Disclaimer: I do not own the world of PJO and its characters, nor do I own the world of Harry Potter. All rights go to J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan. This fanfiction is made purely for fun and no profit is being made off it.

Note: I highly suggest you go back and re-read the last two chapters before coming back to this one.

Surprise! I am not, in fact, dead.

Also if it seems like the writing style changed over this chapter, that is because it did. I have been trying to translate this chapter from my brain to actual words for far too long. This chapter was honestly really fun to write though; I'm curious to see if any of you can catch the hints scattered in it!

Solivagant (adj.): wandering alone

7:00 PM

Saturday, August 13th, 2011

12 Grimmauld Place

As they trudged up the stairs and back to their rooms, Harry felt an odd sort of calm wash through him. He couldn't say the same about the others.

"You-Know-W–Voldemorts's grandson? What's Dumbledore thinking!?" hissed Ron, agitatedly stomping up the stairs.

"Obviously more than you! Honestly, Ron, the Headmaster's not a fool; he likely has a good reason for this," replied Hermione, just as quietly. "He's right, you know, better he meet us first than Voldemort!"

Hermione, Ron, and Harry filed into Harry and Ron's room, plopping down on one of the mattresses. Ron grumbled as he sat down. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Hermione patted Ron's hand. "I never said you did. Just don't hate him outright when he comes; according to Dumbledore, he knows nothing of our world. Just because he's his grandson, doesn't mean he has to be evil, right?"

"Yeah, but why does he have to stay with us?" Ron was looking increasingly frustrated. "And come to Hogwarts too?"

Harry's eyes bore into a spot on the wall, and he sighed, speaking up for the first time in the conversation. "No matter how much you complain, Dumbledore isn't going to change his mind. We'll just have to accept it and keep an eye on the guy when he comes. He might not be like Voldemort, but I'm not willing to take chances," he said, determined.

Ron scowled, looking resigned. "Fine, but I'm the same as Harry. We'll definitely have to keep an eye on him."

Hermione sighed but didn't argue. "I suppose that's all we can do anyway."

Behind Harry, Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance; a silent exchange seemed to pass between them.

"Mate, you know we've got your back, yeah? No matter what," said Ron as Hermione nodded in agreement.

Harry didn't look at them. "Yeah, I know."

The three were silent for a moment as they sorted through their thoughts quietly. Said silence did not last very long, as, per usual, a distraction made itself known by knocking on the door. Literally.

Two identical heads popped out from behind the doorway, wearing uncharacteristically matching serious looks. "There's a secret meeting going on downstairs, mate. Thought you might wanna listen in," said George without preamble.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a look as they nodded and scrambled to their feet. "We're in."

Ginny walked by, wearing a playful scowl as she joined them, leaning on the wall. "I don't suppose anyone was planning on inviting me?" she asked, not waiting for an answer as she nodded in greeting and looked expectantly at the twins.

Fred smirked, ushering them out of the room.

"You've got to be real quiet. We'll drop these little buggers down, and no one'll be any the wiser," said George, lowering a pair of extendable ears down the stairs. "Mum hasn't caught us using these yet," he grinned as Ron groaned.

"So that's how you've been eavesdropping on them! Honestly, you two," Hermione reprimanded.

George grinned again. "Well, they're mighty useful, no?"

"I think they're pretty cool," Harry smiled.

"See, Harry gets it!" says Fred. The extendable ear fell to the ground, fitting right up against a door with light shining from the gap between it and the floor. Whispers carried through from the other end, and they quieted down as voices made themselves distinguishable.

"...Albus, are you sure this is the right choice?" came McGonagall's voice.

A gruff grunt came in agreement. "She's right, we have no way of knowing what the boy's like. For all we know, Voldemort's already gotten to him! You wanna bring in a potential spy from the other side?"

George whistled quietly. "Damn, Moody sounds mad."

Harry snorted, "Isn't he always?"

"He's right," came Snape's familiar drawl. "But if the Dark Lord knows of him, he certainly hasn't mentioned it."

"We'll just have to be careful then," said Dumbledore. "Now, I don't want to keep you all too long!"

Harry and the others scrambled up from their spots, muffled and panicked, as the sounds of chairs scraping the floor were heard and the door opened. "Quick, before they see us!"

12:30 AM

Sunday, August 14th, 2011

12 Grimmauld Place

A hushed air hung around Grimmauld Place, marking perhaps one of the only times of the day (or night) when all was quiet… Two hundred sixty-five, two hundred sixty-six, two hundred seventy-seven… Harry let out a quiet huff of air as spots danced in front of his eyes. This isn't working, he thought to himself as he attempted to count sheep for the third time that night. His sleepless nights were, of course, nothing new to him. As if his nightmares weren't already bad enough, the second he tried to sleep, a heavy dread settled around his chest, heartbeat thundering loud and fast in his ears; he never managed to keep his eyes closed for more than a few minutes, at most.

A rumble permeated the silence in the room as Ron's (previously faint) snoring grew louder. In the darkness of the room, Harry idly fiddled with his fingers as he listened to the soft sound of his breathing.In… out…in…out…

As quietly as he could, Harry groped at the small table beside him for his glasses, his cold hands nearly dropping them on his face as he sat up in the bed. He put his feet to the ground, hissing at the cold of the floor, goosebumps rising on his skin. Softly, he tip-toed his way around his bed and Ron's, freezing as a creaky floorboard squealed beneath him.

His shoulders fell as Ron continued to snore; he'd been careful before too, but Harry knew his friends were starting to get somewhat suspicious of him and his nighttime escapades.

Harry crept carefully down the stairs, more than mindful of the loose steps and the thinly veiled time bomb that was Walburga Black's painting, hanging just a few paces away from him. Harry hadn't liked the house much when he first arrived, and his thoughts on that matter had not changed. There was a heavy, dark weight that hung around the house like a perpetual shadow, lending the air a particularly bitter taste; not to mention the horrid interior decor, or what was left of it anyway. His breath rattled in his chest as he made his way to the kitchen, and it was with a soft pop! that Kreacher appeared in front of him.

"And where do you think you are going?"

If words could cut, Kreacher's acerbic tone combined with his scornful glare might've sliced a lesser man to trembling pieces. As it was, Harry simply raised his hands defensively. "I only came to grab a cup, I promise," he swore.

In all truthfulness, Harry wasn't quite sure when he and Kreacher's —once mutual— hatred of each other had turned to something more resembling hesitant tolerance and somewhat acceptance (he wouldn't call them friends…yet). Perhaps, it had started around a few weeks ago, when Mrs. Weasley (and the cumulative force that was assembled by her) took to cleaning up Grimmauld Place of its various dark knick-knacks and unwelcomed secret guests (the most noteworthy being a boggart that had hidden itself in the third compartment of a dressing table).

On one of these cleaning days, Ron had found a pendant; clearly old and worn, thin and delicately placed diamonds had spelled out the letters RAB. Upon grabbing it and taking a closer look for himself, Harry had found that the pendant seemed to almost pulse, a warm and gentle magic imbued into it.

Sirius had gone pale upon seeing it, immediately snatching it from his hands and staring at it with haunted eyes. He threw it into the makeshift discard pile they had made, claiming it was a dark object from his family, to which he was immediately met with protests from Kreacher.

(And hadn't that been a real kicker, because why a supposedly dark object felt warm and protective to him was something Harry was happy to not think about at all.)

Still reeling from the gentle magic that surrounded the pendant, Harry had kept silent, even as Kreacher's protests grew increasingly loud and desperate. It was after everyone had left that Harry snuck back into the room, studying the pendant carefully in hopes of understanding it. Perhaps not the wisest idea, given that it was supposed to be a dark object, but Harry was sure that what he'd felt from the pendant was no trick.

In a strange turn of events, Harry had noticed that he was becoming increasingly… sensitive to magic over the summer. He wasn't sure when it had started happening: he'd always been in tune with the magic in and around him, but lately, it had seemed to grow to almost overwhelming levels. He could feel the magic that coiled around Grimmauld Place, ancient and heavy and imbued into the very walls of the house. Even more alarmingly, he could almost taste the magic that surrounded people, the unique tang and textures that made up their magic. The first time he'd seen it, the magic around people (the buzzing, protective yellow and green lights that danced around Tonks, seemingly nigh incapable of keeping still), he had frozen on the spot, gaping at her for a solid minute (and if his eyes had started burning suspiciously when he first saw Ron and Hermione's magic, well—what could he say).

Studying the pendant carefully, Harry had been sure of his guess. Though he had been rather alarmed, given that the second he'd touched the pendant, Kreacher had popped into the room, staring at the dangling chain in Harry's hands with greedy eyes. Harry wasn't quite sure what had come over him at that moment, as he stared at Kreacher and the pendant ("It's not yours, give it back!"—"It's all Kreacher has left of hi—") but he'd gone still, slowly extending his hand out towards Kreacher, meeting the house elf's shocked eyes.

"Go on then. It's yours, isn't it?"

(And perhaps he was all too familiar with that, of barely having his own things and having them taken away right before his eyes. He'd suffered through it far too often with the Dursleys. Sure, Kreacher had been a nasty little jerk of an elf since the day Harry had met him, but he didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve to feel that horrible choking in the back of his throat, wondering if that was the last time he'd ever see that which he had been foolish enough to grow attached to. Perhaps that was the reason why he'd always been scared of reaching out, of making friends, of trusting people.

He'd always been taught that nothing would ever truly be his to keep.)

Since that day, Harry had reached…a truce, of sorts, with the huffy house elf. Sure, he was still outwardly snippy, but the house elf's quiet comments when they were alone were now simply sarcastic, rather than being outright demeaning (and perhaps it should have occurred to him that the house elf who had lived with the Blacks would have a dark humour rivalling Sirius', but he digressed). In any case, it was rather helpful to not have Kreacher outright hate him, especially given his role in Harry's nighttime walks.

Harry moved around the still glaring house elf, quickly opening what he had learnt was the cups and cutlery cabinet, grabbing one at random before facing Kreacher and giving him a sheepish grin. "Sorry…?"

Kreacher let out a rough hmph!, round eyes drilling into him before turning around and starting to walk, gesturing for Harry to follow. "Nosey boy bothering Kreacher in the middle of the night, sneaking around Kreacher's mistress' house like it's his own," he grumbled quietly, leading Harry around a bend as the corridor seemed to stretch, rapidly darkening. Harry shivered as deep magic seemed to roll out from the walls, making his head spin as if he were on a rollercoaster. He'd been surprised to learn that there were many secret corridors and hidden rooms in Grimmauld Place, hidden seemingly from the sights of everyone except for Kreacher and himself. This particular corridor, as explained by Kreacher, had a number of enchantments to discourage any misplaced wanderers from exploring, as made evident by the now raging headache in Harry's head, which rather felt like a group of trolls had snuck into his brain and were dancing on it.

Of course, why the Blacks had chosen to guard a corridor that led to the garden, of all places, was beyond him, but Harry was glad that they hadn't chosen to put some more serious enchantments on; knowing the Black family, he could've been met with something far worse than mild confusion and a headache. It had only been a few weeks since he'd accidentally stumbled upon the garden. He wasn't quite sure how he'd found it; he had been in the midst of a rather spectacularly horrible nightmare; waking up from it, Harry wouldn't have been able to tell up from down, much less explain how he got downstairs and to the garden. Mind you, he could probably get to it again without Kreacher's help, but it was far easier to follow Kreacher than to fall prey to the vicious headache and confusion that urged him to leave, nothing here for you—. Plus, he found that he didn't quite mind the house elf's company so late in the night… which was probably a bit concerning.

While Harry had always been so-so at herbology, gardening was rather different. Merlin knew he couldn't be bothered to deal with more than half of the magical plants he knew of, but simple gardening (with non-murderous plants of course) was a different story. That wasn't to say the Black family gardens didn't contain dangerous plants (there seemed to be more than a few), but Harry was quite happy to leave them alone.

A cool breeze met his face as they finally entered the gardens, and Harry plopped down onto the grass. "Thanks, Kreacher," he sighed, and the elf nodded before he left with a pop!

The sky above was cloudless, stars twinkling above his head as the plants around him swayed gently. Harry knew, quite honestly, that if anyone found out he was here he'd be in big trouble, even though there wasn't much danger in the garden (though he supposed it was about the principle of it). He sighed as he rolled over onto his stomach, coughing slightly as a few blades of grass made their way into his mouth. One of the more handsy species of vines softly curled around his hand, small tendrils wrapping around each of his fingers like a child's hands against their mother. Harry gave the plant a squinty look, as he did each time the plant approached him, but made no move to remove it as he let his thoughts wander.

Frankly, Harry was no stranger to the feeling of sleep eluding him. Sure, it hadn't been so bad before, when all that was haunting him were the Durseys (not his family, no, he had a new family now–) and the odd problem here and there. Now, with Cedric occupying his dreams and that haunting laughter in his ears, he figured it was much easier to simply evade sleep right back, the damn bugger that it was. Yes, maybe his eyes felt like they were constantly glued together and about to fall right out of his head, and yes, maybe his head constantly pounded to the beating of his heart. Maybe there was a dreaded sort of heaviness hanging about his body that made it hard to move, much less think; but Harry was a skilled actor good at covering his tracks, and he was sure nobody would notice.

(After all, why would they, whispered that treacherous voice in his head, when they've all got bigger things to concern themselves with rather than worry about if little Harry Potter gets enough sleep at night?)

A small tendril of the vines curled around his hand unravelled itself, slowly moving towards him. Harry watched it approach with heavy eyes as the plant stopped beside his face, before poking his cheek softly like a curious animal. He blinked at it as it swayed in wind, but flinched away as its next move came dangerously close to his eye. Seemingly taking that as a sign, the plant began, for a lack of better words, its attack on Harry.

"Ow!" He hissed, as the vine began rapidly jabbing itself in his face. Harry stood up quickly, untangling the vines from his hand as he glared at the plant that seemed suspiciously smug (could a plant have emotions? Harry was truthfully beyond the point of logical reasoning at this hour in the night). He moved a few feet away, planting (wasn't he funny?) his butt down and settling in once more (honestly, he wasn't going to leave his favourite place in the manor because of a damn plant, however annoying it may be).

A gust of cold wind blew past him, and Harry shivered, wishing that he had thought to pull on something warmer besides his flimsy pair of pajamas. He grabbed the mug he brought from the kitchen, bringing it near his face to take a closer look. He let out a snort as he stared at it in suprise.

"Well," he said to himself as he stared at the picture of a woman laying provocatively on a motorcycle printed on the mug. Only one person who would own dishware like that.

He brought the mug closer to his face, feeling slightly ridiculous as he reached for his wand. He froze as his hands met empty air and grass, cursing his absent mind as he realized he left it in his room with Ron. He stared at the mug again, squeezing his eyes tight as he prayed he could somehow pull off the spell he had been indulging in the last few weeks. "Dimiourgíste potó," he whispered, a single thought and vision filling his mind.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the mug: once empty, it was now full with warm milk, steam curling off the top and dissipating slowly into the cold air. A smile made his way onto his lip as he sipped at it slowly. With a soft pop, Kreacher appeared beside him again; basking in the calm of the night, Harry didn't bother to turn to look at him. He smiled into his mug as in the corner of his eyes, Kreacher cleared his throat and raised his (practically nonexistent at this point) brow at him.

Kreacher cleared his throat pointedly, now glaring at him. Harry stifled his laugh, taking a slow sip as he looked at Kreacher as innocently as possible. "Oh sorry," he said, a mischievous look in his eye as he extended his arm, "did you want some too?" The look of disgust was palpable on the elf's face as he leaned away from Harry.

"We are not that close, Young Master," said Kreacher, a shrewd intelligence in his eyes as he smiled, baring his teeth, "filthy halfblood that you are."

Harry snorted again as he withdrew his cup; he had worse things to worry about than the insults of Sirus' house elf, and by this point, Kreacher's words towards him aroused more amusement in him than anger. The house elf opened his mouth, seemingly to speak again, only to halt as he stared at Harry closely. Harry peered back at him, slightly amused and a little confused at Kreacher's odd behaviour. The house elf huffed, sitting down beside him, glaring as if daring Harry to make a comment. Valuing his life for the moment, Harry wisely kept silent as he took another sip of his drink.

He was so tired. Harry felt the fatigue in his bones, curling around his limbs like a cat in the sun, engulfing his mind like a blanket that blocked out everything else. He let out a shuddering breath, putting his mug in his lap as he doubled over, head suddenly in his hands as he pulled. He stayed like that for what felt like hours but must have only been minutes, breathing harshly before he straightened. He was Harry Potter. He couldn't give in now, he reminded himself, reaching for the mug in his lap with shaky hands, still warm. He would have to be Harry Potter again in the morning, pretending to be fine, but right now…here, in the middle of the night in the garden, no one beside him but Kreacher…

Surely, it was alright to let go, even for just a minute? (Surely, he deserved that much at least, didn't he?)

He breathed in the cold air as it brushed past his face and curled around him, chilling him to his bones. Kreacher, small but fierce that he was, sat beside him strangely quiet, his presence a comforting warmth.

Perseus Jackson. An admittedly odd name for a wizard, but Harry supposed he had heard far stranger names before.

Our boy Harry's been getting up to some strange things, that's for sure. An important plot detail to understand the Golden Trio's relationship that'll be mentioned later on as well: here, Ron believes Harry in the Goblet of Fire when he says that he didn't enter his own name, making their overall friendship stronger. I tried to make it clear, but also note that the pendant found by Harry and Kreacher was not Voldemort's horcrux.