Harry stared at the rumpled, enchanted parchment, signed, Sirius Black.
He was dead. Would it work?
"Here, Filch," A handsome black boy in Gryffindor chirped.
"Thank you, er, Dean," Filch grunted, and snatched it.
"Harry Potter? Where is it?"
Harry sniffed, and handed him the permission slip.
In his Third year, he found out he had a godfather. He was sentenced to Azkaban, but escaped. Everyone thought that Sirius betrayed his family to Voldemort, an evil dark wizard, since he was their secret keeper. But, instead, it was Peter Pettigrew, a mousy, short, horse-toothed man who had decided it was nice to betray.
Peter Pettigrew was still out there. Last year, Harry encountered Voldemort, who had grown a full body. He had slits for a nose, red eyes, and pale skin. Peter had cut off his hand, and he encountered many other Death Eaters.
"Here, Filch," Harry said shakily.
Filch snorted. "Thank you," He said, and beckoned him on the train.
He met Ron and Hermione on the train, grinning weakly.
"Hello," Ron said, munching on a Chocolate frog, "How are you?"
"Okay."
Hermione sighed.
"What's wrong with her?"
"I can't find a lick of books on Camp Half-Blood!" She complained.
Hermione, his best friend, was a gorgeous girl with frizzy, chocolate brown hair, fierce, dark brown eyes, and a witty smirk. She was the brightest witch of their generation.
"Uh, perhaps because it's a wizard camp? You won't find it at a bookstore in Surrey, 'Mione," Ron suggested, dripping with sarcasm.
"But you may find plenty of Durmstang and Beauxbatons books in The Magik Book Store, now, wouldn't you?"
Ron pondered this.
"Perhaps it's much more hidened?"
"I doubt it."
Harry felt at ease. His two best friends, bickering constantly.
Though, Harry knew the way Ron looked at her.
For example, in his second year, Malfoy, a rich, blonde git, called Hermione a mudblood.
Ron attempted to curse him.
True love.
Speaking of Malfoy, the compartment door slid open, and a glimpse of blonde hair told Harry everything.
"Hello, Malfoy," Ron spat, ending the bicker.
"Ron! I'm surprised you're attending! Didn't you know this trip costs money? Did you sneak in?"
"Shut it, Malfoy," Ron hissed, his ears turning red.
"Malfoy, you shouldn't be talking. Once Harry tells everyone your father is a Death eater, you guys will be going bankrupt in no time," Hermione retorted.
Malfoy froze. His eyes darkened. He looked truly scary.
"How dare you talk to me, you dirty, filthy mudblood. I'm quite surprised your teeth haven't grown back. I missed your chipmunk face." He smirked, and added, "I can't wait to see your parents. Shall my dad hex them?"
Hermione lunged forward, but he slipped away.
"That cockroach!" She shrieked.
"He's a git," Ron said, continuing on munching his frogs, revealing a card.
"Dumbledore!" He groaned, "AGAIN."

-

Harry felt someone nudge him.
"Harry," Purred a soft voice, "Wake up Harry!"
Harry was quite tired. After a long, train trip to a near airport, he had to sit with Ron, fuming at the muggles.
"What's that? What's on her shoulder?"
"What is that baby doing? What is it sucking?"
"Why aren't they on broomsticks?"

"Harry. We're off."
Harry looked around. "Where am I?"
"We're in New York, Harry,"
"I thought it was Yorkshire. Silly muggles, copying Europe," Ron murmured, shaking his head.
"Gryffindors! Mount your brooms!" Professor McGonagall called.
Harry heard Snape's smooth, silky voice purr, "Slytherins, clutch your brooms. Be ready..."
Harry breathed, his face purple. It was so cold. He'd die.
McGonagall wrapped her legs around her broom, checking for muggles.
"Remember! Don't be seen," She said.
Hermione was struggling to get over her floating broom.
"Damn it," She whispered.
"Let me help you," Ron offered kindly, picking her up, and placing her on the broom.
"T-Thank you," She murmured, reddening.
Harry shuddered, glancing around at his fellow Gryffindors.
"Ready? GO!"
Harry kicked off the ground, higher, and higher... soaring through the sky.
Suddenly, lightning zipped through the sky.
Rain poured down the sky.
I thought we were clear of weather, Harry thought. Cornelius Fudge, the purple-faced man, Minister of Magic, had come to the school to tell them it'll be snowing, but free of rain.
Had he lied? Was he still out for Harry, or had he misread the weather?
Rain poured on his eyes.
"We're almost here!" McGonagall called.
Harry saw a hill overhead, but that was it.
McGonagall was gesturing to the hill.
What was there?
Harry squinted. Perhaps it's the rain?
McGonagall flittered down on her broom, soaking wet. The Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Slytherins, and Ravenclaws followed.
"We're here," She said.
Fred snorted.
"Yes, I suppose we're going to sleep on this hill then?"
"Of course not!"
An old, soft voice was heard. Harry looked ahead, and saw a man. From the waist up, he was a middle aged man with thinning brown hair.
From the waist down... he was a white horse.
Harry Potter wasn't surprised. I mean, there are plenty of white horses in Hogwarts, in the Forbidden Forests.
"I'm Chiron," He said, "Welcome... to Camp Half-blood."