstein, that even distanced by many miles and centuries, people still spoke of them in reverence?

Certainly, their inventions and discoveries had set life at a grander progression, so a degree of gratitude was warranted. But the amount of veneration people held for them in their hearts, the sheer adulation, had always seemed so…alien to Harry.

It wasn't until he arrived at Hogwarts and began learning magic that he realised why. When, in his quest to battle the boredom induced by Binns and his umpteenth retelling of the Goblin wars, he began prowling through the Great Library for his own personal ventures into History. There he stumbled upon a book detailing the first Wizarding War, and the man who played the biggest part in ending it.

The wizard, or Demigod as he now knew, who brought down the world's most infamous Dark Lord.

All of a sudden, Harry began to understand why those scientists of old were admired so. When you dedicate yourself to a task and realise how long and arduous the path ahead might be, you cannot help but look up to those standing at the end of it, knowing they have achieved what you can only hope to one day.

As he entered the Headmaster's office, however, he couldn't help but wonder if the saying 'Never meet your heroes' might hold some bitter truth after all…For he found his former role model bent over to the back, in the midst of dragging out a dark, heavy-duty trunk that resembled something straight out of the prehistoric times. Patches of rust clouded its outdated design, and Harry could’ve sworn he saw a little spider scuttling away sneakily from its side, back into the depths of the room's mysterious corners…

Suddenly the Trunk slammed back down on the ground with a deep reverberating thump, startling him something awful. A wide variety of curses left the Headmaster's mouth, and none were the magical kind. Straightening up painfully, Dumbledore turned around with the slowness of the old, gingerly curling and uncurling the fist that had let slip the Trunk handle.

“Ah, Mr. Potter.” His eyes took him in, brightening up a little. “You couldn’t have arrived at a better time. It would seem I must ask of you yet another service to this school.”

Harry rolled his eyes, joining the old man from the other side. “And whatever happened to your wand, sir?”

“Oh, 'tis nothing but the lingering hubris of my younger days, I’m afraid." Dumbledore sighed, chuckling ruefully. "With the times changing as they are, I thought perhaps I could give my old, divine bones a little exercise—shake the rust out of them, if you will. Sadly, I’m more likely to throw my back out than engage in a physical battle anytime soon.”

“...You’re over a hundred years old, Professor.” Harry noted dryly, wrapping his fingers around the only remaining trunk handle. “I mean no offence, but that’s almost ancient.”

The Headmaster chuckled. “Why, it has been a terribly long time since I’ve been called old by anyone but myself. I suppose I must simply leave that side of things to Andronikos. Now, together?”

Harry nodded, and with a united effort, they hefted the trunk airborne. To his surprise, the large metallic chest proved far heavier than its appearance suggested. His muscles went taut under its bulk, straining to carry the weight even halfway to the entrance door, his breath closing in short, laboured gasps.

It came with great relief when they finally placed the trunk down, feeling it rattle against the floor with a deep thwack. As he released his grip, straightening up, he realised his fingers had gone numb already.

Massaging his palm, Harry glanced down at the Headmaster—who now knelt beside the trunk, blowing away the old, layered dust atop with a swipe of his now wanded arm. “What on earth is in it, Professor?”

“Oh, just some of my old makings from the Camp…" Almost absently, the ancient wizard caressed its dark surface with the back of his hand. "And a handful of metals I’ve found no use for even now.” The Headmaster glanced up, meeting his eyes keenly. “Rest assured, it is heavy enough that no mortal human should even attempt to lift it."

"...Oh." Harry eloquently replied. That…was certainly unexpected. “What exactly does it mean? Aside from the fact that I'm growing stronger…"

"It means, my dear boy, that either I have completely misjudged James' true identity…or your Demigod abilities seem to be growing quicker than I'd anticipated."

Harry tilted his head, frowning. "You sound like that's not a good thing."

Dumbledore hummed, turning back to the trunk. "In some ways, I suppose, it is."

Harry couldn't quite guess in what ways it wouldn't be, neither did he wish to try. Though he realised absently he was talking far too familiarly with someone who, until last night, had been a complete stranger to his life. There was no doubt in his mind that the man was still holding onto some cards; he had refused to speak much of his father yesterday, and even now kept him guessing.

Unfortunately, Harry didn’t have much of a choice. He couldn’t stumble into the world of Divine on his own, neither did he fancy his chances of finding another trustworthy guide. Until he got to this Camp, he was solely and utterly dependent on Dumbledore. He didn’t like it, but he would rather keep his silence now than blow his chances by demanding answers the man clearly didn’t wish to give.

Unaware of his misgivings, the Headmaster casually popped the trunk open. “Have you eaten anything yet, Mr. Potter?”

"No, sir." He replied, failing to keep out a bitter twinge off his tongue. "Didn’t get the time, really.” He had thought about snagging some bacon from the Great Hall on his way here, but never received a chance.

The old man set to rummage within the trunk, and for a wild second Harry wondered if he was about to pull out an antique piece of toast for him to digest. Thankfully, all he retrieved was a crumpled piece of paper laid wrapped in a faded orange T-shirt, neatly spelling 'Camp Half-Blood' atop the engraving of a winged horse.

Holding it up against the afternoon sunshine, Dumbledore smoothed out its edges and squinted at its misshapen contents.

“Just as well." He said, turning back to him. "If my math is correct, we’ll be perfectly in time for Breakfast.” He extended the piece of paper at him. “Unless Chiron has changed the Timetable, though I suspect not. Immortals dislike change above all else…and your new Camp Director is as immortal as they come.”

Harry took the piece of paper silently, pressing it in folds before stashing it inside his pocket. The Headmaster's words had just brought back his attention to the fact that he was about to meet a new kind of society once more. A society even stranger than the Magical world. There was an old fear in his heart that reared back its ugly head; the fear of facing another rejection.

“Now, are you ready to leave?"

He took a deep breath, erasing the fraying nerves behind a cold cover of Occlumency—which, to his surprise, came easier than ever before.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He affirmed to himself. Rejection or not, he would have the truth of his existence, and he would walk the path of greatness—with or without anyone’s support.

Turning to Dumbledore, Harry gave a sharp nod. "About as ready as I'd ever be.” He paused, “Though…you didn’t say if I should bring my Trunk or not. My clothes and books are all in there."

"Worry not, Mr. Potter, the Camp provides for everything, and I suspect you will have little time for homework. You need only bring the bare essentials along, your wand the prime among them." Then, with a wink, he added musingly, "Or any other magical artefact you think might help in dangerous situations."

Harry was uncomfortably aware of the silken soft Cloak currently sitting folded in his jeans pocket. ‘Does he know?...’

Another mystery in the long list of secrets the old man insisted on hiding.

“Now, if there is nothing else, let us not tarry any longer.” Dumbledore stood up, offering him an arm. “If I must involve myself with the accursed Fates again, I would prefer to get it over with quickly. Now hold on tight, please, Apparition isn’t pleasant for first-timers…even Demigods.”

Harry followed his advice and braced himself, clutching his arm solidly and ignoring the confusing dilemma of Apparating within the bounds of Hogwarts.

He took one last look around the office, then, sharing a nod with Dumbledore, disappeared under a sudden biting jerk of the air, leaving behind only their silence in the office.

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The World came alive again in a deafening cacophony of white noise.

"Ah, here we are." A jolly Dumbledore announced above him, not a shred of discomfort marring his voice. "Many decades past, and it still looks as ageless as ever."

Harry blinked slowly, the phantom sensation of stretching through space growing more numb by the second—like a quickly passing dream—as he let his mind and body adjust. Pushing to his feet, he looked up and ahead, eyes squinting through the wide range of forest trees, absently wiping at his knees that had browned from taking a brief nausea-compelled sprawl to the ground.

"Where exactly are we, sir?" He turned to his guide.

"We, Mr. Potter, are in the forest enveloping the edge of Long Island, New York.” A faint wistful excitement entered his voice, eyes fixed upon the great expanse ahead. “Welcome…to the Half-Blood Hill.”

It wasn't the kind of place one would imagine a gathering of Demigods to be, though that hardly surprised him. If the Demigods really were secreted away from the muggle world, he doubted they'd be holding a large sign of 'Camp Half-Blood, all supernatural beings welcome!' upon some wide expanse of elysiumesque land in the middle of the road.

Then the first part of Dumbledore’s words swept him up in a stunning realisation.

‘New York.' Harry glanced up at the Headmaster in muted incredulity. "You crossed continents with a single leap?"

"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled down at him imperiously. "And I shall have you know I'm every bit as proud of it as you'd expect me to be. It is a feat no mere wizard could replicate. Though perhaps we might add your name to it soon—I shall say though, you will need as much of Greek magic as Wizardry if you wish to repeat it."

Harry kept quiet, suppressing the flash of excitement under active Occlumency as they started their journey up the curve of the hill. From the Headmaster’s words, he could glean that Greek magic was compatible with Wizard magic to some extent…which not only meant he wouldn’t need to worry about being incapable of wielding it, but also that he wouldn't have to relearn everything from the start.

The two ventured deeper within the forest, lost in their own thoughts. To his eyes, the hill seemed to climb up like a small mountain, and he quickly found himself comforted in their trek to the top. There was a trace of something unnaturally dark to the shadows of the tall trees, a strange reminiscent of the bubbling blackness he’d summoned in the Chamber—only far more muted. He let his occluded mind dive back in the past, remembering that powerful sensation, and matching it to the present one which only seemed to grow stronger the higher they climbed.

“Did you talk to your friends before leaving, Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore’s voice broke through his zen-like focus, bringing him back down on Earth.

Blinking, Harry dismissed the strange mystery as he honed in on the old man. “Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

Ignoring his question, the Headmaster peered down at him over his half-moon spectacles. “And did you reveal the truth of who you are?”

"I…covered it, yeah."

Dumbledore raised his brows. " 'Covered it'?"

Harry shrugged, feeling a tad agitated at the probing. "Sounded pithier than 'felt unbelievably arrogant telling them I'm half god, so I didn't say anything.' "

"Ah." Dumbledore nodded, though his eyes looked to be someplace else. "Has anyone ever mentioned you're quite well articulated, Mr. Potter? I remember my own time at Hogwarts vividly…people thought me especially slow, because I couldn't spell a word right."

Harry looked up at the man, unable to contain his surprise even with a shielded mind. "That must've been frustrating."

"Oh, it was humbling, to be certain.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I'd spend all my childhood believing myself a cut above the rest, you see? Even with my impairment, I was simply more gifted than others in everything I tried. Gave me a grand sense of importance…only for it to come crashing down cruelly.”

Harry nodded slowly. Ironically, he found his situation to be the exact opposite. He’d come to Hogwarts already broken down, stumbling embarrassingly through his studies like the mentally challenged, before finally building himself up with Hermione’s help. Now he firmly believed he was a cut above the rest.

Still, he wouldn’t forget his failures any time soon.

“How did you cure it?” He asked Dumbledore curiously, wondering if there was some convenient spell he could use.

While there was a difference of day and night between his current and former reading ability, his speed still left a bit to be desired.

“You will understand soon it is not something to be cured, Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore lectured, before shrugging at his raised brows. “I grew used to it.’

They did not speak more as they trekked up. Moist mud dampened his shoes further above and the smell of fresh morning dew accompanied him all the way up the peak of Half-Blood Hill. Dumbledore seemed to grow more and more subdued the closer they reached the top mound of trees, where the earth became flat and the trees no longer seemed as daunting.

“This is new.” Dumbledore said faintly, gaze fixed religiously upon the tallest tree of the forest that marked a distinct edge—the other side cleared up to a grassland, no more trees in sight. Squinting his eyes at its branches, the Headmaster flashed his wand once through the air, almost faster than Harry could react.

“Oh, dear.” The old man sounded troubled.

“What is it, sir?”

They came to a halt directly beneath the giant Pine tree. Extending his arm forward, the Headmaster rested his palm softly against its bark.

“Something I had hoped dearly was only a crude attempt at humour.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, irked at the constant non-answers. “And is this…important?”

Now that he focused upon it though, he felt the same earlier sense of darkness originate from its core—only, far stronger than before. It was different from what he’d summoned in the Chamber, he was sure now. Less alive, and more…insidious. Like a rot eating away at the Tree’s roots—a parasite with only one purpose: the death of the tree.

“I should hope so.” The Headmaster answered, turning away with a last sigh. “It means things are even worse than I'd imagined. The gods are still in discontent, and if what Chiron informed me is really the truth, then I'm afraid war may be closing in on the horizon.”

He absently wondered if the man could also sense what he could, and who this ever-recurring Chiron was, but the part that made him instantly hone in with his entire attention were his last words.

‘War.’

A faint thrum of excitement beat in his heart. He didn't wish to act like a naive glory-seeking child, but every single war between the gods had been immortalised in the pages of history until the end of times. If there was an opportunity in this world for his name to rise above the rest, it would be in a divine scuffle of epic proportions.

That said, he'd rather avoid tripping on his feet and skewering himself on some sharp edge just to have a shot at greatness.

Absently mulling over the matter in the back of his mind, he crossed the width of the Pine Tree in a couple of steps and strolled past. Almost instantly, he felt a change in the air prodding at his senses—like being granted an acceptance—though something far more fascinating greeted him just a second later. The path beyond led down through a simple unpaved road, sloping gradually to the other side of the Hill and presenting the first sight of his new summer home…

Harry came to a complete halt.

“Ah, we’re here.” Dumbledore ambled up behind him. “Let me be the first to welcome you, Mr. Potter, to Camp Half-Blood.”

Beyond lay a valley the size of a small town. The morning fog stifled his sight a tad, but there was no mistaking the cabal of contrasting architectures scattered across the uneven meadow, the most eye-catching of which was a massive farmhouse standing at least three stories tall. But that was just a start…

“It's beautiful.” He breathed out slowly.

Strawberry fields stretched into the distance, deliciously glistening red blots that fell only a little short from touching the shoreline of a distant beach; he could almost smell the sweetness from up here. A clear, glittering lake centred at the middle—just a short distance beside the farmhouse—and multiple outlets streamed out of it like thin rivers, cutting through the entire land to finally join the churning water in the distance that made up, what he theorised to be, the beginnings of Atlantic Ocean…

Harry didn’t know what he’d expected of this place, but this seemed more like a fantastic vacation spot than a training camp for pueso-divine beings. Even with the thickening fog, he could spy the rolling hills that encompassed the entire Camp, the beautiful white pillars rising up to the sky on one of the smaller hills far away, molten lava glistening down the crevices of a climbing wall to another side, painted wooden seats that made up for an Amphitheare…

He couldn’t recognise the purpose of a dozen other structures this place contained, but he was willing to bet there would be no lack of enthusiasm when he got a chance to explore it fully. It was no Hogwarts by any means, but as a hub of learning and replacement of Dursleys? It would certainly do.

“That it is.” Beside him, Dumbledore acquiesced fully, sounding strangely melancholy. “It used to be even more so, before…”

Harry waited a tad, before turning to the man. “Before what, Professor?”

“…Before the War, but that’s a story for another day.” The old man ended grimly, and he knew the subject was closed. “Come along now, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid we've been spotted.”

He turned to the front, spying a duo of boys standing on a Volleyball court looking up and over at them. After a brief but animated dialogue, one of the boys turned around and ran off towards the farmhouse, while the taller of them made his way over. His dark tunic glimmered beneath the morning sun as he jogged up the hill, and Harry could make out a sheathed knife tugged to his waist. But as the boy drew closer, what truly pricked his attention was the flock of true blonde hair that shined under the rays like silken strings…

Just like Lockhart.

Harry quickly blinked away the sudden onslaught of bloody images, barely even needing his Occlumency. He was a bit too thrilled to care for the dead right now.

“Ho, there!” The boy, perhaps a year older, greeted in good cheer, halting a couple paces away. “There wouldn’t happen to be a Dumbledore between you two, would there?”

Harry studied his first ever Demigod critically. The blonde Camper stood about an inch or so shorter than him, but more than made up for it with the build of a lithe, professional swimmer. A lace of multi-colored pearls hung around his neck, containing only two beads, while his orange Camp shirt flashed brightly beneath his dark tunic, quite similar to the one he’d peeked in Dumbledore’s mysteriously heavy Trunk.

All in all, other than being fairly athletic, he could glean no difference in this supposed half-god from any regular muggle. What separated the two?

Beside him, the Headmaster flashed the boy a smile matching every bit his cheer. “Ah, a lucky coincidence! I just happen to have that name myself. As for yourself, hmm…one of Apollo’s, I take it?”

Harry shot the old man a puzzled frown. For some reason, he’d changed his accent to match their host.

The boy looked taken aback, though by the question or the accent he couldn't guess. “Oh, well…yes, sir. Lee’s the name. Lee Fletcher.” His eyes flickered to Harry, but he quickly moved on. “I was tasked to lead you to the Big House. If you’ll follow me, please?”

“Lead the way, Mr. Fletcher.”

The path down to the Valley was straight and non-treacherous, and his eyes picked up the finer details as Dumbledore and Fletcher trailed ahead, side by side. Most of the bleary-eyed campers seemed to be heading towards the small hill of high, white pillars to the other side, but the few that lingered halted in their tasks to peek at their procession. He tried not to be affected by their gazes but his heart grew jittery all the same. He would be sharing at least the next month with them…and all he could hope was they didn’t hold some stupid prejudice against him for another bundle of asinine reasons. The last thing he needed was to get ostracised for having some horrible pig of a divine father.

By now, he was really getting tired of having to prove himself in every place his destiny had thus forth led him.

“It's ‘cause we don't get many visitors around here.” A voice drifted from his side, and Harry realised the Fletcher boy had dropped back, leaving Dumbledore to fend for himself.

Not that the Headmaster seemed to be in need of any guidance. From the way his eyes drank in the sights, Harry wagered he appreciated the boy’s tact far more than his help.

“That’s why they’re staring.” Fletcher continued at his silence, waving at a couple of cloven-footed creatures, who glibly returned the gesture. “Even new Campers have gotten rare in the last few years. Two in a couple of days? That’s probably a new Camp record.”

“Two?” He glanced at the boy, tearing his eyes away from the furry, brown legs he was absolutely certain belonged to a goat.

“Oh, yeah, the Jackson kid.” Fletcher answered promptly. “Arrived two days ago. Rumour has it he killed the Minotaur in 1v1. Pretty crazy stuff that, though I don’t know how much to believe.” He leaned closer, like a fellow conspirator. “Between you and me, the boy honestly doesn’t look much, but who knows? He’d been out cold since he arrived, just got up yesterday evening, and changing someone’s nappy and singing them hymns probably doesn’t help one make unbiased opinions.”

“Um, yeah…” Harry nodded, a little discomforted.

It felt a little awkward talking to the boy and he couldn’t quite decide why. It wasn’t simply his pace, or his oddly cheerful inflection. It was more that treated him like…well, a friend. Which they most certainly were not.

“Though that’s not the only reason for their stares, of course.” Fletcher continued, uncaring of his lukewarm reply. “They’re also curious about your…mentor? Guide? We’ve never seen someone that old in the Camp before…or even someone dressed like that. And the way he's walking through the Camp, you’d think he was some long lost Demigod returning back to his old home, but I really doubt any Demigod could survive this long…”

There was a question at the end that Harry quickly picked up on, but found himself struggling to answer. He had no idea if Dumbledore wanted his status here to be a secret or not.

Fortunately, they soon arrived at the foot of the Deck enveloping the farmhouse—the Big House, Lee Fletcher called it—where they found Dumbledore already waiting patiently, studying the house with an absent air. Lee promptly took his leave, bidding him good luck before heading inside to inform the Director of their arrival.

“They painted it blue…how quaint.” Dumbledore mused critically, gaze still fixed upon the House’s exterior.  “Well, no more to it, I suppose. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” He glanced at Harry with a wry smile. “This goes without saying, but do remember to be respectful. You’re about to meet your very first immortals, beings who have lived for many millennia and with every bit the power to match.”

Harry nodded. Together, they climbed up the stairs of the empty porch, past the Pinochle table scattered with cards, and headed inside.

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Stepping foot upon the polished wooden floor, Harry was instantly hit with notes of synthetic sweet scent, like an unholy mixture of medicines and…coke? The House itself was furnished old school style; drab carpets, plushy cushions, and antique frames depicting scenes that made little to no sense.

Without breaking stride, Dumbledore led them deeper inside, past a corridor where the smell intensified the most, before heading towards the stairs that would take them to the higher floor. Instead of climbing up, the Headmaster turned a sharp corner adjacent to the stairs, where another short hallway led to a single door, an impatient Lee Fletcher twiddling with his knife outside.

“They’re waiting for you.” The boy informed them at their arrival, moving aside.

Dumbledore shot one last look around the House, eyes gliding across the shallow corners, before quietly marching ahead, silent and grim-like. With a knock on the already ajar door, he pushed it the rest of the way and crossed over the threshold of the entrance.

As he made to follow, Harry caught himself absently thumbing his wand for comfort. Even knowing how useless it would be in front of a god, it gave him a much needed dose of confidence against the slowly growing bout of trepidation infecting his heart.

Thus, with one hand lightly placed on his right pocket, he followed after the old man, trying to hold onto the cool, stony cover of Occlumency. He had a feeling he would need it.

Harry had barely even stepped inside the room—almost colliding against Dumbledore’s taller figure—when the door shut close behind his back.

“Oh, I know you.” A voice drifted from deeper inside, but his view was blocked by the Headmaster’s taller figure which had suddenly gone stock still. “And here I thought you’d have the sense to stay away from this madness. Always happy to be proven wrong by a Demigod.”

“Lord Dionysus.” Dumbledore greeted, dipping his head the barest amount. “I’m glad to inform you I won't be here for long.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.” The voice scoffed, and Harry stifled the urge to take a peek. Something in the man's voice made him not wish to garner his attention. “You think they'll let you leave, now that you've crawled your way back into this hellhole? Pfft! As if gods forget that easily. I expected better from you…er, Albert, was it?”

Another voice whispered something low. But once again Harry stayed put, despite his bubbling curiosity, and simply laid witness as the voice further laid into the Headmaster—who kept his quiet and uttered no words of protest.

“Yes, yes, Albus. Do you know how big of a mess you created with your little stunt against the son of Hades? Oh, who am I kidding, of course you know. Should’ve just put a hole in his head and moved on, but no, your wand-waving kind do so love appearing merciful and wise. And are they, Chiron? Look at the fool and tell me. You underestimate the gods’ stubbornness if you think anyone’s forgotten. And now you’ve placed yourself back on their radar.” A chair creaked slightly and Harry guessed the god was standing up. “Well, if this is who you wanted me to meet, Chiron—”

“Oh, no.” A low chuckle sounded from the god’s left. “That would be the one behind him.”

Realising he was caught, Harry took a deep breath and promptly moved beside Dumbledore without another wasted second, finally presenting himself in full.

“Great. Another one.”

Two beings were seated behind a wooden desk on the other side of the room; one, a middle-aged man stuck in a wheelchair, with thin brown hair and a scruffy beard reaching an inch down his chin. The other—who he faintly guessed as Dionysus—was slight of build, more like a little cherub than a hulking depiction of Greek gods.

Only his Occlumency kept him from gawking like a fool.

Ignoring the god's scornful mutter and his own desire to study the being closely, Harry delivered a proper flourishing bow—one of the few things he'd learnt from his otherwise useless Housemates. “Lord Dionysus.” Only…he made the mistake of meeting the god’s eye, as if they were equal.

Suddenly he felt the rest of the world growing mute, and all his attention fixed on the faint aura that seemed to hang around the god’s shoulder; golden-white power of overwhelming levels riding its weight upon the world like a miniature sun. For just the barest of seconds, his vision shifted, and a supernova jutting with sickly green vines and shrouded in the purple glint of madness replaced the tiny cherub, and Harry knew it true that should the god wish it, he would be incinerated with madness where he stood in the breath of a second.

Harry swallowed, blinking rapidly, and the image turned back to normal. A few faint spots of gold still frayed the corner of his vision, but they were slowly disappearing away like the dark floaters one gets after rubbing their eyes a little too hard.

The entire out-of-body experience lasted but a few seconds, leaving him short of breath, and only his shaky grasp on Occlumency let him stay on his feet and hide the slight horror thudding within his chest. All he felt sure of was one thing—he’d wondered what made the tiny, bitter man a god from the moment he'd stepped foot through the door, and now he’d found it.

To his relief, the god did not appear to have noticed what he’d just witnessed, nor did he look outraged at something that would be considered a clear slight in the eyes of wizarding nobility.

If anything, the Olympian seemed pleasantly surprised. “Well, now, what do we have here? A Demigod who knows proper etiquette in this day and age?” Dionysus glanced at the man in the wheelchair. “You should introduce your boy to him. Maybe this one's manners would rub off on him.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” The man in the wheelchair—Chiron, he was certain now—humoured politely, looking over at him with kind eyes. “You must be Mr. Potter.”

Harry straightened up with a short nod, his racing heart slowly losing tempo. “Yes, sir. Harry Potter.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Harry. Has Albus here informed you of the Camp?” Chiron asked.

“Only the barebones, I'm afraid.”

The man shot Dumbledore a look, and Harry took that chance to give the room a quick study. To say it was almost as strange as Dumbledore's office wouldn't be a complete exaggeration. Pieces of glittering bronze metal were strapped to almost every inch of the room haphazardly, as if shielding it from the inside. The walls further sported photos of a long line of people, some of whom he recognised as famous faces in the muggle world, and all of whom he guessed to be Demigods.

“That'll do for now.” Chiron spoke anew, readdressing him. “We'll have an orientation film for you prepped by the evening, but I doubt you’ll have any trouble fitting in.” He glanced at the bored god beside him. “Mr. D?”

“Yes, well, welcome to the Camp and all that jazz.” Dionysus drawled. “Cabin eleven, have the boy outside show you. Pick up some things from Camp Store on my credit, though it won't come cheap.” He took a look at the other two men and harrumphed. “Well, If there's nothing else, I’m off to the Pavilion. Pinochle after breakfast?”

“I do believe we have an unfinished game.”

“That one doesn't count. New day, new game, I say!”

With his last words of wisdom, the god pushed himself to his feet and sauntered out of the room without a glance backwards.

For a few seconds silence laid thick in the office of Chiron, and Harry quietly marvelled at the entire interaction that had taken place in the course of at most 5 minutes.

‘That…was Dionysus.’ The true implications were only just registering in his mind.

Dionysus, the god of wine. Most of the texts he’d read called him Bacchus, and almost every ritual involving the god warned of one prominent side-effect: Madness.

After having experienced what he just did, Harry fully believed it.

But even the incredulity of talking so casually to a being who stood at the pinnacle of the world was slightly lost under a greater realisation.

‘Everything’s true.’ It finally dawned upon him.

Even after all that Dumbledore had said and promised, everything he’d seen and witnessed in the Camp, a small, cynical part of his mind—jaded from all the suffering this world had delivered unto him—had staunchly held onto the belief that all this might just be a fantasy born of desperation. A desperation to fit in, a desperation to believe in fate and hope he was made for something greater than being a pariah in the only two worlds he’d known.

Now that part was laid to rest. This was real. As real as him and magic. As real as Lily Potter and Dursleys. As real as the Basilisk he’d slain a night prior, and the skeletons he’d called upon from darkness.

This was his world now. And he was going to embrace everything it threw at him with open hands and a steady wand, no matter how disturbing or disgusting.

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To his relief, the rest of the morning passed by as comparatively normal. At least, no other god played havoc on his senses and no other surprises left him tongue-tied and mind-numbed.

After Dionysus’ exit, he'd taken his leave from the farmhouse at Dumbledore's urging and relayed Lee Fletcher of the god's words.

A few moments of once again suffering under his ceaseless chatter, and Harry finally managed to put a finger on why he felt so subconsciously awkward around the boy. Simply put, It’d been a long while since he needed to talk to a stranger who didn't immediately try to antagonise him, and he was finding himself a little out of his depths.

For most of his life, he’d only ever operated on two social gears: one, his true unfiltered self in the company of his lone friend, and two, the cold mask further perfected with Occlumency for the rest of the world who could go bugger themselves for all he cared.

Lee, a complete stranger who held no prior biases or grievances against him, fell directly in the middle. And his casual friendliness played antithesis to his own mostly asocial nature.

Past his initial hesitation though, he found the experience strangely refreshing. After properly reintroducing himself, he began picking the boy's mind, asking questions he wouldn't dare to in Hogwarts. He’d quickly learned excessive ignorance was the best way to stand out in a crowd and not in a good way.

With Lee, however, he didn't need to fear that. Along their short journey to the Dining Pavilion—it was still early morning in this part of the world, and breakfast would last for another half an hour—the boy was happy to satisfy any of his curiosities, starting with the general lay of the Camp they encountered on their way, the most important of which were the twelve massive Cabins for the Demigod children of every Olympian, and ending with the nature of monsters.

He'd assumed the Minotaur that Jackson was rumoured to have killed was some sort of twisted descendant instead of the original legend, mainly because the latter faced a grave inconvenience of being, well, dead.

Apparently, he was wrong. The monsters could reform…again and again and again. For some reason, they were every bit as immortal as the gods.

But Harry wasn’t entirely glum about it. That simply meant he would get a chance to repeat, or even surpass, all the feats of legend.

“By the way,” Fletcher started halfway through their journey. “I just gotta ask…are you from London?”

“About a couple hours south of London, yeah.” At least, that was where the Dursleys resided.

“Knew it! You sound proper English. Like proper, proper English.”

Harry stiffened. “Why? Will that be a problem?”

Lee snorted. “Not for me, no. Just don't let those Aphrodite girls hear you, or you’ll be spending the rest of your days fending off swarms of starry-eyed girls. At least you aren't from France. A French guy with an English accent? Bleugh.” He gave a comically exaggerated retch.

Harry politely chuckled along with the boy, though he did not believe a single word. He didn’t know much about girls, but even he wasn’t naive enough to fall for this.

They soon climbed up the small hill overlooking the beach, the green moss buttering his shoes with the morning dew. Flaunted above the ground were those pale, grecian pillars he’d gazed from afar, doused torches strapped around the thick columns.

Nestled upon a wide expanse of clear land—just beneath the pillars—were an exact dozen tables, all covered in white clothes trimmed in purple, and surrounded by about an even dozen Campers…well, apart from one table. That one seemed to sport twice the average number, in stark contrast to the four tables that remained completely empty.

There was no roof, no walls. Just an open space where dozens of Campers sat, most sharing the same design of orange camp shirts. Pieces of armor, sheathed knives, or empty arrow quivers were strapped upon their person, and Harry once again found himself with his hand in his right pocket, tracing the length of his wand for comfort.

“That's Cabin Eleven.” Lee Fletcher pointed—to his slight dismay—straight at the overcrowded table. “Your Cabin, until you're determined.”

“Of course it is.” Harry muttered.

“Oh, this is nothing.” Lee snorted, catching his tone. “You should see when everybody’s gathered for dinner. Good luck finding a seat then. But hey, maybe you'll get claimed before then.”

He grimaced, but didn't let it intimidate him. It would take more than a lack of space to ruin his stay here.

“Go on, then. Introduce yourself to your new Cabinmates. You might find a kindred spirit in the new boy. I'll see you after breakfast.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Lee sauntered away to join his table with one last wave. Instantly, the boy became the focus of his group; a bunch of lithe, athletic kids with at least half sporting a nest of blonde locks. From the way their eyes flickered towards Harry, he could guess the subject of their inquiries.

With a start, he realised it wasn’t just the Apollo Demigods who had their eyes on him. Most of the gathered Campers had started whispering and pointing towards him.

Harry released a breath, calmed his nerves, and with squared shoulders, moved to meet his new Slytherin-replacements.

He was fine with their attention. As long as that attention never turned to hostility.

He could only hope they wouldn't need just as many broken bones and welted skin to not be a bunch of arseholes. For Harry was fully intent on delivering onto them the Slytherin-treatment…only this time, he wouldn’t wait as long.

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

The departure of god and Demigod had left the room enshrouded in a layer of expectant silence. Neither of its remaining occupants looked willing to be the first to pierce it, but alas, all such silences must cease, and this one met its end in a sigh.

“Old Dionysus has a way with words,” Chiron finally voiced. “I hope you don’t take it to heart.”

Smiling, Dumbledore conjured himself a chair on his side of the desk, and played the final hand that vanquished the quiet. “You must still think of me as the hotheaded son of Hephaestus, Chiron, if you truly believe I put any importance in a god’s words. Not that there isn’t some wisdom to be found in them, but I've learned long ago not to trouble myself overmuch.”

"And that is what concerns me, child." Chiron frowned. “I must admit, I never expected you to return. I wouldn’t have put it the way Dionysus did, but there is some truth to his words. The gods do not forget. Even your brief visits after the mess that was the second World War…it pushed at his patience.”

Dumbledore’s lips thinned. “I know better than any, Chiron. I did slay his monster, along with her pet.” He placidly took a seat opposite his mentor. He was old, he knew that better than most, and he constantly felt his age most of the time. But now, sitting here, Dumbledore found not a shred wrong in being labelled a child. "Do you know why I finally left?"

"Of course." Chiron smiled sadly. "I saw it coming in your eyes a mile away. To see entire generations pass by, watching your friends fall one by one, only for new faces to replace them, faces that do not know, could not know the sacrifices...I imagine I know the feeling all too well, old friend. I do not blame you for seeking a clean break. Especially with his curse always lingering…which is why it astonishes me so. Why are you here, Albus?"

Albus Dumbledore found himself momentarily stumped. “I…do not fully know myself.” He glanced down at his fingers, the wrinkles in their folds so timeless in his eyes now. Almost as if he was born with the hands of the old; the hands that had once crafted great wonders, the hands that had once slain many a monster and legends…the hands that had held his life in his fist, awaiting the final blow.

He clenched those hands now, yet the strength within was lacking in depth. He had never felt so lost.

"A curious child you have brought me." Chiron spoke softly, unwilling to let the silence linger.

Dumbledore followed his vision, glancing out the window, past the rushing lake and the grand Cabins of Demigods. The duo that walked towards the Dining Pavilion were far enough to be mere dots in the horizon, and hidden enough that no mortal eyes should spot them. Yet his sight cut through the obstacles and followed their progression up the Hill all the same.

His lips tugged up. "I suppose Mr. Potter could be called that.”

Chiron peered down his nose. "And I suspect he is one of the prime causes for your sudden uncertainties in life?"

Dumbledore closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m afraid so. His mere existence fills me with uncertainties, Chiron. His scent is too powerful for him to live in ignorance any longer, that much is true. Yet, his presence wrecks all common sense and natural progression aside. Did you know the boy somehow slayed an ancient Basilisk just yesterday? Along with the shade of one of the most powerful wizards our world has ever seen. Even a child of the Big Three at the peak of their power would've been pushed to their limits. Yet a day later the boy is here, not a hair out of place. It’s…unusual.”

Chiron raised a pointed brow. “Unusual? Sure. And more than a little impressive.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Mysteries surround his existence, Chiron. His, and that of his family. Worse, none of them seem to be aware of it. Every answer I receive spawns two more questions and I cannot peer deep enough to get ahead of the curve.” He glanced at the trainer of heroes, and admitted quietly, “I feel blind.”

Chiron did not react, save for a placid cocking of the head. "There’s more, isn’t there?"

He hesitated a tad, but the raised eyebrow from his old teacher once again made him familiar with a foreign concept—his dismal ability to lie to his former mentor.

Dumbledore breathed out, feeling his strength slowly wane away. "There is darkness in his heart, Chiron.” He finally confessed his true worry. “I fear I'm not the best suited to guide him. I fear…I fear history is repeating itself. And once again, my part in it is not small."

For a few seconds, silence once again tried dominating the room, but there was something calm and reassuring about the smile that tugged up Chiron’s lips. “My dearest wizard, how many times must I insist upon the truth? Grindelwald—” The name made him flinch. “Was not your fault, Albus. We've all made our choices, and the only thing we can do now is to live with them. But do not let your past dictate your future, child. Do not let fear get a hold of you. It is a sad truth of life, but most Demigods arrive here abused and starved, not knowing the warmth of a family. You've already made me aware of his past…if the darkness you speak lingers due to that, I assure you…Harry Potter will fit right in."

Dumbledore pursed his lips, unconvinced. He wanted nothing more than to believe the wisdom of his teacher and lay his worries to rest, but the signs all pointed towards one thing of extreme certainty. “There is something else, Chiron. Something more than just a child’s past and the mysterious extent of his power…I believe we can both feel it coming. There are turbulent times ahead, and I fear the inevitable is drawing closer.”

“You mean the Great Prophecy?” Chiron asked with uncertainty.

“Two prophecies. Both concerning, potentially, only one child. If he is truly who I suspect him to be…the fate of both our worlds may hang in the balance of young Harry's shoulders.”

Chiron leaned back, blinking. “Surely you cannot mean…I thought you believed his sister to be the prophecy child?”

Dumbledore grimaced. “I do not know anymore, Chiron. I knew I was missing a crucial piece since the very beginning and I may have found it.” He placed the Diary of the Dark Lord on his table.

Chiron touched the book lightly, shooting him a quizzical look.

“I believe I now know why James Potter was born in this world as an avatar of a god. Why Voldemort still roams this world, and why…why I made such a glaring mistake all those years ago when I saw the two babes, twins both, nestled within the blanket inside the broken crib...”

“I see—but I had thought…” Chiron trailed off into silence, before his eyes alit with fire. “Di immortales! It fits. Harry is older than Percy, isn't that so? Who do you suspect his father to be?”

“Who else could it be, Chiron? To have the motivation to live a mortal life, simply to hunt a being who'd escaped death again and again…I fear there is only one being capable of such frightening single-minded grudge. And we both know the devastation his children are known to cause.”

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

To Harry's surprise, his inner threats proved far more dramatic and unneeded than he’d expected.

The moment he approached the Hermes table, Dionysus clanked his glass loudly and announced his inclusion within the Camp. Of course, he had to clarify he was Harry Potter not ‘Henry Otter’, but all in all, the reception was far better than the sneers and scowls his paranoid mind had conjured.

There were a few groans and roll of eyes from his Cabinmates when his unclaimed nature was revealed but it was still far warmer a welcome than he could’ve hoped. Soon, he was seated at the farthest edge of the bench, beside a short tan kid with dishevelled black hair swept to one side, a platter full of cheese, bread, fruits, and salad perched in front of him. It couldn’t ever compare to the feast he’d missed back in Hogwarts, but he was hungry enough to eat the burnt trash Petunia always shamelessly put on the table, so he felt no need to complain at all.

“Percy.” The boy beside him suddenly introduced, extending an arm. “Percy Jackson.”

Harry briefly considered rejecting the hand—the boy had just grabbed a sandwich a second prior—but gingerly shook it anyway. The sheer relieved joy in the boy’s eyes would’ve made him feel like kicking a dog when it was down.

“Harry Potter. A pleasure to meet you.”

The boy’s brows shot up—likely from his accent—but he didn’t pry.

“Dude, I have to say, you’re like…a godsend right now.” Jackson spoke eagerly beneath his breath, a bashful smile on his lips. “There are so many things here that just—” He stopped, growing a tad hesitant, before shaking his head. “I’m just glad I’m not alone in this anymore.”

Harry smiled lightly. That, he could certainly relate to. “Me too. You’ll have to show me around though, I’m even more new here.”

“Sure.” The boy readily agreed, before shooting a look at the Apollo table. “Um, not to be a bother or anything, but weren’t you with a Senior Counsellor?”

“Yeah, Lee Fletcher.” He informed, swallowing down a filling bite of cheese and bread. “He said he’d meet me later, but I doubt he would hold my hand the whole day.”

Not that he really needed anyone to, but he’d be a fool to reject a friendly hand in his first few days here.

Jackson then showed him how to summon drinks from the Camp glasses, and he promptly opted for the popular Butterbeer that he’d always wanted to try…until, of course, he was delivered the devastating rule of only conjuring non-alcoholic drinks. Even something like Butterbeer, which had only the slightest sliver of Alcohol, was forbidden.

Annoyed, and not in the mood for Pumpkin juice, he settled for hot coffee.

Over the short course of the breakfast, Percy managed to give him a basic rundown of the Camp, including which of the Campers were ‘cool’, and which ones must be avoided at all costs. The former category involved the Head Counselor of Hermes Cabin, Luke Castellan—who wasn't present at the Breakfast—while the latter included a pig-eyed, burly girl who caught them staring and slashed at her throat with a nasty sneer.

Harry was looking forward to meeting her. Wizard vs Demigod…it was time he found out what exactly made these children of gods special.

He didn't know how the hell a purely melee fighter was supposed to last even a handful of seconds against him, but these were Demigods. More specifically, a daughter of Ares—the God of War. She likely had the same instinctive grasp over battles like he did, and possessed probably even more honed instincts at dodging.

And yet, Harry would still eat his own bones if the girl genuinely managed to defeat him. At least…not with only a mundane sword and shield. Maybe an arrow in the back could catch him off-guard, but a sword? Nah…

He would see that coming a mile away.

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

The end of the breakfast announced the start of a new day for Camp Half-blood.

With his stomach no longer gnawing at him like a miniature blackhole, Harry joined the procession of Hermes demigods as they ambled down the hill in groups of twos and threes. He himself stuck close to Jackson, though that did not prevent a few of his new Cabinmates from voicing a query or two. It quickly spread wide that the new kid wasn't from around here, but no one really seemed to care overmuch, and apart from some veiled insults at English food—which absolutely wasn't bland nor dull, no matter what the ignorant claimed—he was left mostly alone.

In front of his very eyes, the Camp transformed from a peaceful, quiet land to a hubbub of activities as the previously stilled structures Lee Fletcher had pointed out to him roared with life. Forge chimneys spewed out black smoke into the air, the sound of thumping, grinding, and metals banging together reaching him all the way across the stream. The Ares kids raced down to their Cabin, and filed out armed to the teeth mere moments later, all a bunch of big, bloodthirsty thugs with a chip on their shoulders, rearing to have a go at each other as they made their way to the Sword fighting Arena. Naiads—as Jackson informed him—lingered at the edges of the canoe lake, wearing long, flowing dresses that drove his imagination wild, while the Dryads peeled themselves off the woods, joining other wood nymphs and Demigods at the racing tracks.

“Look,” Jackson pointed as they headed towards Cabin Eleven themselves, nudging him with a shoulder. “Over there.”

Harry's breath caught as a duo of horses flapped their wings in beat and took flight in the distance, soaring to the skies with more finesse than any broom rider in any of their Quidditch matches.

For a brief moment, Harry simply marvelled at the scene, slowly spinning in place as the morning fog finally faded away, relieving the true sight of his new summer home in all its glory. He had to admit, if it appeared beautiful from the vantage of the Hill, it felt like a fairytale come true from the inside.

Camp Half Blood wasn't Hogwarts by any means, but to say it felt any less magical would've been too much of a lie.

He was honestly looking forward to spending at least half of his summer vacations here.

They soon arrived at the large clearing nestled in the elbow of the forest, the nearby lake’s surface glimmering faint strands of rainbow under the morning sun. Twelve Divine Cabins bordered the clearing in a U, every single one distinct in its design and size. All the cabins faced the centre of the clearing—a space only a tad smaller than Hogwarts quidditch pitch and littered with Greek statues, fountains, flower beds, and two basketball hoops that were currently under use by a couple of Satyrs.

Even at first glance, he could pick out the Hermes Cabin as the most…unusual. And not for any good reasons. Its dull brown paint was chipped and peeling, its threshold worn and slightly blackened…even the no. plate announcing it ‘11’ looked slightly rusted and hanging off its hinges. From the outside, it was, without a doubt, the shabbiest cabin of the lot.

The insides…weren’t much better.

As they entered the Cabin together, he and Jackson had to tip-toe past a couple of sleeping beds rolled to one side, with another half a dozen spread haphazardly around the room. Six bunk beds rested evenly on the floor, capable of housing a dozen Campers…anything more were simply unwanted surpluses and Harry had just personally added to their number.

“No wonder they were all so annoyed.” He muttered beneath his breath and Jackson shot him a commiserating look.

“If it helps, it does get better.” The boy promised. “Once you get used to it, at least. Most of our time isn’t gonna be spent here anyway.”

The boy then went ahead and dragged back the Hermes Counselor, Luke Castellan, who welcomed him to the Cabin properly. Harry had felt himself stiffen slightly as he took in the older boy’s sandy blonde hair and baby blue eyes so reminiscent of Lockhart, but found to his own relief the bloody images were losing in strength; either them growing duller…or him growing more callous.

Harry was soon assigned a small corner of the Cabin floor to make his bed in, but didn’t feel too discouraged. There were a few spells he knew that could make his life easier.

The morning soon approached its end, and Jackson left him to join a girl from Athena Cabin who was supposed to teach Ancient Greek. Harry didn’t join in, for that was around the time Lee Fletcher came to retrieve him. Apparently, there wouldn’t be too many lessons for him on his first day.

It was at this point he encountered his very first oddity in the world of Divine he could safely lodge in the ‘disturbing or disgusting’ category.

Or both, for that matter.

They were traversing through the woods surrounding the Cabins; a shortcut Lee insisted would put them straight on the path to the Camp Store, when the subject somehow turned from the unique abilities some of the chosen Demigods possessed to who was dating who—something Harry had very little experience with.

There was only one problem…

“Wouldn’t that be…sort of strange, though?” He asked Lee carefully. He’d promised himself he wouldn't make assumptions and accept the Greeks in all their colourful shades, but some things were universal throughout the world and simply needed further clarification. “I mean, Demigods dating each other. Aren’t we all cousins from our Divine side?”

“Not in the sense that you mean.” Lee answered easily. “Gods don’t pass down any DNA, so there's no chance of incest. Just don't date your fellow Cabinmates and you're all good.”

That…made absolutely no sense. He could accept gods not possessing DNA, if ichor was all that filled their body—as Dumbledore had informed him—but it still bewildered him how casually the boy was treating the subject. Wizards, and even muggles, had methods to prevent a child's birth…did that make it culturally and morally fine for families to shack up among themselves? Obviously not.

Even some of the older Wizarding families, who were far more accepting of the matter, did not actively encourage inbreeding anymore. Merlin, he'd even read about rituals that involved Oedipal love, but all of them were strictly forbidden and branded dark by the Ministry.

…Then again, it could also be the ‘sacrifice the familial blood after copulating’ part the Ministry took a special dislike to.

“But in that case, wouldn’t it also be fine for those from the same Cabin to date each other?” Harry found himself arguing. “Why the distinction? If gods don’t pass down DNA, it means there really isn’t any connection between Demigods from their godly parents.”

Lee winced. “Yeah, but…they still share a parent, ya know? And all Demigods from the same godly parent have at least one physical feature in common. Most children of Athena have grey eyes, most children of Hephaestus are kinda…well, ugly. And most Ares’ kids are big brutes who probably all attended juvie at some point.” He chuckled, expecting him to join in.

Harry refused. Now it made no sense at all. He wasn’t very knowledgeable about biology, thanks to his lacklustre muggle education, but he was pretty sure DNA was the whole reason physical traits were shared.

He shook his head. “But that means the gods do pass down something, don’t they? So unless this is completely unique to a god, that means we’re all still cousins through our godly DNAs.”

“You said it yourself, whatever they share is probably unique to each god.” Lee shrugged, though it was clear he wanted to talk about anything but this right now.

Harry frowned, unwilling to let go. “But wouldn’t that mean the gods aren’t related to each other either at all? ‘Cause if they are, that means they also share something common amongst each other, likely this godly DNA, and that’s what's passed down to their children, the demigods. Wouldn’t that sti—”

“Look, man.” Lee interrupted, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. “Just don't think too hard about some things, alright? We’re just different from mortals, their rules simply don’t apply here.”

Harry slowly nodded. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise really. Greek Mythology was chock full of incest and rape. It was probably some Demigod who came up with this ‘No-DNA-No-Sin’ nonsense to justify the incest, and the rest kept up with the tradition, never actually thinking upon it.

Then again…from everything Dumbledore had said yesterday, Demigods simply didn’t survive long enough to actually question their world. What’s the point of worrying about common moralities when you’re going to die in a few years anyway?

‘So the Greeks are fine with incest. Got it.’ This must've been what Dumbledore was warning him about yesterday.

Honestly? It wasn’t that bad at all. There were worse things than incest. At least no one was normalising rape and slavery.

Well…he hoped so, at least.

Still, just because he accepted their oddities did not mean Harry needed to partake in them. The sheer thought of dating Jane simply made him scrunch up in disgust. But then again, was it truly disgusting because she was his twin, or…well, because she was the daughter of Lily Potter.

Perhaps he was every bit as twisted as his Greek cousins. He sure didn’t make any particular attempts in keeping his eyes away from some of the girls in Cabin 10, even though they absolutely were his cousins, no matter what Lee insisted.

He decided to follow the given advice and turn his brain off in regards to this. Who cared if they were his cousins or not? They were Half-gods…he was Half God. They could do whatever the fuck they wanted, and so long as no one was being hurt, who truly cared? Hell, even if someone cared, what could they possibly do to a bunch of psychotic sword-wielding, arrow-shooting Demigods, half of whom looked ready to tear America a new arsehole…

Harry had thought the remainder of their journey to the Camp Store would prove to be a tad more awkward, but Lee Fletcher wasn't so easily silenced. He regaled him with stories of the Camp, even explaining the odd pearled necklace tucked beneath his orange shirt. The most interesting of the duo was the one depicting a centaur rearing back on hind legs and showing a scandalising amount of thighs through a frilly mini skirt…

“That was when the Party Ponies were forever banned from the Camp.” Lee informed with a grin.

It was a little difficult for Harry to connect the grave, often hostile centaurs he knew from the Forbidden Forest with their more wilder cousins up west, who ran around partying across America, drinking root beer and shooting gloved arrows and paintball guns.

He absently wondered if the dragons here might also have some silly quirk; perhaps they were all vegetarians and liked tap-dancing in volcanoes?

As they left the shallow woods and passed a short bridge to cross across the stream, the subject turned to Harry himself and he had to spend a few minutes dodging questions and cursing himself for not clarifying with Dumbledore if he was allowed to use Magic in Camp—ergo, revealing himself a wizard. Eventually, he managed to shift the attention to Percy, but he had no idea who his fellow newcomer really was either, or if the Minotaur horn he carried around was the real deal; something Lee seemed the most interested in.

Blessedly, his first worry was coincidentally resolved in the form of a runner arriving mere minutes later, delivering him an unsealed letter from Dumbledore that informed him the Headmaster was heading back to Hogwarts and leaving him in the watchful care of his former mentor. He further warned him of the renewed dangers ahead in his path, and to contact Chiron at either the end of Summer vacations, or whenever he’d had enough of the Camp and wished to return. There were also a couple of postscripts tagged on at the end, arguably the most important parts of the letter;

P.S- I’m afraid your stay in America will be challenging enough without any added difficulties; you’re free to use magic as you please. An entire different continent is too large a distance for the trace to operate.

P.P.S- Beware of M.A.C.U.S.A. and trust no American wizard, especially if they recognise you.

Frowning, he folded the letter twice and buried it inside his pocket. Lee, who’d politely backed a ways off, rejoined him a moment later, quirking an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged and ignored his unasked question. Soon, they closed in on the Camp Store, passing the Arts and Crafts room where half a dozen Campers were busy chipping away at their respective individual pieces of bronze statues.

His mind, however, laid stuck on Headmaster’s last warning. Why would Dumbledore be suspicious of the American Wizarding government, and what relevance did it bore to him? Did the man truly think they might ever even cross paths? As far as Harry knew, he was here to learn about his strange powers and this hidden world that would help him on his way to the top. Neither of them required him to leave the Camp.

Nonetheless, he nursed the warning in the back of his mind, his cautious nature more than willing to take extra precautions if it ever came to that…

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

The day had dawned into early afternoon by the time Harry returned to the Hermes Cabin from his trip to the Camp Store. A few demigods lingered around, laying on their bunk beds or fiddling with their Sleeping bags, but he knew from Lee—and from Dumbledore’s schedule—that a wide portion were engaged in the Camp Activities that would go on throughout the day until dinner; Archery, unarmed melee, sword-wielding, Blacksmithing…along with half a dozen other miscellaneous challenges and activities that were available as an option for anyone interested.

For all his surety that magic triumphed over them all, he’d be lying if he said it wouldn’t be bloody cool mastering the art of swinging around a bar of sharp metal. There was something so primally exciting about demolishing foes by wielding fire and lightning in one hand, while cleaving through monsters with a sword in the other.

Of course, before all that, he needed to secure the place that would likely be his only private domicile in all his future stays within this Camp: a small patch of cold floor. The trip to the Camp Store had yielded him a sleeping bag, some toiletries, and a couple of Camp shirts, all negotiated to a fairer price by Lee, though Harry had no idea what difference it made on Dionysus’ ‘credit’. The son of Apollo had left soon after for his Beginner's Archery class—not to learn, he’d clarified emphatically, but to teach, as all Cabin Counsellors do.

Without further ado, Harry set about upgrading his newest sleeping accommodations. The patch of floor he'd received as his was at the furthest corner, burrowed between the last right bunk and the two adjacent walls. As far as sleeping on floors went, it was undoubtedly one of the best positions for someone like him.

He dumped his thick rolled-up bedroll on the floor, resting it close against the edge of the top wall, before retrieving his wand. Then he cast his first spell in Camp Half-blood, fixing his intent with a subtle pushing of Occlumency, before swiping his wand through the air and muttering beneath his breath, “Engorgio!”

The crisp, crumbling of cloth rubbing against its own fabric filled the air softly as the sleeping bag widened from a one-person use to almost triple the original size, filling up most of the free space between the bunk and the walls. Now, it wouldn't just store him inside, but also all of his possessions.

He supposed it was a little unnecessary, but Harry had grown to treasure the space and privacy his Slytherin room provided. The memories of that cupboard still haunted his dreams at times, and he’d loathe to be stuck inside a tiny corner again.

With that done, he used a powerful Sticking charm to anchor the length of the bedroll’s head against the floor. He could now simply fold or unfold it at will, and wouldn’t need to worry about shifting it in sleep.

The final touch was a handful of simple comfort charms. Zipping the bag open, he first cast ‘Spongify’ on its entire interior, which turned its rough cloth and relatively hard mattress to an almost trampoline-level elastic softness. He followed it up with the most basic of Atmospheric Charms to keep the inside cool, along with an Intruder charm, and a minor Muggle-repelling spell.

And that was about concluded his home renovation. With his work done, he stepped back and scrutinised the now tent-like structure with a critical eye. It was still far too public and tiny for his tastes, but he was sure he would eventually learn spells to tackle those problems as well.

With a sigh, Harry dumped all of his possessions save the wand inside. He hesitated a tad, but removed his Invisibility Cloak and shoved it in as well. He then zipped it back shut and cast a powerful locking spell on the chain. There were a few more protective enchantments and wards he had knowledge over, but it was all advanced 3rd year syllabus, and Harry hadn't yet chanced upon an opportunity to master them.

Still, the combination of Intruder charm, Muggle-repellant, and Locking spell should make this practically impervious to break-ins without his knowledge. Especially in a Summer Camp that showed no presence of any fellow Wizards or witches.

He was in the midst of wrecking his mind, trying to remember a specific curse that was supposed to melt the skin of any intruders upon contact, when the sound of shuffling feet behind him pricked his ears.

“That wouldn’t happen to be a wand, would it?”

Harry stiffened, before forcing his shoulders to relax. He didn't need to hide anything here, so there was really no reason to worry…

Except, he still worried. For he recognised that voice. As he turned around, his eyes took in the ugly, jagged scar running across the side of Luke Castellan’s face…. Something about the boy just warned his instincts for some reason. There was a look in his eyes, a hidden anger at the world, and a smugness that Harry found discomforting.

Still, he replied to the much older boy as neutrally as possible. “It is. I’m surprised you recognised it.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time I’m seeing it.” The bloke came closer and leaned against the bunk’s railing. “So…you’re a wizard, huh? Gotta say, didn't see that coming.”

Harry raised a brow. “You know what wizards are?”

“Well, yeah. Like I said, you aren’t the only one in the Camp.” Castellan smiled, the twisting scar turning it to something ugly. “Anyway, I came to pick you up. It’s about time for Chiron’s Mastery archer lessons, and he wants you around to try your luck. The Counsellors will all begin to determine where you belong, so no holding back on anything.”

Shooting a final glance at his bedroll, Harry joined the boy as they moved out of the Cabin, but his mind was still stuck on his first words. “There are more wizards in the Camp?”

Hadn't Dumbledore said they were incredibly rare?

“Not wizards, wizard. A Wizard. Well, Witch, to be more specific. Though I doubt you'll meet her anytime soon; she usually arrives in late June, early July. But if you stick around that long, maybe I’ll introduce you two.”

His voice got quiet towards the end, but Harry couldn't care less of whatever went between the two. “What Cabin is she from?”

“Cabin ten.” He pointed behind them, to the Cabin just beside theirs as they trekked away from the clearing. “Daughter of Aphrodite. Probably the most powerful one in decades. We usually pair up for Capture the Flag when she's the Counsellor.”

Harry grunted. From his talks with Lee, he knew a rare few children of Aphrodite were sometimes gifted with the ability to Charmspeak. Admittedly though, he didn't think too highly of it. As far as Divine abilities went, some twisted form of Confundus was quite tame.

But most of his confidence came from the fact that he was certain Occlumency could put a sharp stop to any mental shenanigans. It might prove a fearsome weapon against most humans, but he doubted any accomplished wizard would ever fall prey to it.

Along the way Castellan explained how the Cabin activities worked for everyone. Dumbledore was finally wrong for once, because the schedule had changed after all. There were three skill levels for most of the Activities now; Beginners, Advanced, and Master, and a dedicated Counsellor was responsible for each of them. The rest of the Campers were divided according to their skill levels, though sometimes a Counsellor might decide to teach their entire cabin.

Castellan taught swordsmanship. From the corded muscles in his arms and another lingering batch of scars across his person, Harry didn't doubt his skills one bit. Nonetheless, his battle lust was ignited all the same. He had a feeling the Hermes demigod could absolutely wreck the Ares girl, Clarisse.

They soon crossed a narrow stream, passing by the Arts and Craft room—where the sound of sharp, echoing strikes still hadn’t subdued even a little—and headed down the opposite path to the Big House, before finally spotting the Archery field on the other side of a second bridge. It made him appreciate how massive the Camp truly was; Dumbledore had said it housed over a couple hundred souls, but he hadn’t said it took over fifteen minutes just to go from their Cabins to one of the many spread structures. A small town, indeed.

“Don’t get nervous, Harry.” Castellan advised as they closed in on the field. “You need to put on a performance of your life if you want to get claimed quicker. The gods have a lot of children, and only the best gain their recognition. They don’t have time for the rest.”

Harry gave the demigod a glance. “...Of course.”

Once again his instincts struck him with unease, and once again they warned him of the boy beside him. He could understand the bitterness harboured by some of the Demigods, but Luke Castellan was the only one he could see actually doing something about it.

Still, the boy had been friendly enough to him—a rare sight indeed for one such as him. From his experience, the older ones were often worse in their cruel apathy towards the young. And honestly, Harry didn't care too much for the gods. Respect? Yes. Fear? Perhaps. Even a single shred of worship? Absolutely not. Castellan could burn down Olympus for all he cared, so long as Harry got his answers…and a chance to bury the world under the burden of his name.

But he wouldn't bite someone unless he was bitten first.

The open range that made up the Archery field was packed with penta-coloured targets arranged at varying distances. Almost a dozen Demigods stood scattered across the clearing in groups of threes and fours, all occupying a target each—though one group had a small Hydra dummy at the distance, arrows jutting out of each of its heads. They stood behind the firing line, a bow in their grasp and a quiver on their backs, and Harry simply knew—from the cluster of arrows thudded in the Bull’s eye—each one could probably compete at international level and make a name for themselves.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, you’re here. Excellent.” A lone Centaur towered over the gathered demigods, his fellow newbie beside him.

A few demigods closer to Chiron turned to peer at Harry, whilst Castellan took his leave with a goodluck at Jackson—heading towards the Arena just a pebble throw away from the range.

The judging, assessing eyes seemed to follow him critically, and only Lee Fletcher’s friendly smile and wave kept him from scowling. Still, he could feel himself stiffen underneath their combined attention and brought the slightly jumpy drive of adrenaline down with the forced calm of Occlumency.

“Let us begin then, shall we?” Chiron looked over at the two of them. “Grab yourselves a bow from the rack, please. We will start from the closest.” He nodded at the target in front of them. “The Beginners Archery.”

The wooden rack held bags of arrows and spare quivers. There were only two exact bows still hooked at the stands and he and Jackson each grabbed one.

“Hey,” Jackson greeted, squinting up at him under the glare of the afternoon sun. “You ever shot an arrow before?”

“No.” Harry glanced at the few spectators they seemed to have collected. “Hopefully we don’t kill someone.”

Jackson grinned guiltily, as if the thought had crossed his mind after all.

The two took position beside Chiron, expecting him to give general advice on what to do and what not to do. Instead, the Centaur placidly waved Jackson forward first. “Whenever you’re ready, Percy.”

Jackson hesitated. “You realise I’ve never done this before, right?”

“Of course. Most children of Apollo never do, until they arrive here. But fear not, trust in yourself and let your instincts guide you.”

The boy jerked an uneasy nod and squared his shoulders. He tugged the nock of the arrow to the string, raised the bow at the target, dragged the bowstring towards his chest, and with a certainty that comes from being completely unaware, let the arrow lose with no preamble.

Harry’s instincts warned him before his eyes could and he let himself fall flat on the ground. The stray arrow zipped past his head and out of his sight, missing by the barest margins, but from behind came the startled cries of the Apollo Demigod and he knew he wasn’t the only victim of the demonic missile. He quickly turned around.

Four Campers were lying on the ground, having thrown themselves out of its path, while the Arrow of doom somehow managed to find itself buried in the Quiver of a slower Demigod.

All eyes turned to Jackson.

Gulping, the boy tried to place the bow down gently and step away, but Chiron shuffled forward on his four legs. “An…admittedly disastrous first attempt, Percy. Perhaps try not letting go of your grip?” But even the wise—and from what Harry’d observed till now, quite patient—Centaur had a grimace on his face.

“You really want me to try again?”

“...Perhaps just one more.”

Jackson tried once more. This time, the arrow lodged itself in Chiron’s tail.

“...I believe it is clear you are no son of Apollo.” Chiron finally admitted defeat, desnagging the arrow. “Of course, you could be a late bloomer but for the continued health of your fellow Campers, let us pause the thought for now.”

The boy flushed a deep scarlet.

Then it was his turn. By now, Percy’s disastrous attempts had managed to drag most of the attention on the Field like moths to flame, and he found a far bigger audience awaiting the results of his first-ever attempt at Archery.

Only his Occlumency enabled him to keep his nerves. He hefted his bow and set the arrow upon the wood, before hooking the nock against the string.

It was no great secret to admit he was absolutely buggered. The only knowledge of using a Bow he had were a few vague texts and a single three minute ad on the Dursley TV. Still, considering he could hear Apollo demigods placing bets on which of the four directions his arrow would fly off to, he felt the bar was set quite low.

He just needed to fire the arrow forward. Hitting the target wasn’t even a distant goal.

‘Trust your instincts. Right.’ Harry closed his eyes and imagined a scene of battle, Occluding his mind against the rest of the world.

Urquhart, the burly twat, standing at the opposite side, a wand in his hand and a sneer on his face, ready to dangle Harry upside down…

Adrenaline surged. His thoughts focused. Time slowed to a crawl.

When he opened his eyes, he didn't take more than a single second to locate and assess his target before the bow was stretching wide and the string was dragged up to his ear…

Then the arrow left his bow in one smooth motion, and the feeling faded away. A distant thwack sounded in his ears, but Harry’s attention was on the veins of his arms that had burnt black for a split second, almost making him doubt his own eyes.

For a brief moment, there was silence on the Field. Then…

“...Woah!”

“Beginner’s luck?”

“What even was that…?”

“Could he be…”

Whispers broke out across the clearing and, distracted, Harry quickly glanced up to see what had gotten the lot so excited.

It wasn’t a Bull’s eye. Not even close. But the ring of black his arrow had managed to find was completely punched through. He could vaguely glimpse the other side through a hole an inch wide where the arrow had impacted, the perfect circular rim sizzling with a faint darkness—so faint he could easily dismiss it for shadows—that slowly ate away at the foam and straw, though the arrow itself had seemingly disappeared mid-air.

‘This isn’t magic.’ Harry faintly realised, a slight smile stretching his lips wide.

For the first time in his life, he had called upon his demigod powers consciously…and it had answered.

“Well,” Chiron sounded a little perturbed. “Not at all the expected outcome but an impressive showing nonetheless. Might I ask if you’ve ever done Archery before, my dear boy?”

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. I have about as much experience as Jackson.”

The fore-mentioned boy muttered something unkind underneath his breath.

“An impressive showing, indeed.”

It was only then Harry realised his arms felt heavier than usual. Frowning, he tried to flex the muscles and found a searing pain flash all the way through his shoulders and straight down his wrists.

A bad thing at a bad time, considering he was expected to repeat his performance…six more times. Based on his score out of seven, he would be judged if he showed enough skill to be moved to the Advanced Archery straight away. That wasn't a real possibility, Chiron assured him. A black ring shot on the easiest difficulty was still very much average for a beginner, no matter the…efficiency of his shot.

‘Bloody great.’

But there was no avoiding this.

For his second, and all the subsequent shots, Harry didn’t try to call upon his strange darkness. He knew it took something from within him, and while the cost was likely not permanent, he didn’t wish to experiment in front of strangers. Hard experience told him never to expose a possible weakness.

Instead, he let his instincts—prodding and poking for attention as they were—guide him, and to his surprise, it didn’t prove to be a complete disaster.

If anything, as he adjusted his grip, his draw, and his breathing according to his instincts, he realised his aim and accuracy had very little to do with his Divine abilities, for the second shot wound its way within the edge of Ring five, the outer white strip of the Target. Still a little worse than before, and the arrows no longer punched through the target—the dark shadows were missing altogether—but considering he had a literal zero sense of exactly what he was doing, it could be considered impressive.

Harry followed the same formula for the rest of his shots.

Arrow by arrow, he found himself adjusting his technique a tiny bit, actively spotting the errors in his method. He quickly began keeping the bow perpendicular to the ground when drawing—it was simply far easier—and no longer anchored it till his ears, instead finding a sweet spot closer to his jaw while he kept his arms stable and straight.

Of his five remaining attempts, two lodged themselves in the largest ring of white, barely but surely hitting on target, whilst the third joined his first arrow on the black ring, though this time actually remaining on board. The fourth shot was undoubtedly his best yet; for he forced every drop of his focus and care within, utilising Occlumency to ignore the worsening of his arms to finally find his first blue mark. The last one missed completely, but by this point his arms were pounding in an insistent dull ache and his draw strength had weakened considerably.

Harry was not at all disappointed. Exhilarated, he lowered his bow and mental shields, and stared at the target in silent amazement.

‘Could simple instincts really help me to this degree?’

…He had a feeling they didn't. Something more was going on here. And once again, the same instincts that had guided his hand just now, the same instincts that warned him of Castellan, the same instincts that had grown by his side throughout his time in Hogwarts, made him aware of things that should not be possible; the troll, the Basilisk, Tom Riddle…

They agreed.

Chiron soon concluded the little test with him still being undetermined, but as they headed back towards the Cabins, the Apollo demigods were visibly more friendlier than before. Even though his attempt had been fairly average, perhaps even below average if he were judged at the same standards as Apollo demigods, they still decided he would be a regular on the Field from now forth.

Harry did not protest.

Still, he found the situation wholly uncomfortable. In Hogwarts, he had achieved far more impressive results and earned only a smidge less sneers and scowls for his trouble. His sycophant classmates had acted a touch more civil, but that was only to play at being ‘proper’ Slytherins by plotting whatever silly agendas their baby brains were capable of conjuring. Davis was the only Slytherin he knew with even a shred of decency, but she insisted on wasting it by following Greengrass around like a lost puppy.

Things were different here, and he was quickly coming to understand that. It wasn’t just Lee Fletcher—though he was undoubtedly the most easy-going of the lot—but a lot of senior Demigods seemed to respect strength above all, and were not afraid of showing open camaraderie…at least, to their own Cabins.

Unfortunately for him, they tended to show it through physical means.

Harry was not used to being surrounded by half a dozen kids, all as old or older than him, asking of things he would rather not say. Either a word of acclaim or advice always on their lips, with a few even of the more patronising kind.

He was not used to people smiling at him, nary a hint of hidden derision nor silent ridicule in their eyes.

But the most discomforting by far? He was not used to the shoulder pats or friendly smiles by any girl not named Hermione. He knew there was nothing truly deep about it, that their lingering touches were simply a form of acknowledgement to the newbie…but his mind still wandered and he found himself consciously stiff. Layla Goldstein probably had no idea how her offer of extra lessons in freetime could be twisted by a young mind.

His thoughts wandered to his earlier argument with Lee and a part of him wondered if the boy was staring at him from the corner of his eyes, secretly laughing at how hypocritical his words rang now.

Nonetheless, he did not brush them off. Harry was discomforted, not braindead. Allies were usually preferable to enemies; plus, they seemed to quickly pick up on his dislike of contact and kept from being too handsy. In return, he told them a little of England; the food, the people, the London underground…he did not, however, reveal his magic.

That could be a nice trump card, he supposed…assuming Castellan didn’t spread it through the Camp already. Admittedly he wasn’t really doing a stellar job of keeping it a secret. He simply felt awkward about volunteering the info.

The rest of the day passed by fairly quickly and the sun began showing exactly why Campers hated drawing chores in the afternoon. A little over half-an-hour after the Archery session, the Camp broke for Lunch, and he and Jackson sat together again. The boy was a tad miserable after that near-suicidal showing in the Archery field, but Harry simply pointed it meant the bow was not his weapon—a spear or sword was likely more his front. Of course, that did get him fearing if he himself would be as abominable in weapons not related to bows as Percy had been.

That was…a disheartening view, to say the least. He still hoped to make the image of sword-wielding master magus a reality.

The food at Lunch was more of the same, with a welcome addition of a juicy rack of ribs. After Lunch, Harry was supposed to head to the race tracks where his new teachers awaited in the form of wood Nymphs, but with Chiron's permission he took the rest of the afternoon off and simply rested in the Cabin. His hands were still stiff and his mind felt like a well wrung rug. The effects of his brief use of the godly abilities, he guessed.

He spent the time trying to experiment and theorise upon his demigod abilities, specially focusing on understanding the silent instincts that he’d mistaken for simple battle sense.

…At least, that was how he'd started. He did not know when his mind wandered from assessing his powers to Layla’s dark eyes and easy smile, but he quickly found himself actively utilising Occlumency to stay on track.

It did not work as well as he’d hoped.

Thankfully Jackson soon returned to the Cabin, but ADHD had clearly hit him stronger, for the boy couldn’t dream of sitting still on the Cabin floor so long as the sky was still visible in light. This time, Harry joined him, and the two toured around the Camp in search of his Satyr friend, Grover. They searched through the meadows with no luck, passing by a handful of facilities he could now correctly identify; interestingly, the Forge chimneys had finally stopped smoking, and the Arts and Crafts arena was closed down.

They had barely reached the Big House when suddenly a loud horn gonged from the other side of the Camp. Harry turned towards the direction of the Dining Pavilion, but Jackson instantly became restless.

“That’s the conch horn.” He informed in a hurry, tearing towards the Cabins in a sprint. “C’mon!”

Harry followed at a quick jog, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Dinner!”

That sounded a tad too tame to be running desperately through the Camp for, but it soon became clear it wasn’t forgetting the dinner itself that had Jackson’s stomach twisted. It was the Campers…

As they reached the Cabin clearing, Harry noticed dozens of Demigods lined up in front of their Cabin’s yard, slowly marching in a procession towards the Dining Pavilion. Jackson gave a visible wince as the two of them quietly hurried towards the Hermes Cabin; thankfully, theirs was closest to the exit of the clearing, just beside Cabin 12 which only had two members. He and Jackson silently joined the back of the line, and stepped in according to seniority; him behind Jackson behind everyone else.

“Glad you two could find time in your busy schedule to join us.” One of the demigods snarked from the front, a few snorts spreading through the row.

Jackson rolled his eyes but kept his mouth closed.

Harry frowned and flipped him off. “How about you keep your bloody gob shut and I don't smash your teeth in?”

The boy flushed angrily but any further exchange was ceased as Luke Castellan came up from the Cabin. “Everyone's here? Alright, Eleven, move out!”

They were one of the last Cabins to leave the clearing, and Harry guessed the demigod did have a point in rebuking them. Didn't mean he wasn't intent on keeping his promise if he kept yammering all the same. He’d learnt not to take shit from anyone, even if you were in the wrong; made you seem weak.

As they marched up the hill, Harry witnessed the spectacular scene of the entire Camp assembling together for the first time that day. Satyrs joined in from the meadows, spirits of wood and water dragged themselves from their elements, and with over a hundred demigods together, the Dining Pavilion looked far more lively than it ever had.

For Harry though, that created an unfortunate side-effect. With a complete attendance, the Hermes table was chocked full of demigods. Even Percy was left sitting with half his arse-cheek hanging, and as the least senior member of the Cabin, Harry was the last to get a seat.

Frowning, he cast his gaze across the benches on both sides of the table, looking for anyone who could squeeze in further…his gaze instantly honed in on the smirking demigod who sat with his legs spread, hogging the space of two on purpose. Of course, it was the same douche from earlier.

“Scoot over.” Harry called out loudly, attracting the attention of half the table.

“You blind, dude?” The boy glanced around exaggeratedly, smirk widening. “No more space to go around. You’ll have to sit on the ground, I guess.” A few Campers around him chuckled, whilst another few held back smiles of schadenfreude. Of all the Cabins, Hermes was effortlessly the most disunited in the Camp.

‘Ah, and now it starts.’

He’d been expecting a confrontation since the moment he stepped foot within the Camp. And he had to say…it felt bloody comforting to swim within the familiar waters again. Harry had almost deluded himself into believing the Camp was simply too different from Hogwarts.

He was glad to see some things never change.

He gave a brief glance to Castellan but the older demigod seemed to be purposefully ignoring the situation. He peeked at Chiron and Mr. D next, but they looked quite busy at the front, while the rest of the Cabin tables were spread out far enough. With a shrug, he walked over to the boy, his wand already in his hand and Occlumency helping him prepare his intent for a sparsely used Curse.

The smirk dropped from the older demigod’s face when he saw him strolling over. He stiffened in place, hand dipping to his pocket as he glared in warning. “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, newbie.” He stood up quietly and suddenly a knife flashed between his fingers, faster than Harry thought possible.

But that was fine. He was close enough.

With only a yard out between the two, there was no missing. His wand lashed out with a soft mutter, and a ray of white electricity zapped the boy square on the chest in an instant, barely even allowing him to flinch back a step…

The boy went down immediately. His dark brown hair stretched straight like quills and his strengthless body trickled out of his seat and onto the ground, spasming in shock.

Harry glanced at the next demigod. “Scoot over.”

She scooted over.

With a job well done, he shot an inconspicuous glance around, confirming they hadn’t attracted any attention from the nearing tables—that had been the sole reason he’d closed the gap, to hide the flash of the Spark—before finally glancing down at the trembling body at his feet.

“Leave him.” Castellan’s voice drifted over the din of the Pavilion. Apparently, he’d finally decided to step in. “Connor can take him to the Infirmary if he doesn’t get up soon. You didn’t do anything permanent, did you?” His gaze seemed to appraise him deeply, as if evaluating his value…for something.

Harry shook his head. The spell was non-lethal, though he doubted the boy would be getting up any time soon. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, he quietly joined Jackson on the table.

“What did you do?” The boy asked the moment he sat down, staring at him wide-eyed. “That was so sick!”

“What was?”

“That—that light…the thing that shook him like a leaf. What was it? Is that your demigod power?”

“...You saw that, huh?” Harry grimaced, piling some greasy slabs of BBQ onto his plate as wood Nymphas danced from table to table, arranging massive platters of food.

“Well, yeah.” Jackson snorted. “Anyone with eyes probably saw that. It was like one moment you two were getting ready to throw hands, then next, puff! Bright light and he's falling over. What was it?”

Harry shrugged. “Magic.” He cast his gaze across the Pavilion as all the demigods started to their feet Cabin by Cabin, moving towards the central barrier that burnt with a willful flame.

“Huh.” Jackson mumbled. “You aren’t kidding, are you? I don't know why that surprises me after everything that's happened the last few days.”

Soon, the turn came to Hermes Cabin and Harry joined them in marching towards the massive barrier, slipping off a bundle of grapes into the fire—to please the gods, Jackson informed. Apparently they liked the smell, though he couldn’t rightly blame them. It did smell delicious, contrary to his initial expectations. Not knowing who to offer it to, he looked around, spotted Dionysus, and mumbled off his name with a shrug.

To his great surprise, when he sauntered back to his seat, he noticed the semi-shocked demigod was already on his feet, swaying lightly as he struggled to shrug off his lightning spark spell.

That was…far quicker than Harry had anticipated—even taking into account Dumbledore's words about a Demigod’s innate magic resistance. He’d specifically prepared that spell for this very occasion; even though it took a long time to prepare and cast, its effects were almost impossible to ignore without knowing the proper counter.

‘Well…perhaps the demigods are a tad more impressive than I’ve given them credit for.’ Though he still remained cautiously certain he could put up a solid showing against any one of them individually.

Ahead, the seatless Hermes demigod assessed Harry with a scowl, but Castellan was there as damage control this time and the evening moved on with no further incidents. In due course, even the boy got a tiny corner of the bench to plop down a bit of his arse-cheek onto.

After Dinner, Dionysus announced the next ‘Capture the Flag’ to be held on Friday and they moved down to the Amphitheatre. The Apollo Cabin led the sing-alone, and the sight of Lee gently thrumming his Lyre and singing a sweet tune of their patron god chasing after a naiad— whose fate ultimately ended being turned into a laurel, only to be remembered as a symbol of Apollo—drove Harry to tiny, suppressed fits of giggles.

The singing went on deep into the night, and they ate s’mores and watched fireworks blast into the sky. Eventually, Harry found himself laughing along with the rest, all his worries, expectations, and prejudices forgotten, and the funny thing was, those thirty minutes of simply clapping in sync, yelling silly lyrics with a mouth full of chocolate, marshmallows, and crackers spoke more to him of home than all his years with the Dursleys and Hogwarts combined. Even the douche demigod, Dantes, turned out to be not so much of a douche when he introduced himself and asked to let bygones be bygones with a slightly abashed grin.

It blew Harry’s mind. How could anyone apply the ‘forgive and forget’ tactic after being publicly embarrassed like that? Harry held grudges for far less, and had fully expected to develop their relationship into the same petty, toxic rivalry he had with the rest of the Slytherins—doing their best to out-bully each other.

Suffice it to say, bewildered and slightly incredulous, he’d promptly agreed, before joining the boy in yelling out-of-sync lyrics and trying to mess up the Apollo Cabin’s flow. It was, without a doubt, the first time Harry had ever truly let loose of any inhibitions…first time he got a genuine taste of freedom. He had to admit; he kinda liked it.

Sooner than he’d expected, the night crawled deeper into darkness and all the eyes grew tired. The conch horn blared aloud mere moments later, announcing the end of the day, and the demigods filed back into their Cabins one by one.

As he entered his tent-like bedroll, heaving a great sigh of relief from the cool air and perfect privacy within, he heard a mutter from the other corner.

“G’night, Harry.”

He froze, blinking hard. When was the last time someone had greeted him goodnight? Not as an expected farewell, but a genuine wish whilst ending the day?

For a second he hesitated, wondering if he should simply pretend to be asleep. Irritation quickly weld up at the cowardly thought and simply to be a contrarian, he called back lightly. “Good night, Ja—Percy.” It felt every bit as awkward as it sounded.

Soon, the Cabin was wreathed in pitch black darkness. Almost as perfect was the silence, though a few whispers from above and groaning snores ruined the effect. He pushed his assortment of items to a side and lay down, only to realise he had no pillow. Snorting, he bunched up his Invisibility Cloak underneath his head and let himself fall upon the soft elasticity of his bedroll.

As he lay staring at the darkness of his tent, he found his thoughts drifting across the continents, towards the two girls he’d called friend just this morning—or was that afternoon? He couldn't help but wonder what they would think of this place. What would the rest of Hogwarts? It must be the midst of witching hours in England, and the whole castle must be asleep. Poor fools still had two weeks of school before Summer holidays.

He had a sudden, startling realisation that he did not miss Hogwarts nearly as much as he’d have expected himself to. He looked forward to returning back to the Castle once the Holidays were over, but for now, he had something far more fun to explore and experience…

Harry did not know when his eyes fluttered shut—for the darkness behind the lids remained the same—but he soon drifted off into the lands of Morpheus, his last thought filled of deep, primal excitement for what his future held.

He had a feeling this was about to be his most eventful Summer ever.

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

AN: So, how was it? I know it only covers a single day, but the next chapter will show the rest of his stay at the Camp. 

Originally, I was gonna post a small 12k chap and move on to MGO, but this just ran away from me and soon surpassed 20k, so decided to just get back in my groove and keep writing. Ended up dividing the chap in two instead of a lone 25k-30k one. Seriously hope you liked it. I know it was lacking in combat and action, but the next chap should solve that.

See you in a bit!