Initus

Initus

(noun. an approach, arrival, or advent.)

A Harry Potter & Percy Jackson Crossover

Part 4 of the Amalgamation Series

by Tannin & Tele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan, voiding that of original content and characters.

. . .

Warnings: Chapter includes implied child abuse, child neglect and mild language. 

The opinions expressed by characters may not reflect that of the author's.

Chapter One

. . .

July 30th, 1991

Hut-on-the-Rock, England

For the first time in ten years, Harry found himself missing his cupboard. Lying on a damp, grimy floor of a dilapidated hut was complete hell compared to his cupboard at Number Four. At least under the stairs, he had a blanket and a pillow. And air conditioning. 

Without anything to cover his shivering body, Harry was forced to curl into himself to maintain some warmth. His back muscles ached as he shifted restlessly on the cold flooring, fighting against the violent shivers that wracked his body. Harry startled as a single raindrop slipped down from the sunken ceiling, landing on his cheek with a splat. The chill that raced down his body was unavoidable and Harry bit back a soft groan.

As much as he wished to moan woe betide, Harry knew that self-pitying never worked any miracles.

The boy turned painfully on his side. He watched the watch on Dudley's wrist tick ever-closer to midnight and let out a long breath. Ten minutes to midnight, and Harry didn't even bother with sleep; he was superbly cramped, his eyes fluttering shut every few moments, only to snap back open.

Some sort of . . . sixth sense was telling him that something magical was about to occur, and Harry couldn't help but get his hopes up. Harry wondered, after retrieving that first letter, when everything would come to peak.  His imagination ran wild with fantasies and wonderments as Dudley's watch ticked closer to midnight.

Pulling himself to his elbows, Harry idly drew a birthday cake into the dusty floor, humming silently to himself. 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!' the cake read, and Harry topped it with eleven 'candles'. Harry doubted he'd ever get real cake in his life, but the tradition was long ingrained.

Midnight was fast approaching - only minutes away-  and Harry sincerely pondered waking his cousin. After all, he smirked; 'misery loves company'.

Water clashed against the rocks, white light flashing across the sky. A deep rumble reverberated from the outdoors, causing the hut to shift. "Happy Birthday to me, Happy birthday to me -" Harry sang under his breath, leaning forward to blow away the image. As the last of the dust rolled away, a deafening bang sounded on the hut's door.

The whole hut shuddered, and Harry jolted up, eyes wide in surprise.

BOOM! Came the knock again, and Dudley awoke with a dumb: "Where's the cannon?"

A crash came from the staircase as Uncle Vernon stumbled down the last step, face purple and rifle cocked in his hands. Petunia came creeping out behind him, hair curled in obnoxious purple rollers. "Who's there?!" Vernon shouted, wielding the gun in front of him as he warily approached the door. "I warn you - I'm armed!" his voice quavered, revealing true terror beyond all his arrogance.

There was a pregnant pause, filled only by Dudley's harsh breathing - and that was when all hell broke loose.

. . .

 Diagon Alley, London, England

Rubeus Hagrid was a large, boisterous fellow that Harry had immediately taken a liking to. 

Despite being extremely clumsy and apparently half-mythical creature, the man was quite solicitous. He defended Harry against the Dursleys with a protectiveness Harry had never known before, instantly earning the eleven-year-old's affections. 

The next morning, Hagrid was holding Harry's arm tightly as they traveled out of Gringotts Bank, the older man attempting to keep the slight boy from flying over the cart's edge. "Please," Hagrid rumbled to the Goblin, his face turning green. "Can this thing go any slower?" 

The goblin smirked. "One speed only," Griphook claimed - but Harry learned that with a bit of bribery, the cart could go faster. The goblin didn't much like Harry (unsurprising) but money was money. Hagrid was not amused. 

The two companions stumbled out of Gringotts, Harry wearing a bright grin and wind-blown hair. Hagrid wiped the nervous sweat off his face, looking quite ill.  "Might as well get yer uniform," Hagrid said quietly, nodding towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

"Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts. I . . ." the man shuddered. "Really hate them." 

Harry watched Hagrid's retreating back, anticipation building in his chest. Fingering the bag of gold in his trouser pocket, he entered the shop alone. Madam Malkin was only a few inches taller than Harry, dressed in a crisp mauve uniform and a maternal countenance. 

"Hogwarts, dear?" she deduced, smiling reassuringly at Harry's nervous fidgeting. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

She led him to the back of the shop where a tall boy with pointed features was having his long black robes pinned. Madam Malkin placed Harry on a similar stool and slipped a sheet of fabric over him. The other boy eyed Harry with sharp silver eyes. "Hello," he finally greeted. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Harry said softly, almost afraid to lift his eyes. 

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," the boy continued in a bored tone. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?" 

In my cupboard under the stairs, I've got a mop, Harry considered replying, but instead just shook his head. 

"Play Quidditch at all?" the other asked, almost hopefully. 

Harry just blinked, unsure of how to respond. "Is that a sport?" he asked. 

The boy looked insulted. "What? Of course it is! It's the best sport around, how could you not - " he stiffened, eyes calculation. "Wait. You're not one of those muggleborns, are you?" he demanded, voice pinched. The woman pinning the boy's robe looked affronted, her needle slipping to poke his leg. "But your parents were our kind, right?" he corrected, scowling furiously at the seamstress. 

"They were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean." Harry was startled at the direct question, but the other looked pleased. 

"Oh. Well, I really don't - say, look at that man!" He shifted abruptly, gesturing toward the front window. His seamstress gave a muffled swear.

Harry blushed at Hagrid, who was holding up a set of melting ice cream cones. "That's Hagrid," Harry informed. "He works as the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

"Yes, I thought so. I heard he's a sort of savage - lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed." Harry was about to respond when Hagrid dropped one of the cones. On his way to grab it, the other slipped to the ground with a splat. 

Harry sighed, ignoring the boy's soft snickers. 

"He's a bit clumsy, that's true," he said carefully. "But quite kind, really. I'd prefer if you didn't insult him, please." The laughter cut off abruptly, the boy's pinched face turning sheepish. 

"Oh, sorry," he didn't sound very contrite. "Why is he with you, anyways? Where are your parents?" 

Harry's hands twitched. "They're dead," he turned his eyes away.

The boy blinked, lips twisting thoughtfully. "Well, if you want, you can go shopping with - " before he could finish, Madam Malkin tapped Harry's leg.

"That's you done, my dear," she told him, peeling off the robes.

Harry's hair became a mess as the robes were pulled over his head and the boy gasped, gaping at Harry's forehead. 

"You're - "

History, as Written by the Victors, byDarla Diggle and Katsu Chang

Chapter Thirty-Four, the Fall of the First Wizarding War:

The end of the first wizarding war can be marked on the night of 31, October, 1981 with the attack on Godric's Hollow, a small wizarding community in the West Country of England. Little is known about the events that transpired that night, the only eye-witness being young Harry Potter, infant son of James Potter and Lily Potter née Evans.

Steadfast supporters of the Light side - see Albus Dumbledore on pg. 191 - the Potters were prime targets of the Dark Lord's ire . . . enough so that You-Know-Who personally chose to strike at their household, without even the assistance of his Dark-aligned advocates.

This hubris, perhaps, was his fatal flaw.

After the deaths of Lily and James, the Dark Lord turned his wand onto Harry Potter, and something went terribly wrong.

Despite being assaulted with the Killing Curse - see the Use of the Unforgivable Curses on pg. 314 - young Harry was left with naught but a lightning-bolt scar emblazoned on his forehead. With Harry's survival, You-Know-Who disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.

The Dark Side easily fell without their tyrants rule, and within months, several major arrests were made - see Death Eaters on pg. 426 .

Sirius Black was found guilty of betraying the Potters and murdering their childhood friend, Peter Pettigrew, while the famous Lestranges were caught after their attack on the Longbottoms. Many Death Eaters brought to trial were revealed to have been under the Imperius Curse - see the Use of the Unforgivables on pg. 314 - and friends and families were reunited with the removal of the War Containment Wall (WCW) around Britain.

Celebration reigned, and Harry Potter was commemorated as a celebrity.

[The vanquisher of You-Know-Who and the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, otherwise known as the Boy-Who-Lived, was unavailable for commentary on this matter.]

. . .

September 1st, 1991

Between Platform Nine 3/4, London, England and Hogsmeade Station, Hogsmeade, Scotland

It watched him. With those dark, too human eyes, it stared. And Harry stared right back.

He didn't like animals all that much. 

Perhaps it started with Marge's dog, Ripper, who chased Harry up a tree and was, you know, killed by a falling child. And then, of course, were the inexplicable number of beasts that followed him on a daily basis. As the Hogwarts Express shouldered through Scotland country, Harry was unsurprised to see colorful pegasi grazing farm fields and fire-breathing vultures circling above head. 

Compared to those creatures, most pets were alright, Harry supposed. His snowy owl was a sweetheart, and the garden snakes that hid beneath Petunia's azalea bush had many redeeming qualities. Most creatures, however, seemed overly intent on Harry's death. 

Scabber's eyes were constantly darting about in a strange mixture of fear and curiosity, his pink nose twitching. Ron stroked his fingers down Scabber's back before finger-feeding him an ear-wax flavored jelly bean. The rat's nose crinkled and he let the candy roll off his tongue. 

Turning a page in his book, Harry had to forcibly keep himself from sighing in exasperation. Ron was currently describing the sin that was Slytherin, animatedly waving his hands about while Harry nodded along distractedly, not precisely in agreement.  

Eventually Scabbers fell asleep again, and Harry felt comfortable enough to relax. 

For the better part of the train ride he'd been unable to unwind, distracted by the Weasley boy who would not shut up. When he had first forced his way into Harry's compartment and began fawning over his scar, Harry knew his life had just become a thousand times more complicated.

He slammed his book shut, burning headache steadily forming behind his temple. The pounding in his head was caused not only from the act of reading itself, but from his steadily growing vexation at every mention of the Boy-Who-Lived or the unnamed You-Know-Who that supposedly ruined his life.

Harry was a goddamned celebrity - a celebrity whose stomach rolled in dread at the very thought of such attention.

For Merlin's sake, he was famous because survived a murder attempt, one that killed his parents. Harry hadn't much experience with non-Dursley people, but he was quite certain death wasn't something you'd celebrate. 

(Harry should know. He'd been on it's doorstep more times than he was willing to count.) 

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone and now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. There was a knock on the door of their compartment and a round-face boy tentatively stepped in.

He sniffled slightly, looking shy. "Sorry," the boy whispered, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

Harry and Ron shook their heads and hazel eyes became rheumy. "I've lost him!" The boy wailed. "He keeps getting away from me!"

"I'm sure he'll turn up," Harry told him reassuringly. 

"Yes," the boy said miserably. "Well, if you see him," he trailed off. 

"Wait!" Ron burst out, lifting a finger. "You should check the Prefect Compartment! My brother, Percy, is Gryffindor's new Prefect. Maybe he could help."  

The boy's face lit up in excitement. "My Gran was prefect too! I forgot where she said the compartment was, though. . . "

"Just keep going down the train and look for stuffy upperclassmen with big 'P' badges. Some of them ought to be wandering about," Ron said helpfully. 

"Thanks! I'm Neville, by the way," he beamed, before clumsily tripping out of the compartment.

Ron looked rather smug, and Harry saw his companion in a new light. Perhaps the redhead was useful for something other than babbling. 

. . . 

"Finally!" Malfoy exclaimed, sliding open Harry's compartment door. Two heavy set boys flanked him, both reminding Harry uncomfortably of his uncle and cousin. He shrunk back into his seat, emerald eyes narrowed. 

"I've been looking for you forever, Potter," he breathed, smoothing back his flaxen hair. Malfoy followed Harry's gaze. "Oh, right. This is Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. You do remember my name, right?" He acted as though the very idea was impossible.

Harry nodded slightly in greeting to the three boys. "Yes, of course; Draco Malfoy." 

Ron gave a slight cough, lips pinched with amusement.

Draco's eyes snapped to him. "Think my name's funny, do you?" he said defensively, crossing his arms. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." The blonde turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." He held out a pale, perfectly manicured hand. 

Harry frowned at him. "That wasn't very nice, Draco. Ron has been very . . . obliging." Draco looked doubtful. "You know, he told me a bit about Quidditch, so I can finally talk to you about it. Ron's a big fan, and he has his own broom." Harry added. 

Draco's face cleared, eyes lighting up at the mention of his favorite sport. "Oh. Well, then I suppose he's alright."

Harry gave Draco a look, and the blonde rolled his eyes. "Fine," he sighed. "Sorry, Weasley. I'm sure your family are . . . lovely folks." 

Ron was clearly hesitant, glaring daggers as Harry finally took Draco's hand. The blonde didn't even bother attempting to shake Ron's.

The three purebloods took a seat, Draco sitting extremely close to the Boy-Who-Lived while Crabbe and Goyle sandwiched a red-faced Ron. Harry smiled shyly at their new companions while Ron seemed ready to launch into another 'Why Slytherins are the scum of the Earth' tirade.

Sensing Draco wouldn't appreciate Ron's input, Harry shifted next to the blonde. "So, Ron likes the Chudley Cannons," he offered up before said ginger could ruin their brief truce. The blonde's eyes widened in disbelief. "I'm not sure how good they are, but - " 

"They're not good at all!" Draco shouted, while Ron made a loud noise of protest. "The team you really ought to be rooting for is Puddlemere United. My father brought me to the European Cup this summer, and they kicked arse." 

"Really?" Ron leaned forward with wide eyes, momentarily forgetting the age-long Malfoy-Weasley rivalry. "The one against the Caerphilly Catapults? Didn't 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn break his femur doing a Dionysus Dive?"

Draco nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, we could see the bone jutting straight through his uniform! There was blood everywhere, and the referee even sicked up! Course, Llewellwyn was fine after a few hours, but his injury really set the Catapults back - "  

. . . 

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Highlands, Scotland

"Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History," Hermione Granger informed her peers, most of which were staring up in awe at the ceiling of the Great Hall. It was quite beautiful. 

Dean Thomas - standing beside Neville Longbottom and a boy with sandy hair - smirked lightly. "The Ravenclaw is strong in this one," he told the pureblood seriously. Neville's brow furrowed while Seamus Finnegan laughed quietly. 

"Wow." Ron said, nodding towards the table on the far end. A group of stiff-backed students were watching the first-years enter with bored expressions and sneers. "They look like an unpleasant lot.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said thoughtfully. “The one on the end looks quite cheerful.”

“Sadistic. I think you mean sadistic,” Draco said with a smirk, squeezing forcefully between the smaller boy and Ron. “That’s Marcus Flint - he's the Slytherin prefect. We’re second cousins on my dad’s side. Scaring people is a hobby of his; he got it from his mum.”

"Another reason why not to go into Slytherin. Sadistic prefects,"  Ron hissed, earning a subtle jab to his ribs. "Hey!" he exclaimed loudly, earning a lot of strange looks. Draco gave him a winning smile, and Ron grumbled to himself. 

The clearing of a throat quieted him. 

Professor McGonagall silently transfigured a gnarled, four-legged stool on a platform before them. On top of the stool she put a wizard's hat, frayed and extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia would have a conniption, Harry thought to himself, breathing turning sharp with anxiety. 

For a few seconds the hall was in complete silence. Then the hat twitched, before a tear near the brim opened like a mouth. And it began to sing in a smooth baritone, much to the first year's shock and excitement. 

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see, I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black, your top hats sleek and tall, for I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat and I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can't see, so try me on and I will tell you where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart, their daring, nerve, and chivalry set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff, where they are just and loyal, those patient Hufflepuff are true and unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you've a ready mind, where those of wit and learning, will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin you'll make your real friends, those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid! And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none) for I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The hall burst into raucous applause. 

"See!" Draco said proudly, slipping a possessive arm around Harry. "Slytherin's not so bad." Unused to such touches, Harry squirmed away, ducking his head. 

Despite the concept's simplicity, the hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn't feel particularly brave or quick-witted at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him. In fact, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the hat just refused to Sort him at all.

. . . Could that happen?

His panic was brought to a halt as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a long roll of parchment. She cleared her throat, and the Hall went silent once more. "When I call your name," she began imperiously. "You will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

The professor delicately unrolled the parchment before peering over the tops of her spectacles. "Abbott, Hannah," she enunciated. A pink-faced girl with short pigtails stumbled out of line and allowed McGonagall to plop the hat over her eyes.

After a moment's pause, the hat shouted: "HUFFLEPUFF!"  The applause died down and Professor McGonagall swiftly called the next name.

"Bones, Susan!" was sent trailing after Hannah Abbott while a snooty-looking "Boot, Terrence!" swaggered over to the Ravenclaws. "Brocklehurst, Mandy!" shyly dashed after Terrence and "Brown, Lavender," became the newest Gryffindor.

"Corner, Michael!" sat besides Mandy Brocklehurst in Ravenclaw (giving a wink to the flushed brunette) and "Crabbe, Vincent!" needed help finding the Slytherins. The applause for Vincent was rather scant, Harry noted with amusement. "Davis, Tracey!" sat beside who Draco identified as Gemma Farley, the Head Girl in Slytherin. 

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. Seamus and Hermione both had what Ron called a 'near Hatstall', the sorting lasting for more than a minute before deciding to place the two first-years in Gryffindor. 

"Can the hat refuse to Sort us?" Harry murmured to Draco, hands wringing nervously. Draco was about to laugh at the absurdity of his question before seeing the genuine anxiety in Harry's green eyes. Draco stared at the boy in amazement. 

"Are you serious?" he whispered back furiously. "You're the bloody Boy-Who-Lived! It'd be mad not to Sort you, but only into the very best House, of course," Harry rolled his eyes, hardly reassured. 

Neville was sorted into Gryffindor, much to the brunette's obvious relief - and surprise.

Draco nearly had an aneurysm when his name was called, clenching Harry's arm so hard he thought the fragile bone would break. Ron was scowling slightly, muttering disparages and slurs beneath his breath. Maintaining his composure, Draco sent Ron a sharp look before swaggering up to the stool. 

The hat barely touched his head before calling out "SLYTHERIN!" Draco, looking inordinately pleased with himself, sent Harry a proud smirk. 

Before Harry knew it, "Perks, Sally-Ann!" became a Hufflepuff and "Potter, Harry!" was called. Ron nudged him forward, giving him an encouraging smile. 

The whispers were horrible. 'Potter, did she say?'  'The Harry Potter?'  'Merlin, he's so ickle!'

Heart in his throat, Harry shakily approached the platform, briefly meeting the sharp, almost expectant gaze of the professor. The Sorting Hat was swiftly slipped over his eyes and everything went deadly quiet. Harry jolted violently as a scratchy voice sounded in his ear.

"Difficult," the hat breathed, and Harry could swear he felt hot air against his neck. "Very difficult. Plenty of strength, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes - and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting . . . So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool, breathing heavily. 'I don't know! Please don't make me choose!' Harry blurted in his mind.

The hat gave a sympathetic chuckle. 'Relax, child. I'm not going to force you. You are quite loyal, then, aren't you? Don't want to choose between your two friends, but thankfully, if worse comes to worst, you could just place the blame on me. Merlin knows I've seen worse than a few disgruntled eleven-year-olds." 

Harry gave a nervous laugh, his grip loosening minutely. The hat seemed to dig deeper. "You could be great in Slytherin, you know, it's all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that." Harry got the feeling the Sorting Hat was coming to a decision and clenched the seat again. 

It's brim brushed comfortingly over Harry's forehead. The hat seemed to jolt in surprise before it cleared it's throat loudly. 

"Better be . . . " it hedged. "SLYTHERIN!" 

To be continued . . .