Sword and Charm.

It was a particularly sultry July 21st; wrapped around the lungs like a suffocating grip. The globular silhouette of the sun bubbled and burned. Splitted the sky, dividing into flakes of snakes.

The fire cut the space, breaking into stubborn blades that glide on the blue plate. The crystalline surface kissed the irregular crest of the sea that lied salty under the flocks of squawking seagulls.

The cruel Sirocco's lashes seemed to lick the sweaty skin. Tongues on the skin. Children's shouts alternated sigh severed of their parents in the messy, warm sand sprinkled between sharp and big rocks.

Perched on the shore like sleeping fossils, rows of bungalows stretched out towards the waves. The sloping tents wavered like sticky, burned hands. They were extremely cute. The smooth walls painted a charming sea green shade curved like clam shells on the amber sand. On every facade windows as white as pearly shells greeted like puffs of clouds.

Just hidden by thin shutters, each structure almost seemed to laugh lightly on its own. The biting, yet gentle, sea touched the sweaty faces with a salty and almost maternal caress.

Foaming waves clacked and made the sound of hooves beaten. The thinnest ripples, in the reflections of the still water, blew. Tucked away by the voices of the bathers, they cradled the inhabitants of the Bungalows.

Actually, there weren't many of the aforementioned, in fact practically none. If not a boy – well, a very particular boy. Everything about him might have seemed perfectly normal; stopping at a superficial and aseptic glance from the door of the room towards the inside.

A slightly deeper look delivered many, if not all, of his quirks in a package of madness. He ignored the smell of parchment mold encrusted among the cobwebs in the sea-green corners.

The small discarded cot on which he was lying was close to the wall. Blankets with faded polka dots - once red - were crumpled at the foot of the bed. The halo of raven hair blended into the pages of a book.

Harry - that was his name - had charming emerald eyes. Clean, as if dark thoughts did not take root at the base of his white soul. A particular innocence in the curled corner of his pink mouth.

His irises sparkled. Fireflies reflected on the bottom of a pond. His eyelashes were charcoal stains on his snowy skin. The cheekbones were followed by the soft line of the jaw, more chiseled than a year earlier.

Round glasses rested precariously above his thin nose. His short hair, shiny as crow's feathers, curled in irregular curves behind his ears and across his forehead. Radioactive material with a life of its own.

His jeans were tattered and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his sneakers - which he wore on his feet almost dangling from the end of the bed - were coming apart. He had grown a few centimeters.

His forearms were lithe, the skin toned around the mounds of muscle. They were born from puberty and from Quidditch , the Wizards' favorite sport. He had been just a year earlier at the World Cup.

Hedwig’s aluminum cage was empty in the corner of the room, on a battered coffee table that creaked too loudly to be reassuring. The owl was currently traveling. Harry wasn't reading a real book. Perched on the open pages was a small newspaper, titled Daily Prophet . The cover images moved . 

The boy snorted, glancing at the first page.

He threw the newspaper aside, onto the ground, on top of a pile of other similar waste paper. He ran his fingers nervously through the ebony tufts and barely pulled. His bangs slid to the left, revealing a small lightning bolt scar on his pale forehead, before he angrily replaced them over it.

Harry grumbled something against the empty cage. He stood up and mapped the room back and forth. Like a mastiff barricaded in a three-foot-by-three-foot cell, he bared his teeth into his lower lip.

He touched the pocket of his jeans, to check that the wand was still inside, and snorted, puffing out his cheeks in annoyance. He rushed out of the Bungalow, slamming every door he came across behind him.

The Dursleys were too busy gorging on ice cream at some nearby café. And they wouldn't have wondered if Harry had decided to run away or had been abducted by aliens. After all his misfortunes, it seemed quite plausible.

He headed towards the beach, waiting for his snowy owl, Hedwig. Maybe a little maritime smell would help his bad mood. He had to write yet another letter to Sirius, Ron and Hermione.

Now, call him reckless, but Percy Jackson usually didn't exactly bother keeping an eye on air traffic when he was flying through the sky on the back of Blackjack, a big, black, winged pegasus.
He was starting to think he should have had.

In short, he had just spotted what looked like a torn shopping bag in the sky. And his pegasus, who was evidently paying even less attention than him, crashed exactly into it. Crack .

Fortunately, beneath them they had that long and sacrosanct expanse of salt water called the sea and luckily Percy was used to far worse plunges than falling into Long Island Bay.

The real problem was dragging a heavy horse, heavy - like, uh, a horse - to shore without risking drowning. Again, at least Percy, as the son of Poseidon, couldn't actually drown. So no problem, dude.

He resurfaced on the shore like raven-haired foam, his footsteps shaping the underwater sand. He plodded along through the low waves with relative ease, occasionally brushing his raven hair out of his eyes.

He was squeezing an arm around Blackjack's massive neck, keeping his horse's nose on the surface of the water. The animal wasn't really helping. He seemed only too happy to be the one carried for once.

Percy fell face forward on the bronze sand, with the feeling that every muscle was screaming at his brain. Blackjack seemed very relaxed. Percy actually saw a superior grimace on his equine muzzle.

He mustered enough strength to get to his feet - maybe, just maybe, to punch his horse in the face. But, when he looked up, he saw a long shadow on the sand between his wet eyelashes.

He suddenly realized that he wasn't exactly alone. Very embarrassing. No one should have seen Poseidon's favorite son emerge from the water like a dried-up salamander. However, he postponed that matter until later.

Suddenly, the story of the flying plastic bag in mid-air made sense. Well, not quite but it was close. A boy stood in front of Percy. He was exactly projecting his shadow on the shoreline.

It seemed like he had been waiting for something, up until that moment. The shoulders were slightly lowered and the eyes half closed; with one eyebrow raised, he tapped his shoe on the sand like an annoyed mother.

Ah, y es - he was absentmindedly caressing with one hand this sort of crippled eagle, that was sinking the claws in his shoulder with a certain nonchalance. The thing had its feathers brutally ruffled, but it seemed fine - for something that has been run over by a pegasus, that is.

An external and not very attentive observer would perhaps have said that Percy and the boy in front of him looked alike, as if they were brothers: same green eyes, same black hair. The son of Poseidon found only differences.

Harry's skin was as white as the Appalachians, Percy's was bronze and smooth as wet sand. Harry's eyes were as clear as freshly cut grass, sparkling with loose innocence. Percy's were as murky as a stormy sea, darker and menacing - almost incoherent.

The boy seemed strangely calm. He had just seen a human very casually emerge from the sea water (along with his friendly neighborhood winged pegasus). Perhaps it was thanks to the Mist or something like that.

He didn't ask Percy who the hell he was; he didn't start screaming. The boy with the crippled eagle on his arm just pursed his lips coldly. «You almost killed my snowy owl,» he said, troubled by this more than anything else.

A raw note kissed his voice. Unor impertinence strange and against the wind made the words detached, yet sharp. As if he were saying: «I don't give a fuck»; and at the same time: «Fuck you, man.»

Yet, he was as small as a gerbil. The desire to run a hand through his hair or pat his head made Percy's fingers curl at his sides. A kind of electricity ran up his elbows. Harry did that all while stroking the head of what Percy now knew was a snow owl, but for him remained a crippled eagle, like a supervillain in a movie would pet his cat.

Strange, but these were the vibes Percy was getting, there.

Percy couldn't help but puff out his cheeks and snort heavily. «I almost killed her ?», he asked, pointing a finger menacingly at the white thing. «She almost drowned me, man,» he tried to sound as manly as possible while whimpering this complete lie.

Again, the super-villain boy did this thing of raising an eyebrow, as if saying « uh?» without actually speaking. In that very detached way. It almost seemed like his eyebrow had a tone to it.

«Your clothes are dry,» said the supervillain. He fake-widened his green eyes like a deer caught in the headlights behind the round frames of his glasses. The edges of his lips twitched in a sardonic smile.

This guy is a walking asshole, Percy decided. The brat was insinuating that the son of Poseidon needed proves to prove that he had been drowned by a flying shopping bag, when he had seen it himself with his damned bespectacled eyes.

Well, there better be no evidence of what had happened. Percy didn't want that story to be passed down along with the others, you know, in between killing monsters.

His lips didn't seem to agree much with that line of thinking. Percy's mouth twisted without permission into a lopsided smile. «I'm Percy Jackson,» he found himself saying, «and I'm sorry about your eagle.»

He held out his hand. The boy quickly squeezed it, almost reflexively. His slender, cold fingers tickled his palm gently. He looked like some kind of shy pop star who was afraid that Percy would try to rip off his finger to take home and put in the freezer as a keepsake.

His skin was so pale that Percy had no trouble noticing the blush flooding his cheeks as he muttered angrily something like, «It's a snowy owl». He seemed touchy on this point.

The son of Poseidon had to hold back a laugh. «And you are-» he encouraged, leaving the sentence hanging and waiting for a completion, a name, a nickname, a something. Percy was usually the mysterious boy on the beach and the role swapping began to annoy him.

The crippled hawk cooed something indignant. Percy didn't understand birds, but he was pretty sure it was a pretty stinging insult. The bespectacled boy shrugged, as if he were actually responding to the bird, which dug its claws in a little harder.

He didn't even flinch. He kept a blank expression and kicked up some sand with his feet touching the sea foam beneath them. «I'm Harry,» he bit his lower lip, leaning out a little forward.

«Just Harry,» he added thoughtfully. Percy was vaguely aware that his feet were ankle-deep in the sea and his brain was watery. He had no idea what he was up to. Blackjack scoffed. 

«Hey, boss» he rattled off «I don't want to interrupt here, but I'm soaked and I can't fly in these conditions», he snorted loudly, pushing Percy's shoulder with his snout, almost making him trip over his feet.

«Oh,» Percy realized, with a grimace that probably made the situation seem more serious than it was. Harry straightened in place, taking a look around. His thick black eyelashes touched his  cheekbones.

His whole face was like, «what, who's dead?».

And even if the situation was not that tragical, Beckendorf was still waiting for Percy to do their routine assault on the derelict ships. They had found one nearby that bore an almost frightening resemblance to Princess Andromeda, perfect for their exercises.

«What he said?», Harry asked, pointing to the pegasus with his chin. It took Percy a while to realize that he was actually asking what a horse had told him as if they were talking about the weather.

Percy considered for a second the idea of looking at Harry like he was crazy and recommending him to a good psychologist, if only to see what he would look like. He suspected he would just have raised an eyebrow as if to say «really, dude?».

«That he can't fly, since he's soaking wet» he smiled, making sure to inject his own resentment into his words «You know, since your chicken-». The bird let out a whistle that made it sound like a boiling teapot as Harry hissed, «It's.a.snowy.owl.»

«-nearly drowned him,» Percy finished mercilessly, waving his hand in the air as if to say it didn't really matter. Chicken, eagle, owl, - they were always birds, weren't they?; Harry and his bird got too touchy over that point.

«You're so dramatic,» he complained.

Harry snorted, puffing out his cheeks and chest in this very childish - and absolutely not cute way - which reminded Percy of the ruffled feathers on his bird. He gave the floured rooster's beak a friendly tap with his fingers.

«Go home, Hedwig,» he crooned gently, and the chicken didn't hesitate. It shook itself like a wet dog and rose into the air with a strange rustle of wings. Harry rolled his shoulders. Percy wasn't at all surprised that he was sore. The thing's claws looked deadly.

This did not stop the son of Poseidon from commenting mercilessly. «Hedwig, what is that?» he snorted. «I know it looks like a flying wig but I didn't think that-». Harry rolled his eyes.

Percy let the rest of his sentence fall into a wry smile.

«I found it in a-» Harry hesitated. «history book,» he supplied. And Percy couldn't help but take the opportunity to tease him for being a nerd. No, he couldn't. He laughed, raising his eyebrows.

Harry seemed to have lost a hundred years of his life in that conversation. He looked up at Percy stubbornly, as if begging the heavens for someone to turn him off. «I won't help you with your horse if you don't shut up.»

Percy heard Blackjack neigh something like «Who did you call a horse, four-eyes?», but he was much more taken with the proposition. «How could you help me?» he asked curiously, despite himself.

Harry smiled with a satisfied twinkle in his eyes. He was an open book, when he actually demonstrated his emotions. Percy couldn't explain how he went from one excess to another.

«A friend of mine told me that I can do something here that I couldn't do in Britain,» he said, and the sentence was so intertwined that Percy almost lost it. But above all, there's Harry's problem.

He was just too English. «If you turn around and the horse closes his eyes, then in two seconds he will be dry.»

«Like some kind of magic,» Percy reasoned. Harry raised an eyebrow. Percy hadn't yet cataloged the meaning of that grimace, - not that he was making a list, clearly not - he nodded in agreement.

Percy turned quickly towards the blooming horizon on the spine of the Bungalows. «Dude I swear, if you try to fuck with me-» he threatened, with a frown that was lost, aimed at one of the yellow umbrellas fluttering on the shore.

He didn't know why but he had a feeling that Harry was the type to run away and leave you staring into space. Harry's laughter rang like silver bells. Sweet and slow like the beating of the waves on the rocks.

It felt like something new, unexplored and pure; as if it had been kept in a shrine by the gods. Then it dissolved like foam. «Done, Ariel.» Percy shook his head, coming back to reality. Not even three seconds had passed, literally.

The son of Poseidon turned very skeptically. The field of vision invaded by dark fur and the dry wings. His eyes widened in surprise. «I thought you were strutting» he admitted, cocking his head to the side. «You really did it.»

Harry rolled his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses. «I don't strut» he groaned, annoyed. He opened his mouth and closed it again, as if he were about to automatically say something else.

«Dude, it seems you have a personal problem with that word,» Percy whistled, running his calloused fingers through Blackjack's dry mane, «So I'll leave you to sort out your traumas while I go-.» Percy spun on his heel.

And he stumbled. Harry had just tripped him. A real trip. Sneaky, unexpected and merciless. Percy, to his credit, didn't fall. He simply teetered on the sand before regaining his balance. «What?» he asked, frowning suspiciously.

Harry crossed his arms. The look all sparkling and innocent. If Percy hadn't been sure that Harry was the only one close enough to trip him, he would never have suspected it.

«Wherever you go, I come,» the chicken-loving boy said.

«Which is very romantic» Percy nodded, his eyes widening in mock understanding. «No.» he ended abruptly. The ship was abandoned, but Harry was a mortal, perhaps similar to Rachel Elizabeth Dare.

Harry raised an eyebrow and Percy thought: Oh, no, absolutely not. 

And so it was over. Or started.

Harry felt the horse's thick hips contract between his thighs. He tightened his fingers in the torso of the boy who had emerged from the waters like a Greek God. Percy Jackson was all white teeth and tanned skin.

The planes of his muscles were smooth and warm, and his rough hands gripped Blackjack's mane with an iron, expert grip. If someone had told Harry all this fifteen minutes ago, he would have found everything strangely specific, then he would have advised him to go to someone at least as good as Dumbledore. Then he would ponder the idea all night.

In his life everything was possible. Actually, that's exactly what he was doing. He sank his aching fingers into Percy's hips with renewed vigor, without hesitation. Merlin, the boy looked like he was made of marble.

He smelled like the sea and he was impetuous like a force of nature galloping on a flying horse. Harry must have looked like a flea clinging to his back. The cold wind in his face and the lack of oxygen were going to his head.

Irony of fate. Percy was just the ideal Harry imagined when it came to a hero. Not some skinny kid with a weird scar on his forehead.

Percy had this idea of strength, an aura of protection that had frightened Harry the moment he laid eyes on his dry t-shirt. It seemed that his green eyes had the same powers as Amortentia and Felix Felicis, mixed to form something explosive.

He seemed capable of lifting you up or bringing you down with a look. You could fall in love with him, feeling encouraged by him or threatened by him; and it certainly would have been beautiful and terrible.

The laughing and kind look hid a push similar to the pressure of high tide against the beach. He did everything by himself, he fell and got back up. If Harry's horse fell into the ocean in the middle of a mission-.

Well, first of all Harry would have drowned, like, badly. And he would have cried. Not necessarily in that order. Or his horse would have drown, then Harry would start crying because his horse had drowned, and then he would have drown himself to get to the horse.

Well, he was already thinking about it too much. Luckily, Blackjack decided this was the right time to tack? - Could you still say tack if you were in the air and not on a broom? - . Harry could no longer think about macabre things, his hobby since the Three Wizards tournament was over.

His brain finally fell silent, too busy thinking about holding himself up without digging his nails into parts of Percy’s body where Percy would have preferred not to have his nails dug into.