The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the stench of ash and brimstone. For nearly a week, Thalia Grace had barely slept, her knife never far from her hand, her instincts sharper than ever. She was the daughter of Zeus, the king of the gods—and from the moment her demigod blood awakened, monsters had smelled it on her like wolves scenting wounded prey.
It had started in Atlanta, where the sky first broke open with signs only she could see—lightning in the shape of a weapon, thunder that no one else heard. Her powers were still raw, unpredictable, but strong enough to terrify her. The first monster had come two days after her powers awakened—a Fury, shrieking through the skies with her leathery wings, claws reaching for Thalia as she ran through crowded city streets. It would have caught her, if not for the unexpected appearance of a strange, limping boy with curved horns hidden beneath a baseball cap and a worn set of panpipes dangling from his neck.
"Name's Grover," he had said after they barely escaped. "You don't know me yet, but I'm here to help."
She hadn't trusted him at first. Thalia didn't trust anyone. Her mother had drunk herself into a stupor years ago. She had been living on the streets, surviving by wits and grit. But Grover didn't leave. Even when she lashed out, barked at him to go, even when she demanded answers—he stayed. And soon, she realized he wasn't just a boy. He was a satyr. A protector.
Grover explained everything. About Camp Half-Blood, about the gods of Olympus who still roamed the modern world, hidden in plain sight. About how she, Thalia Grace, wasn't just a troubled teen with strange powers—she was a demigod. And that meant her life would never be the same.
The monsters came more frequently after that. Hellhounds with glowing eyes, skeletal birds with razored wings, a giant disguised as a homeless man who had nearly crushed her beneath a rusted car. Grover tried his best—using his woodland magic to mask their scent, playing lullabies to calm her when nightmares became too much—but he was only one satyr. And the monsters were many.
They were already exhausted by the time they reached Richmond, Virginia—sleeping in alleys, stealing food where they could, their clothes torn and caked in dirt. It was there, under a half-collapsed highway bridge, that they stumbled upon the other two.
Luke Castellan was tall for his age, wiry and sunburned, with an old scar slicing down his cheek and eyes too world-weary for someone barely sixteen. He had been fending off a pair of empousai—vampire-like monsters with burning eyes and sharp claws—when Grover's panpipes had distracted one just long enough for Thalia to drive her knife through its heart.
Luke had nodded at her, sweat running down his brow. "Thanks for the assist. You saved us."
Huddled beside him was a girl even younger than Thalia—a tiny thing with blonde hair matted with grime, wearing a Yankees cap far too large for her head and wielding a broken piece of pipe like a sword.
"Annabeth," she said, glaring up at Thalia like she was deciding whether to attack or trust. "I'm not weak."
"No one said you were," Thalia replied coolly. But something about the fierce little girl reminded her of herself.
After a tense moment, they decided to stick together.
From there, survival became a team sport. Luke taught them how to hotwire cars. Annabeth, clever and sharp, scouted paths and deciphered monster footprints. Grover kept everyone moving, urging them on toward Long Island—toward safety, toward Camp Half-Blood. And Thalia? Thalia became their shield. When monsters attacked—and they always did—she was the first to fight.
They fought a Nemean cub in Baltimore—already big enough to shrug off blades and bounce bullets. Thalia had distracted it by shouting taunts while Grover summoned vines to bind its legs, giving Luke time to jab it in the eye with a tire iron.
In Philadelphia, they battled harpies in an abandoned train station, with Annabeth crawling through ventilation shafts to set traps. She grinned when one of them fell, feathers exploding as it hit the floor.
"Your plan worked," Thalia had said.
"Of course it did," Annabeth replied smugly. "I'm the daughter of Athena."
By then, they were family.
But nothing had prepared them for the cyclopes.
The forest trembled beneath their feet.
Thalia Grace didn't flinch at the sound. Behind her, the pounding footsteps of their monstrous pursuers grew louder with each second. The air was thick with the scent of pine, smoke, and something worse—something rotten, like sulfur and dried blood.
"Keep moving!" she shouted, brushing her dark, tangled hair from her face. Her breath came in sharp gasps as she sprinted through the thick brush, dodging roots and fallen branches.
"I—I can't," Annabeth panted, tripping over a root. Her twelve-year-old frame was trembling with exhaustion. Her knife was clutched tightly in her hand, but her strength was fading.
Thalia grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up. "Yes, you can. You're almost there."
Up ahead, Grover turned back, blood running down his cheek from a shallow cut. "I see the hill. Camp's just over it!"
"Are you sure?" Luke cried, his legs stumbling as he tried to help Annabeth along.
"I can feel it," Grover answered grimly. "We are close."
Behind them, the Cyclopes roared.
Three of them—towering, deformed, and armed with clubs bigger than tree trunks. Their single eyes gleamed red in the dusk, and the pounding of their feet shook the very earth.
Grover looked over his shoulder and bleated in terror. "They're gaining!"
"No kidding," Thalia muttered.
They crashed through a clearing, moonlight spilling down over the hill in the distance—the magical border of Camp Half-Blood. But it was still too far.
Too far for all four of them to reach.
Thalia stopped running.
"Thalia?" Luke skidded to a halt, grabbing her arm. "What are you doing?"
She wrenched free. "I'm going to hold them off."
"Are you mad?!" Luke shouted. "There are three of them!"
"That's why I'll slow them down," she said, eyes blazing. "You take Annabeth. Grover, go with them. Get to the camp. Get help."
"No," Annabeth sobbed. "You can't!"
"I have to," Thalia said firmly. "If they catch us all, we die. But if they catch just me… you'll make it. Tell everyone. Tell them I fought like a daughter of Zeus."
"Thalia—" Grover's voice broke.
She smiled at them—wild, brave, defiant. "This is what I'm meant to do."
Before they could stop her, she turned and sprinted back toward the Cyclopes, gripping her bronze dagger tight in her hand.
Lightning crackled above the trees.
"GO!" she screamed behind her.
Grover grabbed Annabeth and pulled her, while Luke hesitated one second longer, his face twisted in fury and grief.
Then he turned and ran.
Thalia stood in the clearing, alone, as the Cyclopes barreled toward her. Their monstrous howls filled the night air, but she didn't tremble.
She stood tall, dagger gleaming in one hand, the other raised to the sky.
"COME ON THEN!" she roared, voice echoing like thunder. "I'm right here!"
From behind a veil of shadow, Harry stood silently, his breath steady but his heart heavy. What he saw unravel before him stirred something deep within—an old ache, a buried memory. A young girl, barely in her teens, stepped forward to face three enormous Cyclopes with nothing but a small knife in her hand. Her defiant stance, her eyes burning with courage and desperation, reminded him painfully of a younger version of himself. A twelve-year-old boy who once stood alone before a massive basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets to save a friend's sister. He didn't have to. No one had ordered him. But he did it—because it was right. Because his heart would never allow him to run.
And now, this girl was doing the same. She was ready to lay down her life for the others.
That was enough.
Harry didn't hesitate. He focused his mind, drew on the now internalized power of the Elder Wand, and vanished from the shadows with a loud crack of Apparition. In the blink of an eye, he stood between the girl and the charging Cyclopes.
The earth shook as the lead giant bellowed, raising a spiked club high over its head.
Harry raised his palm.
A streak of white-blue lightning exploded from his fingers with a deafening roar, slamming into the Cyclops's chest. The massive creature was thrown back with a guttural howl, its thick hide scorched. But Harry barely had a moment to breathe—another one charged from the left, swinging its enormous arm.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted instinctively, more out of habit than strategy. The crimson spell burst from his palm with unusual intensity, knocking the second Cyclops back ten feet—not disarming it, but flinging its hulking body like a ragdoll.
He grimaced. These beasts were far more resistant to magic than the creatures he'd fought before.
The third Cyclops came at him from the right, its fist crashing down toward his head.
"Protego Maxima!"
A shimmering blue dome sprang around Harry, the magical barrier absorbing the blow with a thunderous crack. Harry slid backward from the force, boots skidding through the dirt, but the shield held.
He turned his head and shouted, "Run! Now!"
The girl—her raven-black hair wild in the wind—hesitated, eyes wide with disbelief.
Luke, Grover, and Annabeth burst from the tree line, panting and bloodied. They grabbed her arms and pulled her back, disappearing into the woods.
Harry exhaled sharply. Good. At least they were safe.
Now came the hard part.
He turned to the two Cyclopes now rising again, their yellow eyes filled with hatred. They roared in unison and charged.
Fine.
He raised both hands.
"Avada Kedavra!" he bellowed.
Twin jets of sickly green light burst from his palms, streaking through the air and slamming into the monsters with a sound like thunder cracking through bone. The light flared, blinding in the dark forest, and the Cyclopes disintegrated mid-step—crumbled into sand and ash that drifted down like snow.
The third one—the first he'd struck with lightning—let out a furious roar and rushed forward.
"You're stubborn," Harry muttered.
He vanished again with a crack—this time, reappearing midair, above the charging Cyclops. Wind rushed past his face as he pointed the celestial bronze sword downwards.
He descended like a falling star.
The blade flashed once.
A sickening thud.
The Cyclops's head separated cleanly from its shoulders. Its body collapsed with a heavy crash that sent dust and leaves flying in all directions.
Harry landed softly, crouched, the blade in hand, breathing hard. Around him, the forest had been ravaged—trees charred, soil cracked, branches scattered like broken bones.
The silence that followed was louder than the chaos before.
Then came footsteps—dozens of them. Shapes emerged from the dark—young warriors armed with celestial bronze weapons, some wearing armor, others just wielding whatever they could grab in time.
They halted at the scene.
At the three piles of ash.
At the lone figure standing amidst it all, sword in hand, robes flickering with residual magic.
One of them, a dark-haired boy with a curved sword, muttered, "What the Hades…"
Another whispered, "Is that a new camper?"
Harry looked at them all, then slowly lowered the sword.
"No," he said calmly, his green eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. "Just someone passing through."
Then came Chiron, galloping softly through the underbrush. He stepped out from the shadows of the trees, half man and half horse, his face a mix of concern and recognition. Beside him, wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt and a perpetually annoyed expression, stood Dionysus, God of Wine and current director of Camp Half-Blood.
"That will be enough," Chiron said to the assembled demigods. "Return to the camp. The danger has passed."
They obeyed without question, murmuring curiously as they passed Harry, some giving him wide-eyed stares. One boy with a spear muttered, "He's the one who turned them to ash…"
Harry sheathed his sword, the metal sliding into its scabbard with a hiss. "You saw that?" he asked Chiron.
Chiron nodded. "We saw the end of it. And we saw enough."
Dionysus crossed his arms. "You made a mess of the forest, wizard," he said dryly. "But I suppose it's better than scraping up demigod entrails."
Harry's brow furrowed. "I had to act. That girl—she was about to give her life to save her friends."
"And she would've succeeded," Dionysus muttered, then sighed. "But I suppose divine intervention in the form of an English wizard is acceptable, for once."
Chiron stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Harry's shoulder. "You've seen what our children face. This is not the first time, and it won't be the last. Monsters are tireless. The barriers around this camp—they work, but they aren't perfect."
"I'll help," Harry said without hesitation. "I promised I would, but now I understand just how urgent this is."
Dionysus arched an eyebrow. "So generous. I wonder, though—what do you need for your... enchantments? Gold dust? Phoenix feathers?"
"I'll need supplies," Harry admitted. "Rune Stones, crystal focus stones, things imbued with natural magic—maybe even obsidian, salt lines, silver..."
Dionysus turned away, pulling out a Diet Coke from thin air. "And here's the rub," he said, cracking open the can. "We don't have wizard things."
Chiron nodded solemnly. "The truth is, Harry, we know of your kind. We know of the Wizarding World. We've heard the stories."
"You mean... you don't know much about witches and wizards?" Harry asked, genuinely surprised.
"Of course," Chiron said. "And they do not know of us. At least, not anymore."
Dionysus added, "Wizards are the children of Hecate. Long ago, they used to walk among the rest of the magical world—gods, monsters, demigods. But over the centuries, they began to separate themselves. They created barriers, magical and political, to shut out the rest."
"They evolved," Chiron said. "They created enchantments so powerful that even gods cannot pierce them. Their wards mask entire towns. Their homes are undetectable to gods and monsters. Even Olympus cannot see what lies behind those ancient veils."
Harry stared into the darkness of the trees. "That explains it," he murmured. "No monster ever attacked a wizard. They can't even see us."
Dionysus took a long sip of his soda. "Exactly. Monsters see your kind the same way mortals see us: not at all."
"And Hecate?" Harry asked. "Didn't she try to bridge the gap?"
Chiron nodded slowly. "She did. She tried to reconnect her children—your kind—with the rest of the mythic world. But wizards are... well, let's just say they don't share well. Knowledge, especially, they guard like dragons guard treasure."
Harry chuckled bitterly. "You're not wrong."
"And so," Dionysus said, "you are a strange thing, Harry Potter. A wizard who has found his way back into a world he was never meant to see."
"Maybe I was," Harry said softly. "Maybe this is why the Hallows came back to me. Maybe I was meant to help."
Chiron stepped closer, lowering his voice. "If you can do it—if you can create a barrier like the one in your home, then we'll give you what help we can. Drachma, supplies, even offerings from the gods, if needed. This camp has stood for thousands of years. But we've lost too many."
Harry looked up at the stars through the forest canopy, feeling the weight of destiny again—just as heavy as it had been during his school years. But this time, it wasn't about prophecy. It was about choice.
"I'll do it," Harry said. "But I'll need a few days. Some privacy. And maybe a little help setting up."
"We'll give you everything we can," Chiron promised.
Dionysus, grumbling under his breath, added, "Just try not to blow up the forest again, if you can help it."
Harry allowed himself a small smile. "No promises."
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