Two months.

Harry had traveled to the Scotland grasslands. He had hiked to where Hogwarts should've stood, but he only saw rocky cliffs and tall grass stretching in all directions miles on end. A whole magical castle, built of stone and impervious old wards, had disappeared—or rather, it had seemingly never existed.

The lake was no longer the Black Lake of Hogwarts. There were no Giant Squids or mystical Merpeople or Grindylows. It was just...a simple lake.

It was a disturbingly normal—odd—scene.

It was Harry's worst nightmare.

He simply Apparated away.


Two months.

After Hogwarts, Harry had traveled to the Burrow. But not on foot this time. Harry wanted to test a theory.

Instead of imagining the Burrow in all its Weasley and magical glory, Harry had imagined the property and neighborhood. He concentrated on the muggle aspects—the non-magical aspects. The brick sidewalks, the neglected mailbox—dirty from disuse after the new Weasley family addition of Pidwidgeon—nestled between the swaying trees, the lush and bright green grass. He tried to not think of the gnomes that infested the gardens or Molly's flying pots and pans.

Harry had Apparated with little fanfare.

He had popped onto the cracked sidewalk, in front of the Weasley property.

But there were no crooked and mismatched stories. Instead of five, there was only one inconspicuous chimney, puffing out smoke in the chilly autumn air, screening the gleaming stars. There were no leaping gnomes in the front yard, or flourishing gardens filled with odd magical specimens, or overgrown vines covering a pond infested with frogs and toads. Instead, there was a neatly clipped yard with polished bushes lining the sides, and one single-story house painted a lifeless and humdrum white.

It was an utterly simple and utterly muggle house.

And in the white mailbox in front of the house, Harry noted dully that the letters were not addressed to any one of the Weasleys.

Two months, and Harry Potter had lost hope.


After two months, Harry had drifted around England.

It was always in the back of his mind. Hermione. Draco. Hogwarts.

Magic.

Harry crouched on his haunches. He traced the dirt under him.

Perhaps…

Harry stood up and Apparated.

When Harry landed on the sidewalk, he gazed blankly at the dwelling in front of him.

Never had he thought he would visit willingly.

Harry dragged his feet on the driveway of the house, passing the green grass and pretty flowers Harry had picked weeds out of time and again, every spring and summer since he could recite to the alphabet.

Harry twisted the doorknob, unlocking the door simultaneously with a wandless Alohomora. He walked down the hallway silently, languidly taking in the rug that was different from what he remembered. Walking some more, Harry paused by the staircase, staring at the little cupboard.

He pulled the door open.

There were bottles of bleach and Drano. A blue vacuum neatly tucked in the corner. A green Swiffer mop perched lightly against the wall.

A storage room, then. Probably never housed a little wizard boy.

Harry silently closed the door.

He turned and looked up, staring at the pictures lined along the white wall. No Dudley.

When Harry walked in the kitchen, a boy who was decidedly not overweight to epic proportions squeaked in surprise, dropping a piece of bacon on his plate. A man without a curling mustache or resemblance to a whale fell back on his chair. A woman not possessing a giraffe-like neck screamed.

The man, having scrambled back to his feet, and was sputtering and pointing a thin finger at Harry and yelling. His spittle was flying, and his face was growing to a tomato red—

Finally, something familiar.

Harry simply turned and walked out of number four, Privet Drive.


Harry stared blankly at the television.

He was in a small cafe, sitting in a corner with a Muggle-Repelling charm, a small cup of coffee, and half a sandwich he had stolen off another person's table.

2009.

It was 2009.

Harry was born in 1980. Harry was eighteen—he looked eighteen and he felt eighteen. It should've been 1998.

Harry took a bite of his sandwich and sipped his coffee.

That explained the laptoks.


Harry didn't know how far he walked. But far enough for his legs to wobble and feel like noodles.

Was this a dream? A very, very long and detailed one?

Harry wished.

He dragged his feet to a park and collapsed on a bench.

Taking in a shuddering breath, Harry choked down a sob. His world had crumbled away in a blink of an eye. Nothing he remembered was here. But he knew—he knew everything was real. He knew Hogwarts was real. He knew magic was real. And most importantly, he knew that the world he was in now was real. The world where he couldn't find a Draco Malfoy or a Hermione Granger, not even a muggle one.

No dream can replicated the agonizing feeling of splinching—or the swirling, stifling, and suffocating emotions that made Harry feel like drowning.

Harry didn't know what attracted him to the man.

The man was probably in his mid twenties. He pushing his daughter on the swing, chuckling along with her shrieks and whoops. Wide shoulders, sinewy muscles, and bronzed skin. He looked like he had been a professional athlete all his life. He had twinkling eyes ringed with laugh lines and a shock of familiar red hair. Harry supposed that was what had made Harry stare.

But he wasn't the first redhaired person that Harry had encountered in this world, no.

There was a some kind of mystifying aura around the man—and the girl, to some degree. It was a kind of crackling energy that made Harry shiver in his transfigured clothes.

Harry licked his dry lips.

The daughter—she was swinging well on her own, pumping her legs and pitching her body back and forth to gain more momentum. She unlatched her hands and jumped from high up and—

—softly floated down.

As if an invisible hand snagged her mid air and gently lowered her to the ground.

As if by magic.

Harry's mouth felt dry. He felt his heart in his throat.

Before he knew it, Harry lurched to his feet and was stumbling towards the girl.

That was the funny feeling Harry was getting from them. They were a family of wizards. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After all those months of weary searching, one leisurely stay at the park was what led him to magic. His vision was growing blurry.

Just when he was about to reach her—just when he was so close—a thick body filled his field of vision.

Harry looked up. It was the man—the father of the witch.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man growled. He had an American accent.

He laid an enormous hand on Harry's small chest and powerfully shoved Harry back. Harry tripped and landed on his back.

Harry wheezed. "Your daughter—"

Harry felt his shirt's collar being tugged and he was grappled to his feet. Harry felt his breath leave his body as he was shook back and forth. The man was stronger than he looked, and he looked bloody strong.

"What the fuck do you want with my daughter?" the man hissed, reaching for the back of his jeans—probably to pull out his wand and hex Harry to a place worse than Hell.

Harry choked. How did he expect him to respond when he was practically squeezing the life out of him?

"Magic," Harry managed to wrangle out, clawing at the hand that held him an inch above ground.

The man stilled. Then his grip grew even tighter. "Who-" the man shook his head. "Who-What are you?"

The man was nervous. Harry suddenly felt giddy. It was a sure sign that Harry was right in his intuition. The girl's accidental magic wasn't a trick of the light or Harry's own delusional mind making up phantom images.

Harry tried to smile, but it quickly fell when the man leaned in—leaned in so close that Harry could see the flecks of gold in his eyes and count his red eyelashes. The man was still murderous and nervous for some reason.

"I'm the same as you," Harry mustered out quickly, palming his wand in the pocket of his jeans, but not pulling it out, incase the man took it as a sign of aggression.

The hold still didn't weaken. The man just narrowed his eyes, eyes whipping up-and-down Harry's unintimidating figure.

Swallowing thickly, Harry let his grip on the man's wrist go and cast a small, discrete compulsion charm with a small flick of his index finger. Wandless magic took quite a lot of Harry's energy. Harry sagged in the man's grip. "I can do the same things as you," Harry murmured weakly. "I'm the same as you. Let go."

The man jerked back. He unceremoniously dropped Harry on his arse.

Harry groaned, feeling his bones rattle. He could feel the bruises blossoming on his arse.

Harry struggled onto his feet, taking the hand the man had offered him in aid—the hand that had lifted him off the ground by a few inches just a second ago. A complete one-eighty in his attitude.

The man looked sheepish, red, and apologetic. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry," he said. "Old habits—you would know. Have to keep your defense up at all times, right?"

Harry nodded, but he couldn't possibly guess what he 'would know.' As far as Harry knew, in this world, there was no magical society, and thus no Voldemort or the Second Wizarding War. Why would he have to 'keep his defense up at all times'? Was it because of the muggles? Unlikely.

Harry rubbed his throat and straightened his shirt, all while the red-haired, red-faced man sputtered apologies. His daughter looked curiously from the distance.

"Didn't think I'd meet another demigod here," the man rambled, still clearly embarrassed. "Just moved to Britain, y'see."

Demi-what?

"Gracie and I," the man continued, rubbing the back of his head, "decided that America just wasn't for us. Y'know, not while the gods decided to camp there. Attracts too many monsters—don't like that, not for Gracie. But it's also far away from the camp, so that's bad. There're less monsters, but no company of other demigods—don't worry though! I'm strong enough to protect her. You have to make sacrifices in life if you want to do something, right? That's what Chiron told me anyway, when I asked him after Gracie was born—"

Harry shook his head. He felt dizzy and disoriented from being threatened not a second before. Monsters? Camp? Chiron? Gods?

"What," Harry croaked, interrupting him, "what are you talking about?"

The man paused, and finally—finally—looked at Harry. "Demigods," he said slowly, as if it explained everything. Suddenly, as if he realized something, the man tensed. "You are a demigod, right?"

No, Harry wanted to say, but the words got stuck in his throat. No, not a demigod, whatever that is. A wizard.

What were demigods? Were they the wizards of this world? Who was Chiron? What was the camp—a camp of demigods?

"I-" Harry started to say. What should he say? What could he say? "I-I don't know," he finished lamely.

"You don't know?" The man's eyebrows quirked up, his mouth forming an 'O'.

"I-I don't know what you mean by 'demigod.'" Harry decided to be truthful, if a little.

The man looked startled by the admission. He leaned in—their noses practically touching—and stared at Harry with a critical eye. "You...don't know what demigods are… Now that I think about it, you have a British accent, don't you? That's rare." After catching Harry's confused look, he leaned back quickly, face redder than his hair, and began to elaborate. "Y'see, Olympus-the home of the Greek gods, yeah?—was moved to America a few centuries ago. It moves like that, every so often. Now… Well, the gods like to keep close to home, so they, uh, find mortals in America and, uh, make babies—demigods, that is. They don't usually scour other countries for that sort of thing. So for the last couple of centuries almost all the demigods were from America—er, that is, North America, specifically the States. Camp Half-Blood, the camp for demigods—people like me and you—moves with Olympus, so you've probably never been trained..."

Harry didn't understand half the mumbo jumbo the man was saying. It slipped into one ear and left through the other.

Greek gods? They existed? And they had children with regular people? And the children had to train? Train in what? For what?

Harry thought the little girl levitating was some bout of accidental magic. A case of panicked magic in the face of injury—not...not godly powers… Definitely not…

So they weren't wizards and witches.

Just when he thought…

Magic—the magic Harry knew—probably didn't exist in this world. Neither were witches or wizards. Hermione or Draco. There were demigods instead.

Harry couldn't stomach such information.

He had known in the back of his head. Merlin, not even the back of his head anymore. It was in the forefront—always in the forefront—with Harry chanting it doesn't matter anymore, it's no good crying over spilt milk, get over it, every second he could, from when he woke up on a couch in a Target to when he slept on a bed in a Bed Bath & Beyond.

But there was always a sliver of hope. A tiny interjection of denial for every mantra he sang in his head. A teeny feeling of doubt every time he cast a charm or transfiguration. Afterall, if magic existed in him, it must exist elsewhere in the world too, right? Hogwarts could have up and moved to China, the Weasleys could have allowed muggles to build over their beloved Burrow to live with Charlie in Romania, Tom could have sold his father's pub to set up a hair salon—there was no way of knowing. Harry had seemingly skipped eleven years to the future. A lot could have changed between those times, Harry reasoned in his mind.

But the man said the word demigod so surely, so confidently.

Demigods. Not wizards. Greek gods. Not Merlin or Morgana.

There was no Hermione. There was no Draco. There was no Hogwarts, the Burrow, or the Leaky Cauldron. Harry doubted that James and Lily Potter had even existed in this world.

Now, Harry knew for sure.

Everything added up.

Harry swallowed thickly. It seemed as if every world in the universe had their own quirks of extraordinary people.

Harry shook his head, breathing deeply. It's okay, Harry tried to tell himself, biting his lip and closing his eyes. He could feel his insides quiver. He already knew, in a sense. His theory was just confirmed.

Seeing that he had lost Harry's attention, the man quickly became flustered, realizing what horrible job he was doing at explaining.

"Uh, why don't you come by our home?" the man gestured to himself and his daughter, Gracie, who was still staring at them from afar. "Sorry—I suck at explaining things. But I promise I'll try if you come. We'll order some pizza, if you want."

Harry didn't want to. He wanted to hide in a hole. He wanted to be invisible to the world. He wanted to see Hermione and Draco again. He wanted…

Answers.

Harry blinked. He focused his attention back to the red-haired man. "Okay," Harry said.

The man beamed. "Great!" He waved behind him and the girl came running. "This is Gracie."

Harry tried to smile. "Pleasure. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."