Mother May I

Abby Ebon

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note: a 1st Person Harry Potter (which, my god, I haven't written in since Dehctiws!)

So up on my profile was a poll, there for some time, about the Greek God parent of Harry.

Hades won.

Then Percy Jackson made Harry's life -uhm - worse.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Percy began his books, as it all seemed to happen to him.

That you've read them – and know of his writing enough to find mine, well you ought then to by now know that I urged him on to start them. He was reluctant, but then no hero is ever known these days who does not sell himself to a publishing agent. As well, he had admired mine – which you might guess that I did not write out from start to finish, but left those seven books to Ms. Rowling to finish as she saw fit.

Who best to tell of my beginnings but the daughter of the Muse Kleiô? There is – you'll see plainly now - more reasons then one that she chose that middle K, for those that know the ancient signs of my immortal bloodline it's plain to see where she gets those gifts of word so like a spell cast world wide.

So it is with the Muse born. The joke, though, is on me. I'd let her have my journals to do with what she willed, and claimed not a cent for my own name. I'll not endanger her, you see –poor friend that would make me. My fame I give her freely. She spends it – this I admit freely - more wisely then me. It is in the line of Hades to hoard the world's riches and do nothing with them.

There is one point we do not agree – at the ending, she wanted something better for me then the doom of Tykhê's favor.

She wanted a happy ending, so wrote it to her own will, never mind the facts I face to this day: the history. Ginny, you see, is like a sister to me, and a pour wife she would make for me. Annabeth explained it to poor Ms. Rowling like this: I am like stone, and Ginny has a spirit like her red hair – of flame and freedom. I would smother her, she would be like ashes, and cold as the dead I may speak with freely.

If I do not sound as you think I should, doomed hero that I am, then I can not help but laugh. For the joke is on me, my fame precedes me, and fickle Tykhê yet makes mockery of me in her favor. She has a great and terrible destiny for me, which yet overshadows my every step and breath.

I do not know what it is, and there is no prophesy speaker that would say a word to me. No, not even Apollo would meet my eyes if I asked.

I have learned not to ask.

Not even ghosts, who know all things past and future, dare to speak for fear my mother's wrath. Now, you must understand, I am Hades own son – I am Harry Potter, half-blood born between pure blood wizard and muggle born witch.

So my mortal father thought.

I died, and did not die. I lived for seventeen years, and it was a lie. It was my life. It was, what my father calls, a test. My test – I do not ask him if I passed it or failed it. At times I do not dare. At times I do not care. I am what I am and must endure it for eternity. I can not die as I am and will always be immortal. My blood is golden ichor and I drink red nectar – ambrosia by any other name still tastes of iron.

James Potter was his name, but Lily Potter was but my immortal mother's fickle fantasy. I was not meant to be. If you know anything of Greek myth, remember this much when it concerns me – the immortal gods rarely keep to their true shape or gender when they walk the earth. There is reason for this as all earth is the domain of my great grandmother, Gaea.

All Olympians have grave reason to fear her, even the likes of my mother-father, so Hades walked the world in a mortal woman's form and seduced a man of Hecate's magical linage. Hecate is then my grandmother many times over though the Potter pure-bloods, under the name Persêis (who gave way this name to Persephone) for the magical race sprang up from her sons and daughters with Helios: so you may know their names, Aeetes of Colchis island of Aia near the Black Sea, Perses of Persia, Pasiphae the Queen of Crete whom Minos wed, Circe of isle Aiaia. Pity the fools who follow Greek mythology to know that linage past Medea, for it is into the line of kings and wizards which they seek.

Why Hades did this, I've yet grown bold enough to ask, but Hecate has but laughed and kissed my cheek. There is no other wizard like me, you see, so I am lonely, but she loves me like a mother. She, you see, thinks it's funny as can be. My existence disproves centuries of mortal reasoning, that the King of the Underworld, being a god of the dead, can not produce offspring. For obvious reasons, Hades does not like me to tell of how I came about being born, least of all think of it. Painful both physically, and, I think – to his pride. If I were to climb Olympus and declare that I was the son of his body (not seed), Hades would not thank me.

I have no death wish, so I do not.

I will not tell of how Hades became my father, but how Hecate became my mother.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Alecto." Her name rolls off my tongue like the curse it was meant to be. She only smiles at me. The funny thing about a Fury's smile is it's likeness to a shark, full of teeth and threat.

"Ah, my lovely little wizard…" She sighs, as if under my spell – she isn't, it's a joke to her – she reaches out to touch me, but I flinch away before her fingers tangle into my hair. I was not fool enough to let her get close to me. She would take my hair and drag my face into hers. Furies, I've found, have no sense of personal space. Or if she did, it was up close enough to get a little nibble and bite in.

I wasn't fond of the idea of being but food.

"Why are you out of Hades's sight?" I sneered it, as he'd promised me certain things, Hades had. Promised on the Styx, King he may be of the Underworld where that loathed river flows, but even he would not break a vow given into her keeping willingly. The silver branch between us was this – I would never say how I truly came to be born – and he would not claim me as one of his own. I would never have worried before about Hades taking me up as his son by blood, if not for Percy Jackson and promises the Olympians must now keep. Hades has now thrown his lot in with his brothers, and must submit to that vow, and it tangles between us, a web I do not see the end of.

"I'm to be your mother now!" Alecto purrs it in a way that shudders along my spine and leaves my skin cold. Alecto does not know if she would rather eat me, or fuck me, and frankly I'd rather she never get the chance to choose. Between us, I know which would loose.

"What?" It's a brittle word, dry and croaking, barely breaking from between my lips.

"Surely, surely, you do not think that your mixed blood can remain unclaimed? Percy Jackson has the word of the Olympians, and like or not, Hades is keeping among their company. So mine you must be – or chose another mother, but there aren't many who would agree." Her lips gleam in that grin, painted as red as blood – if it isn't blood. Alecto's sisters - Megaera and Tisiphone - I like less then she. Persephone must never know of me.

"Hecate." I say, and it is bold and a bad idea. I know it as soon as Alecto's eyes widen and she flees. I remember where I am only then. I hear panting; a black dogs's welcome, and turn back my head to look. There she is, sanding solemn and dark, three faced and looking straight at me. I turn to face her; to do anything else would be an insult. It would be most unwise to insult her, Titan born she may be, but Zeus honors her still, even given her passing preference for Kronos.

The black dog at her side is none other then the Trojan Queen Hecuba. About her feet slinks the polecat, Galinthias, the nurse of Hercules's mother who Eileithyia transformed. She had pitied them, and made them her most powerful familiars.

"I? You would choose I for your mother, I who am daughter of Perses the destroyer and Asteria of the stars, who call Leto my aunt, who laid with Helios as Perseis fair and begot the race of wizards and witches? Mother I am of immortal Pasiphae and Circe, of Aeetes and Perses no more. That name I gave up when my son murdered his brother, and Medea the Black - my granddaughter was made to be an avenger. Think well, little wizard, I am Hecate, goddess – and mother of magic. If I take you for my son, it will be more then merely trickery." Words of destiny, I have learnt not to fear any.

"Mother." I say, and so it must be.