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From Hogwarts To Olympus: A Demigod's Odyssey Ch.1
🕑 Added 2023-08-31 18:29:01 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: I don't own anything
Chapter 1- Prologue
AN: Beta'd by Kaladin.
I'm sorry, lads. I really am. I'll talk more in depth of my latest vanishment act in another post. Till then, enjoy a couple new chaps for a new story. This one's a PJO/HP fic, whose test chapter I'd already posted half a year ago. This is the completed version.
Hope you enjoy!
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What would you do, if the very foundation of your world crumbles around you slowly?
Harry Potter closed his eyes, the hospital bed underneath him feeling completely surreal.
When the truth you spent half your life evading finally catches up with you?
Like a giant gaping hole swallowing him whole inside its soft embrace; an unnatural quicksand that would deliver a forever lasting peace.
When the house of cards you held on to so desperately comes crumbling down, and there is nothing that remains but a deep uncertainty…
He barely even registered Madam Pomfrey's presence, surrendering himself to her fretting with numb disregard, her questions falling on deaf ears.
What was one supposed to do, when their own life stared back at them like a stranger?
As he gave the last bit of his control away, he found his mind disassociating with his own life; the Basilisk, the Heir, Ginny Weasley's dying body, his infuriating twin sister…it all felt like events experienced by another soul, while he became a mere passenger in his own body; silent, observing, uncertain...
There was only one thing that mattered, one thing that he wished to know.
‘What was one supposed to do when their own existence feels like a giant mystery? When the lie they guarded so zealously is finally proven untrue?’
…Harry Potter didn't know.
He felt like he was watching a horror film—even when you expect the jump-scare, you can't help but be caught off-guard all the same.
The strangeness of his life had always been known to him, of course. From the day his aunt and Uncle first called him ‘Freak’, to the day he was declared a Wizard, and even beyond into Hogwarts…he'd always been mighty aware of his failure to fit inside a box. Always known he belonged with no crowd.
He was different. Through to the bones, despite any flaws or faults. Powerful, in a fashion few could claim to be, even here at Hogwarts. He had thought the mystery solved when that tawny owl came barging into the Dursley residence, bringing the first ever letter to his name, but it was clear now that he was wrong.
There was something much, much deeper circling around his existence. Something even more mysterious and inexplicable than Magic.
The signs had been there from the very start, though masked underneath the cover of his more obvious power, which—now that he thought about it—always seemed to show its presence with more willingness. Turning his teacher's hair blue, fixing a broken vase, Apparating upon the school roof to win another round of 'Harry Hunting'...all of it obvious cases of accidental magic.
It wasn't a surprise he'd logged the other 'oddities' along with them, no matter how unique and...drastic their effects.
The first time he'd consciously felt its presence was on Dudley's tenth birthday.
The day his life had changed, for better or worse.
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For the eight-year-old Harry, 'Brutal' couldn't describe how badly this day had been.
Then again, all of Dudley's birthdays were the same, always reminding him of his parents' absence more painfully than others. He should've gotten used to it by now.
This day, however, had proved to be a touch more cruel than usual.
It started with another day of frying perfect scrambled eggs and bacon, followed by a devilishly boring visit to Mrs. Figgs, the mad old lady who lived two streets away, whilst the Dursleys went about their merry way—probably to that adventure park Dudley had been gloating about all week.
Along with Aunt Marge. Couldn't forget that infernal woman—Fat Marge, Harry had graciously dubbed upon her. Fat Marge and her fat ugly dog, Ripper.
While he usually hated being left behind with Mrs. Figgs—her whole house smelled of cabbage and the woman made him look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned—it was still preferable to spending an entire day with Fat Marge and her sneering taunts.
Unfortunately, the Dursleys had come back early this time, so he couldn't do anything but bear it in silence. Especially when they began drinking, a malady that gave their cruelty a new height; any sound of protest, or even gritting his teeth in her sight, would invite the fat woman to whack him on the shins with her walking stick. She'd always been the most vicious of the lot, even more so than her brother, so he’d grown to be cautious around her.
Harry absently wondered if the woman had shared a similar relationship with Vernon in their childhood as he and Dudley did; from the slight flinches from the man when she got particularly loud, Harry was willing to bet so.
By the time a deeper phase of Twilight set in, Harry had already received a burning calf, a stinging wrist, and a bruised shin from the woman's fearsome weapon.
So as his walrus of a cousin ripped apart gifts after gifts, he cleaned up the glittering mess of paper and plastic in absolute silence, ignoring everything that came out of her mouth as well as he could.
"...and look at his face, pale as a chalk. You can recognise them by the skin. See Dudley's pink cheeks, Petunia? That's the colour you want, healthy and innocent. It's all in the breeding really..."
Well, he tried at least.
But as the woman went on and on about the lower breeding of his parents, he couldn't help clenching his fists a little tighter, setting his jaw a little more stubbornly...
Sure, maybe they truly were drunken louts who'd died in a car crash, shoving his puny existence into the hands of people who never really wanted him…but they were still his parents. They belonged to him; his to dream of and his to curse. His and no one else's. They were one thing he didn't have to share with anyone, one thing the Dursleys couldn't take away from him. And he didn't like others disparaging something that belonged to him. His anger, he felt, was justified.
Of course, he still didn't want to be hit by the stick of doom again.
So before his feelings could show on his face, he quickly distracted himself by staring at Dudley's large collection of already opened presents, which included three racing cars, a pair of kid's boxing gloves—which would soon be used on Harry, no doubt—along with a multitude of toys that he couldn't recognise.
The boy was in the midst of opening Fat Marge's present, a computerised robot glinting red and blue. From the look on his face, Dudley obviously loved it. Harry had gotten a present of his own from Marge, a packet of dog biscuits that he'd quickly hid in his cupboard, under the torn bedsheet that made up for his bed. He intended to save it for desperate times.
Harry must've spent a little too long looking at the presents, for suddenly a stinging pain spread about his neck, making him wince and stumble back. He was certain a red welt was already forming from the harsh slap of Marge's walking stick.
"Hah! I bet you want to steal his presents too, don't you boy!?’ She sneered. “Keep your beady little eyes away, I say, ungrateful little urchin..."
The walking stick came swinging back for another hit, this time straight at the face. But some self-preservative instincts must’ve blared in his mind, for all of a sudden, he found himself ducking down with perfect precision, feeling the stick rush over his head in slow-motion, his feet automatically stepping back to make some distance…
Wide-eyed, Harry stared down at his feet in wonder, now a step away from Fat Marge’s reach. Marge herself was wide-eyed too; wide-eyed and enraged. She’d expected his actions as much as he had, though she didn’t appear almost as impressed.
For a second, he simply stood there, dumbfounded and marvelling at the feat. The look on Marge's face, however, promised much more painful things, and he was beginning to realise perhaps he should've just taken the hit after all.
A swollen face or broken tooth wasn't anything new to him. The sheer unbridled rage on Fat Marge's face was.
She pushed herself up her feet like a great whale standing on two thick tree-trunks, face twisted in a snarl. "You little shit—!"
Harry scrambled back, throat constricting in dread...and things went from bad to worse. His heel, flailing and uncontrollable, landed upon something soft and squishy—after a quick glance downwards, he realised it was a lolling Ripper's tail.
At any other time, he would’ve taken great pleasure at the bulldog’s sudden and painful howl. Sadly, this time he was standing right next to it, and the four-legged canine had correctly identified the cause of its agony. So when the creature scrambled around, straightening his fat bulk on his little legs, saliva-dripping mouth snarling towards Harry, pleasure was the last thing on his mind.
But of course, the same couldn't be said for others. There was nothing but pure glee on Marge's face now. "Bite, Ripper!"
Harry took off instantly.
A moment later, a blood-thirsty Ripper fell straight on his trail, barking like a crazed murder-dog.
The next few minutes passed in a miserable game of tag for Harry. Though it must've been quite entertaining to see his scrawny body getting chased around the house by a wild dog, for his audience of Dursleys and Fat Marge did nothing to help, their laughter like salt on his hammering heart.
In the background, Marge hollered encouragements and possible strategies at the dog, ranging from ‘Get a good chunk out of him!’ and ‘Cut him through the kitchen! There’s nowhere to run!’
The last one was, sadly, very true. With the house's main door closed shut, and the living room barely enough for them, he knew he didn't have enough room to escape. He knew he was about to be caught.
He was proven right.
Cursing the unfairness of his existence he took refuge behind a wooden chair, holding it in the front to keep the snarling dog away. It barked and clawed but somehow, Harry managed to make use of a pretty heavy object as an adequate shield, whilst turning his pleading eyes on his Aunt. Petunia was no saint, but she usually made sure Vernon never went overboard with his actions.
"...Marge, dear, this is enough, don’t you think?" Case in point as she slowly stood up, her face pinched in petulant reluctance, giving Harry a glare that wanted to shred him to pieces.
He'd never really understood that aspect of her. She supposedly hated helping him, and yet she did it without a grumble. Even if it did look so very forced.
Not that he minded. He would take any help he could get to escape the large canines currently trying to wiggle their way through the gap between the chair and take a bite out of his leg.
"What?" Marge exclaimed in mock startlement. "Nonsense! The boy stepped on his tail first; my baby deserves a little bite!" Then, with sickening sweetness, she turned to his cousin, a smirk twisting her fat lips into an ugly grin. "Dudley, love, take that chair from the freak, would you? I'll give you two more presents in the morning."
"...Two more, so that would mean, thirty-thirty…" The cogs on his head turned, the dumb, fat pig slowly pushing himself up with a slowly widening smile. Daddy Walrus whispered something in his ears and the baby Walrus exclaimed in return, "Thirty-nine presents! More than ever!"
"Dudley, no." Petunia sounded genuinely scared, but she'd never once disciplined her son.
Dudley didn't fear her, nor did he recognise her authority.
Harry's heart dropped. It was like witnessing his own death and being completely helpless. His fat pig of a walrus cousin quickly wore his baby-gloves, gave a roar of triumph, and came stampeding towards him like a boar, his mass jiggling above his chubby feet like an armour of Jello.
Harry had never hated anyone more in his life.
And then the evening’s events started upon a horrifying conclusion.
The chair was knocked out of his hands as Dudley tackled him to the ground fists first, inviting Ripper's snarling jaw straight towards his throat, and for one horrifying moment Harry entertained the thought of truly dying...
Something in him…snapped.
Time slowed. A tug in his gut. A crack, a sizzle, something horrible. A scream. Something dark. The wood rotted beneath his hands and feet, the walls crumbled behind his head.
It came from within him, Harry knew with certainty, whatever it was. His vision blackened in its presence; a blindness so dark the world seemed to shudder in place.
When he came to be, the sight in front of him was…horrifying.
Ripper was dead—for some reason, Harry knew that at once—terror clear even in its animalistic eyes, its tongue rolling past his maw. Dudley was lying on his own piss, mouth wide open, dripping snot and saliva as his stretched fat mass trembled.
Harry scrambled away, heart thudding even faster.
The adults were barely any better. Vernon had taken a tactical retreat behind the couch, crouched like Harry used to when shielding from his beatings. His hands were shaking, fat lobes of ugly tears rolling down his shuddering face; the sight just seemed wrong.
How could Vernon Dursley ever cry?
Marge was a drooling mess, retaining the use of her legs only until his eyes fell upon her. Then her chin cracked against the floor and she moved no more. Once again, for some reason, he just knew she wasn’t dead.
Petunia took it the best, in that she still stood. White in the face, frozen in place like a stone statue, but still conscious and standing.
Harry didn't know what had happened. But he knew what the cause was.
'I did this.' He swallowed harshly, his own hand shaking from the coursing blood.
His mind felt strangely light, considering the horrifying implication, but the truth had never been clearer.
He had done this. He had caused these people to look like drooling fools an inch away from being admitted to a mental ward. He had made them suffer. Made them suffer as he had.
Yet, beyond the initial wave of horrifying sense of wrongness and guilt, there was a strange peace within his heart—observing the proceedings with a cruel satisfaction.
Freak.
"They deserve it." He whispered, even as tears pricked at his eyes. "They deserve this."
Freak.
Oh god. What had he done?
'Vernon's going to kill me.' The thought wasn't new, it came every time he did something freaky, and Dudley was there to catch him.
But looking at the cowering man behind the sofa, it didn't carry the same fear it used to.
'Or maybe I'm going to kill him.'
The thought sent shivers down his spine, the echoing of ‘Freak’ through the corners of his mind growing louder.
Harry didn't wait to find out who would be killing whom, quickly running for his cupboard, intending to hide through all the proceedings.
'Freak.'
He was a freak, there was no doubt in his mind now.
A freak, and so much more.
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"This might sting a little, Mr. Potter. Try to hold still." Madam Pomfrey's voice broke the hold of Occlumency.
Harry blinked, and the memories of his past were replaced by the ancient, jaded ceiling of the Hospital Wing. Beside him, the Matron's wand traced a Z in the air, accompanied by a softly muttered spell underneath her breath as she tapped the wound on his bloodied arm lightly. True to her words, it did sting, and not just a little, but the pain finally managed to evict the remaining shock out of his system and he found himself back in control.
It wasn’t surprising the memory of that day had stayed crystal in his mind throughout this time. It was the day the world had done a full 180 on him, changing his life forever. He would even go so far as to say some of the best moments of his early life came in the days following the Dursley Debacle.
In his earliest tries at summoning his Patronus, Harry had used those exact memories. It had almost worked.
In record time, Marge had found herself admitted to a local hospital, while Ripper's dead body was sent back to her home—to be buried in her backyard.
He'd tiptoed around the Dursleys the entire time, fearing the day when the other shoe would drop and he'd have to face the repercussions of his actions. It had grown so bad in fact, he’d packed the little that he'd owned in a small red cloth, awaiting the day he would no longer have a shelter over his head.
It never came.
The Dursleys treated him like some wild animal, unwilling to touch him with a ten-foot pole. In short order, Harry's 'bullying' problem went away, he was relieved from his house-cleaning duties, and was further exempt from having to cook a single thing for anyone but himself.
It looked like the Dursleys no longer trusted him not to poison their food with his darkness. Oh, the heartache.
He'd thought their newfound terror of his freakishness would evaporate away sooner or later, thought that things would go back to their dark and dreary ways. But soon days passed into weeks, and weeks became months, and the Dursleys still treated him like their personal nightmare.
Harry had been more than willing to continue their game of 'He doesn't exist if we don't talk to him', so he obliged them with an open heart.
It had been almost three years since, and while his year-long absence had done much to erase the edges of their terror, they still treaded lightly around him.
The first time Vernon had spoken to him after the incident—in the form of a terse snap for bringing in dirty shoes after school—Harry had merely scowled down at the mudded footwear, being reminded exactly why he didn't like rain. When he'd looked up, however, Walrus Sn. had gone white in the face and quickly waddled away as if he hadn't just raised a perfectly valid complaint.
When Harry finally familiarized himself with the concept and realised that he'd given P.T.S.D to the Dursley patriarch, the idea of using it for his own gain slowly birthed in his mind.
It had started out innocently enough; scowling to himself as he absently muttered about the Cupboard ceiling hitting his head. By the next day, Vernon had Dudley's toy room thoroughly evacuated, and quietly transferred his handful of things to his new room.
Everything was done without speaking a word to each other.
Harry had realised the potential immediately. And so he’d began his silent demand; frowning when there wasn't much left for him to eat—the fridge was full the next day; muttering under his breath pointedly when his shoes no longer fit him—a new pair appeared outside his bedroom the following morning; sometimes even directly demanding money—the fat man would wag his meaty finger and stumble a few words of protest out, but a simple displeased look would send him cowering back in his chair.
After the initial guilt went away, and he became used to the idea that he doesn't always have to sacrifice for others, Harry made sure to exploit it whenever possible.
Besides, the Dursleys had more than earned their fair share of justice, and there was no one in this world who could nurse a grudge like Harry Potter.
Even after three years of peace, he still remembered every word of abuse, every bit of pain and misery like it were a most cherished memory, and he'd made sure to repay it in full whilst it lasted.
When the letter from Hogwarts came, declaring him a wizard and answering all the questions about his mysterious powers, the Dursleys had been more than happy to let him go.
Remembering his first trip to Diagon Alley still brought a smile on his face. Though in hindsight, he shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss his abilities as 'Magic'—no matter how convenient and cathartic it was to no longer think of his powers as 'Freakishness'.
A small part of him likely suspected the truth, even back then, especially after he'd struggled through the flying words of 'Introduction to the Magical world'. It had taken him over a week and multiple tries to completely understand some of the more difficult passages, but he'd found no mention of accidental magic that could induce such terrible terror that the victims were left with drastic mental trauma for years.
But with such a ready-made escape route offered to him, how could he not take it? All he was trying to do back then was find his place in the world. And magic had given him exactly what he'd needed.
Even if he was terribly wrong.
And if that didn't tip him off, he received another clue on 31st October, the day of Halloween.
Also the day he made his first true friend.
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It had come as a shock to the whole school when the sorting hat announced 'Slytherin!' a few moments after being placed on his head. Whispers of 'Another Potter!?', 'A Potter in Slytherin?' and 'The-Girl-Who-Lived's brother's a snake?' had practically drowned out everything else in the Great Hall.
Not that Harry cared too much, lost as he was in awe of the castle, and the strange path his life was leading him on.
Sadly, that didn't stay true for long, as he realised the wider implications of his sorting, receiving his own bundle of shock at the announcement of 'Jane Potter'; and, as he found out in the coming hours, his twin sister.
Shock, however, simply failed to describe his feelings when the revelation of his mother's death—or lack thereof—came to the fore.
After years of trying to Will his parents into existence, and years of imagining being rescued by them, or their relatives, or their friends, or their friend's friends...Harry never imagined he would've wished for his mother's death the moment he found out she was still alive and hale.
Yet he did. He wished she'd stayed dead in this world, so that the mother in his dreams would've stayed alive—the mother who loved him, cared for him, and, in some of his wilder fantasies, even gave her life to save his own from that car crash...
Sadly, that loving mother simply couldn't survive the wave of hatred that was released unbridled through his mind.
To learn of her from the cruel mouths of his classmates—who took blatant pleasure at describing in detail how his mother and siblings threw parties every year, how they posed before the camera for his celebrity sister, how no one even knew his name until now, all the while he’d rotted with the Dursleys, abused and beaten, from inside and out...
It hurt. It hurt in ways he'd never been hurt before; not by Marge, not by Ripper, not even by the Dursleys...Lily Potter had managed to do on her lonesome the one thing that they all failed at; break his spirit.
Oh, he knew that was exactly what his slimy classmates wanted, and he didn't just take their fables at face value. But after a week of researching through the wizarding newspapers and every source of information available, Harry simply couldn't find a single lie in their words.
The world only knew one truth: the night of Halloween, 1994, Dark Lord Voldemort had attacked the Potter Manor, only to meet his end at the hands of a young Jane Potter; the sole survivor that night besides her mother.
Harry was never even mentioned.
The shattering of his fantasy had left a permanent mark on Harry; to learn that not only could he not keep his parents to himself, but that they didn't want him in the first place...
Oh, how desperately Harry wished the Dursleys had been right. It would've been better if they'd died in the car crash. It would've been better if he had no mother, and no sisters.
He wanted none of them.
While the shock of his family's renewed status had yet to subdue, the world wasn't kind enough to let him be. His streak of friendless existence continued in Hogwarts undisturbed. His House, that according to McGonagall, was supposed to be like a new family, objected to his continued presence in their premises quite verbally.
So unless the Deputy Head specifically meant the Dursleys, she had no bloody clue what she was talking about.
The Slytherins didn't like him. They didn't like his name, didn't like that he shared something with the Potter family, no matter how much he tried to deny it.
There was a small Duelling Pit built in the Dungeons, accessible only to Slytherins through the secret passage behind the Common Room. ‘Take it to the Pits’ was a common saying when two Slytherins needed to resolve their problems; and if one refused, they would be branded a coward forever.
Barely a week into Hogwarts, Harry became the most frequent participant of the Pit, often having to drag himself to the Hospital Wing on his lonesome.
Sadly, it wasn't limited to his classmates either. The senior students especially hated his elder sister with a passion and were quite happy to have their lick of bullying in as well. While it was generally frowned upon for an older student to challenge a younger one, exceptions were being made for him. Warrington, Montague, Higgs, and Urquhart… some of the names that had etched themselves in his mind forever.
The only thing that helped him survive the pit of snakes was their Head of House. His rule of Slytherins always sticking together outside the Common Room had helped him avoid fights on more than one occasion. While his existence was still an exercise at isolation, it wasn't nearly as dreadful once he took to roaming the castle every chance he got, making sure to stay away from the Dungeons.
That was how the night of Halloween found him a corridor away from the girl's bathroom on the 2nd floor…
It had been yet another day of silent brooding for Harry.
He woke up alone, attended the morning feast alone, sat in classes alone, and left the classes...alone. It wouldn't have been so bad had he not been forced to watch other people; always mingling in groups, laughing and smiling and whispering all the time...
Worse, he wasn't doing very well in classes. Magic was one thing he'd expected himself to excel at; for years he had wondered why he couldn't do well in school, why the world cursed him with the disability to never read, why the letters of every word flew around the page every time his eyes fell upon them...and he’d thought he’d received his answer: Magic.
After struggling with muggle education for years, magic should've been the subject where he excelled at. But while he wasn't as gone a case as he was in the muggle world, he certainly wasn't excelling in classes. The words still floated abot, and the world still made no sense.
To add insult to injury, some of his classmates had quickly caught on to the fact that he had trouble reading, so they did their best to distract him during lessons, forcing him to depend on the books to clarify any subject, or worse, ask a teacher—who, for whatever mysterious reason, looked down on the Slytherins.
It all led to a fear within him as old as his first bouts of ‘freakishness’: Harry Potter did not belong here. His place in the world was still just as uncertain as ever; the Dursleys didn’t want him, his muggle school didn’t want him, his parents didn’t want him, and now, even Hogwarts and Magic did not want him.
Thus it was, with great distress and frustration in his heart, Harry roamed the corridors of the Castle, all alone and brooding, and in need of doing something reckless.
It was the noise that drew him in.
A low, guttural hum, like a revving engine inside the throat of a giant, vibrating through the walls of the Castle…
Perhaps, had he been calmer of mind, Harry would’ve thought twice before heading into the unknown. Perhaps, had he not felt like breaking his fist against something soft and bloody, he would’ve listened to the low, fledgling instinct bubbling in his chest.
Instead, a second past the growl saw his feet slapping upon the Castle tiles as he tore after the sound, searching and wanting…
Harry didn’t know how he knew exactly where to find it, but find it he did—just outside the girls toilet; a being of comically disproportionate limbs, with skin like a well-rung leathery rug of sickly grey. Its ears were bigger than its entire jaw, flapping in the air like wings at either side of its squashed, deformed potato-head. Its giant belly hung loose like half melted cheese, giving it great weight that was supported by massive tree trunks for legs, and just two toes for fingers.
‘A Troll.’ Harry faintly realised, looking at its dirty toenails that were bigger than his entire foot. It was the only thing their useless Defence professor had taught them so far.
Dressed in a tiny, dirty brown jacket, and a loincloth that barely covered the more disgusting parts, the Troll was by far the ugliest thing Harry had ever seen. For a second he simply stood there, dumbfounded and disbelieving as the creature sniffed at the toilet door, refusing to accept exactly what his mind was telling him.
And then its smell hit him, like a freight train splattering him on the tracks…
Gagging, Harry stumbled to the side, the sharp, decaying whiff of pus, vomit, and sewer assaulting his senses, bringing tears to his eyes and burns to his chest. He was glad he hadn’t eaten at the feast; the contents would’ve greeted the corridor's pristine floor by now if he had.
The giant ugly thing didn’t seem to notice his intrusion, shaking its massive wooden club around as it entered the girl’s toilet with a grunt. Harry suddenly forgot why he’d even chased after this thing in the first place; what exactly had he expected to find? A small chihuahua that he could wrestle to the ground and take out his day’s frustration on?
Feeling completely out of his depths, he slowly, very cautiously, turned around to take his leave, letting the thing to its business.
It simply had to be that moment for a high-pitched scream of panic and fright to come from the very toilet the creature had entered.
Harry suddenly found himself in a horrifying conundrum. Unless the behemoth was cursed with the soundbox of a shrill-pitched human girl, the scream undoubtedly belonged to a Hogwarts’ student, who was now trapped with something he fully suspected was a proud carnivore. And considering its size, a small human girl might look like the perfect starting course for its own Halloween feast.
The question was, did Harry even care?
The most logical thing to do here would be to run straight for the professors and let them sort it out; sure, the girl would be Troll-chow by then, but so what? It wasn’t Harry’s fault there roamed a Troll in Hogwarts’ halls tonight.
The only thing was...Harry felt tired of doing the logical thing.
It was the logic in his mind that stopped him from retaliating against his House’s bullying, knowing how much worse his situation could get if he actively started making enemies.
It was the logic in his mind that made him avoid his sisters’ attempts at talks, knowing he might very well not be able to control himself—something about his twin simply frayed at his nerves even more than Lily Potter.
And it was logic that had assured him things would slowly get better ever since he’d first arrived here; surely people wouldn’t hate him for long just for existing?
But logic had failed him every single time. His classmates still bullied him, his ‘Better-than-thou’ sister still gave him grief, and things had never looked worse for him in his entire life.
He had thought he would find a true home in here…instead, all he found was a second Dursley residence, only this one's inhabitants didn't fear him as much.
Harry was tired. If the world didn’t wish to let him be in his corner, perhaps it was time to carve a piece of it for himself.
When the second, louder scream emitted from the toilet, Harry found himself sprinting once more...straight within the jaws of danger.
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The events of that night were still a blur in his mind, even under the influence of Occlumency. He remembered seeing only the back of its coconut-shaped head cocking about, whilst the Great club in its hand rose in the air to obliterate another toilet stall.
He remembered a bushy-haired girl scrambling away beneath the said stalls, screaming at the top of her voice, eyes wide and teary in panic, inflicted by fear so thick he could taste it on his tongue right now.
And he remembered charging the Troll with rage in his heart, every drop of his anger and frustration at the world finally coming to the fore…
Hermione Granger would later describe it to him as a ‘Stuff of Nightmares’. She swore up and down that the shadows themselves came alive to attack the lumbering giant, spindly black strings of darkness tearing into the creature’s arms and feet like hot knife through butter. It was like a great, dark void had come to announce the coming of the Troll's end, she would say.
She would also later go on to conclude there were no recorded cases of such accidental magic happening in the wizarding world.
Though Harry himself had only cared about one thing in the entire incident: finding his first and bestest friend in the world.
The best friend that was currently resting in the very same room, he realised.
He turned his head to the side, focusing on the many beds around him; beyond the faded dark-green curtains separating the patients, her petrified body still lay stiff as a stone. So close to him, yet so far away.
What would she say, he wondered, if he told her about his troubles?
He glanced up at the ceiling, closing his eyes as he pictured her reaction.
Well, firstly she would boop him on the nose with a copy of Daily Prophet for being a dummy and making it far more complicated than it needed to be. Then she would drag him to the library in search of answers and probably solve his entire life's mystery in about an hour or two.
And even if she didn't, she wouldn't give up, and the simple fact that he wasn't alone in the world would do much to calm him down.
Yet, at this moment, just a bed or two away from her resting body, he felt as forsaken as he'd ever been.
"Alright, Mr. Potter. You're good to go." Madam Pomfrey bustled in, levitating a small cauldron behind her. "I would ask you to take better care of yourself but I'm sure it'll pass right out of your ears. Just…try not to die for the remainder of this year?"
Harry shook his head, pushing himself upright. "Madam Pomfrey…the petrified students…will they be released soon?"
"What do you think this is?" The floating cauldron behind her shook itself as if grumbling. "Fully grown mandrakes, freshly cut by Professor Sprout. I've already delivered some to Professor Snape, the first batch of potions will be ready in a few hours."
She placed the cauldron beside his bed, taking a hold of his once-injured arm, her fingers pressing lightly where the jagged stones had cut the skin. "I'm far more concerned about you than your friend, Mr. Potter." She backed away, satisfied, manually picking the cauldron up once more. "But I'll be sure to let you know as soon as Ms. Granger wakes up. Now off you trot. The Headmaster wishes to see you. The password is Sherbet Lemon."
Nodding, Harry stood up, one hand checking for his wand that mercifully still remained in his inner cloak pocket.
He shot one last look at Hermione's curtained bedpost before stumbling out of the dark ward, still a little light-headed, though not for any physical reason.
By now, it was clear that his suspicions were coming real. He should've guessed way before today, but he'd been so wrapped up in his life's problems he never even stopped to take a breath and consider the truth.
Of course, the greater reason was…a part of him just did not want to find out.
His newly formed friendship with Hermione had ceased all his doubts about his position in the wizarding world, as things finally started improving in his life. Questioning his own abilities then meant risking it all, and for what? Some half-baked suspicions that could mean a dozen different things?
No. It was understandable Harry Jr. had simply written it off as accidental magic; a never-before seen phenomenon Hermione wouldn’t find in some library textbooks. He had buried that day away, and forget about it entirely.
In hindsight, he couldn’t have known the event was connected to the Dursley Debacle; inducing fear in some muggles was entirely different from killing a magical Troll with shadows and darkness.
Now, however, he could see that they both came from the same source, lending credence to the fact that something strange rested within his body. Something even more mysterious than magic. Perhaps a deeper aspect of it or something entirely alien.
As his feet started down the long set of stairs, making way for the Grand Staircase, Harry found himself reviewing his life once more, his fledgling skill in occlumency helping dust off the rusty parts of his brain.
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Hermione’s friendship proved to be a catalyst for the change in Harry’s school life.
The simple fact that he didn’t need to spend the rest of his day roaming Hogwarts' corridors alone did wonders to his spirit—so much so, in fact, that he wasn’t even overly annoyed when letters from Lily Potter started flying in for him; of course, that didn’t mean he opened any of them.
They proved themselves a great kindling for the fireplace.
But the biggest advantage of having a friend in Hermione was undoubtedly the rapid growth in his magic. The two of them could be found buried inside the library for as long as it remained open, perusing through the mountain of texts placed upon its dusty shelves.
Blessedly, Hermione was always more than happy to dictate her words, often reading the text aloud for his sake—though if you ask her, she would say he was doing her a favour by revising the material. And if there was one thing Harry had learnt in primary school, it was to compensate for his disability by being an exceptional listener.
In the weeks following their newfound friendship, he went from an average student struggling to keep up, to one of the few who trailed ahead of syllabus. He still wasn’t the brilliant, once-in-a-lifetime genius he’d so desperately wished to be, but he was often competing for the top spot in their House with Daphne Greengrass or Ferret Malfoy. And he was improving more and more every day.
Though annoyingly, the best student in their whole year was a toss up between Hermione and Jane Potter, who had finally stopped hounding him after a mysterious levitating charm left her suspended in the air like a flailing fish—curtsey of his bushy-haired friend, who'd grown incensed by the brief overview of his life.
Jane Potter had everything Harry had ever wished for; friends, parents, a caring sibling…and an annoying amount of talent. She was often the first to get a Transfiguration right, first to cast a Charm correctly, first to master a Defense spell, and first to brew a potion well. Hell, she was somehow even the first First-year to join the Quidditch team in centuries.
The thing that truly burnt his heart, however, was the fact that she was a better Dueler than him.
Following the rapid increase in his spell repertoire, the results of the Pit challenges against him had suddenly take a U-turn. Just within the first week of November, he’d turned Nott’s legs into jelly and had the pleasure of watching Malfoy cry in sheer humiliation—apparently, dancing uncontrollably in front of an audience was the worst thing to happen to the boy.
Duelling was simply his niche, Harry soon came to find; he had an instinctive grasp over the basics that others struggled to learn—things like reading the opponent’s movement or dodging a spell came naturally to him.
Where his opponents stood still in duels, Harry couldn't help but do the opposite. Where in other subjects his attention span matched a goldfish's, here he became unnaturally focused, as if time itself was slowing for him. The faster someone moved, the better he reacted.
It came as a great astonishment then that Jane Potter managed to defeat him.
It was only later he found out that she’d received prior lessons since far before joining Hogwarts. While it didn’t extinguish his dismay, it did much to soothe his wounded pride. If rumors were to be believed, 'Duelling' itself was only introduced to their syllabus three years ago, specially provided for the eldest Potter child at the vehement behest of Lily Potter.
While he was rotting in the cupboard, starving, his dear mother was busy raising hell in her efforts to spoil her daughters. Another reason why he took such pleasure in burning those damned letters.
But his hatred for his mother was only matched by his hatred for his sister. People, even Hermione to an extent, seemed to miss the truth of what she truly was; a stubborn, pretentious fool who acted as if she was carrying the entire world's weight on her shoulders. Harry made sure never to forget that; it was easier to continue hating her like this.
The only surprise in this period came from their Head of the House, who called him to his office one evening and placed a dusty, worn book in his hands.
The spine read 'One thousand and one Curses to spoil your enemy's day'.
"Do not let anyone touch the book." He'd warned gravely, silken voice carrying a whisper of suppressed danger. "Your friendship with the Granger girl has been noted by your Housemates, and your recent…victories in the arena, mean things might not be contained in the Pits alone. I cannot protect you forever, it is best you learn this quickly."
Harry took the warning to heart.
Contrary to its name, the book didn’t just contain Curses; it held the entire package of offensive spells, from simple charms to Jinx and Hexes. Surprisingly, he found out learning these spells was far more easier than any others. Even without Hermione, it took him only a couple of reads before he managed to cast the Langlock Jinx.
The wisdom behind the Professor’s words was soon proven true, as he found himself the subject of pointed snickers and whispers of disgust whenever he spent time within the Dungeons. ‘Mudblood-lover’ became a particularly frequent taunt from his peers.
Had it stayed there, he would’ve gone on to ignore it—at least, for the time being—but trouble soon announced itself in the form of two third years, Graham Montague and Warrington.
That was when he found out his favourite stream of Magic: Dark Arts.
Perhaps the boys were only there to scare him, perhaps to deliver some warning, or maybe even just to hurl some more harmless taunts…but Harry never even paused to find out. His hatred for his House was on an all-time high.
The moment they cornered him in the dungeon corridor, Harry knew there was only one way to come out on top.
He attacked immediately.
Regardless of his growing skill in magic, two 3rd years were far out of his league; they’d practised duelling for two years more than him, skill and talent can only cover so much for a lack of experience. At least, in a fair duel.
In an instant, his hand struck out like an uncoiled serpent, the thick spine of his History of Magic textbook cracking Montague’s nose, spurting blood in the air. The sudden violence must've caught Warrington off-guard, for he quickly stepped back, wide-eyed, and Harry, who’d instantly moved to face him, hit him head-on with the Furnunculus Curse.
Instead of small pimples littering his face, however, the taller boy's entire body was suddenly covered in nine huge bulbous pockets of pus and blood, like massive tumors growing live on skin. One of them grew large enough to pop open, and an ugly mixture of dirty white and red liquid oozed out, releasing a smell almost as horrendous as a Troll's.
Harry didn't wait to find out what happened next as the boys went down; one groaning, one screaming. It was only the next day he found out that Warrington had stayed in the Hospital Wing overnight and still wasn't released, because the boils refused to be cured by the common potion.
The sheer satisfaction he felt had been almost overwhelming, but it was no less than they’d deserved. If anything, he felt they got off too lightly. He should've taken the chance to do some lasting damage when they were down; something neither would ever forget.
Still, even with all the trouble that kept popping up, Harry’s life at Hogwarts had undoubtedly improved since Halloween. After his retaliation against the third years, a large number of Slytherins seemed to suddenly lose interest in him.
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry was free.
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Surrounded by the eerie silence of the sleeping Castle, Harry made his way up the Grand Staircase two steps at a time, easing up on the Occlumency; while he'd mastered the basics, to experience the hold of emptiness for longer periods was still a strange exercise.
Beyond his first few shaky months, Harry had to admit Hogwarts had treated him well. Now he just liked to consider the entire dark period as a test; a tribulation from the world itself to earn something besides constant misery.
And earn it he had.
His newfound rise in academics had seen him become the fastest point-earner in his House. While no other stream of magic worked for him as well as the Dark Arts, he was one of the quickest learners in Transfiguration, and Flitwick always seemed impressed by the power behind his charms. He was also the only one who consistently managed to squeeze points out of Snape's stingy fingers.
Slytherins were a bunch of arrogant, bigoted, blood-purists, but their rivalry with Gryffindor absolutely trumped everything else. By the time Winter dawned at Hogwarts, even his classmates—especially Greengrass and her group—were going out of their way to be friendly with him.
Though he'd always wondered if it wasn't simply the fear born from being constantly pummelled in the Dueling class.
Still, whatever the reason, his infamy had quickly turned into fame within the House.
Not that he'd truly cared, even back then. At that point, he'd almost begun wishing for altercations. The bloodied figures of Warrington and Montague had raised something ugly within him, and if someone was itching to lengthen that short list, he would've welcomed it.
Harry slowed down to a walk as he reached the end of his set of stairs. The sound of grinding stone broke the snoring of portraits as stairs rearranged themselves, carrying his shadow close—reflected upon them from the dim light of the hanging lamps.
He thought back to those days; while his House may have finally accepted him in, he never truly forgot the faces of all who'd made his stay unbearable in the first place.
By now, he'd repaid every last one of them that misery ten-folds. He particularly remembered colluding with the Weasley twins fondly; giving them a week’s access to Slytherin Common Room had been the best revenge he could’ve planned for.
Aside from all the drama, however, he couldn't remember any other instance of strange powers suddenly appearing to bail him out in his first year. There were some weird things—Ghosts seemed particularly friendly to him for some reason, even Peeves didn't ever antagonise him—but the only incident he could even try to label as something other than Magic came after the Christmas holidays.
When he'd received the Invisibility Cloak.
The only reason he'd even opened the red package was because no sender was mentioned…and it had dropped straight in his lap inside the Library. It was only when he'd removed the strangely airy cloak out of the box that a note fell off.
It read only three words. 'I'm sorry—Lily.'
He'd blasted the note to smithereens, and would've done the same to the cloak had it not been for Hermione. Even then, he'd only decided to hear her out because she'd stayed behind with him for the holidays.
Now, he was infinitely glad he had. The cloak had led to many a forbidden quests in the restricted section of the library, enabling him to learn highly advanced, and highly dangerous, magic, with none the wiser.
It was here he'd found out something strange.
The one thing—he now realised—that was almost as alien as his mysterious powers, was his ability to understand Latin and Ancient Greek. The restricted section contained an assortment of books on both languages—amongst many other. It had only been a passing curiosity, just a quick glance at an ancient script, for most spells often traced their origins back to Latin.
It was with shock then that he'd realised the words weren't flying around like usual. He could actually read. And not just read, but understand with a startling clarity that English had never blessed him with.
Since then, he had done his best to explore this ability. And while no other languages apart from Ancient Greek passed the test, by now, the amount of Latin books on ancient magic he'd devoured could make up a small library.
Apart from the freak languages however, no other skill presented itself that Harry couldn't explain through magic. At least, not in his first year.
And for most of the term, not in his 2nd year either.
Until today.
Harry took a deep breath, readying himself to review the truth as he reached the Trophy room corridor. He had zealously avoided thinking of today’s events till now, even though these would be the most recent, and thus, the clearest set of memories he possessed in life. When seen through an occluded mind, he doubted he would forget any details.
Yet, he hesitated. It was today's events that had pushed his mind on a downward spiral, making him question his entire life. These memories held the key to the answer of all his doubts and worries.
And it was time now. He had to confront the truth, make sense of it…and hopefully, learn to accept it.
So once again, he let his mind dive into the sea of memories, observing the events that had shaped this day…and how it had all first started.
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AN: Another couple chapters incoming. If you enjoyed this, do check them out next.
Also let me know if you would change anything from the Title. 'The Chronicles of a Demi-Wizard' wasn't my first choice. First it was 'The Chronicles of a wand-waving Demigod' then 'Wand-wielding Demigod', then just 'Magical Demigod'...if you have any more accurate/catchy variations, feel free to suggest it. Or should I just keep it at 'Mystic Odyssey'? Lemme know.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter, see you in the next one!
