The Lost Prince of Olympus

The downfall of Olympus

Olympus had mourned.

Their child had been lost.

His smiles only present in their memories and his eyes simply another pair lost to them.

Their child had been lost and with him so had they.

Harry cried constantly.

His green eyes would fill with tears every time they saw them and he would sob and sob, inconsolable until they left him in his crib and turned off the light, until he was alone, with no strange women trying to fill in for his stepmothers and no men becoming the pathetic replacement for his fathers.

He missed his toys, the soft plush Cerberus his papa had given him and the pretend lightning bolt that lit up whenever he wanted to feel as important as his daddy.

He missed his fish, he missed the tank that lay in the corner of his room with the brightly colored animals that swam and giggled and called him their prince when he pressed his face against the glass and his da told him their names.

Most of all, he missed his fathers, he missed their hugs and their stories, their smiles and the way they comforted him after he cried. He missed his mothers, his stepmothers who sang him to sleep and carried him around showing him their kingdoms. He missed his siblings, who made funny faces to make him laugh and snuck him sweeties even though he never could chew them.

He missed Olympus.

He missed his home.

The day Voldemort attacked he had done so unaware of the true nature of the child that lay within.

He had strode in, the words on the tip of his tongue and his body shivering with excitement. A simple flick of his wrist and the man in front of him collapsed, his eyes glossy and wide as his heart slowed to a stop. He had sidestepped the body, his shoes kicking the man's face flippantly and stepping on his fingers relishing in the cracking sound that erupted.

The woman had ran at the sight of him, at the sound of her husbands corpse hitting the floor, her red hair flowing as she ran, knowing that this was the last time she would run through these halls, that she was leaving death in her wake.

She had been easy to locate. Her eyes pleading as she begged, stepping in front of the crib unwilling to let this be the end. Her son would not die. Not at his hands. James death could not be for nothing.

Her head shook. 'No', a protest, a defiance, ready to erupt, on her lips. He asked her to step aside, his hands gripping his wand tighter as he pointed, the veins reddening and visible in stark contrast to his pale skin.

She could not move. Her legs had turned to ice and she gripped the crib behind her for support. Not my son. The words echoed through her mind, repeating over and over, as they she whispered them again.

The last thing she saw was his cold red eyes, the last thing she heard were her son's wails and the last thing she smelt was the stench of death filling her nose and entering her body.

Lily Potter was dead.

Voldemort had sighed, his lips curling into a sneer, as he watched her fall, the echoes of his servants promise falling and fading as quickly as her life. There was no spell to bring back the dead. Her body hit the floor, elevated by the toys that lay beneath, her red hair pooling around her like cascading tendrils of blood.

He turned to her child, his face tearstained and his eyes bloodshot. He was a tiny pitiful thing, his chubby hands gripping the rails of his crib as he stared. He turned back to the women on the floor. This was who she had died for. He shook his head at her stupidity, he shook his head, out of jealousy (though he would not admit this) and shook his head at her ignorance. Her dying meant nothing. He would still kill her son.

Raising his wand again, he pointed it at the baby, his eyes narrowing and the words once again on the tip of his tongue.

Avada Kedavra.

The last thing he felt was pain, raw hot seeping pain that burned through him and covered his skin, the last thing he heard was his own screams of agony, the last thing he smelt was the stench of death and the last things he saw were the waves of power that rolled of the boy in front of him, his eyes so defiant and his power so grand. The necklace, too large and too bulky for a child his age cracked ever so slightly and Voldemort felt another pulse of pain shoot through him before he felt nothing.

This was no ordinary wizard.

And with that last thought, Lord Voldemort the great had vanished leaving his black cloak falling to the floor beneath him and the child in front of him whole.

Far away, the gods on Olympus would groan, the big three would wince, their hands going to their chests as they felt it burn. They would stare at each other in both bewilderment and anguish, knowing exactly what this pain had symbolized, knowing exactly who had felt it first.

Then they would sit, their hands in their heads on their thrones knowing they had failed their son.

Far away, Harry Potter flew in a motorcycle, in and out of sleep as he watched the night sky pass by and reached out tiredly to touch the stars one last time before he was left to his relatives mercy.

Far away Harry Potter lay, sleeping peacefully unaware that he would soon awake to an aunt who mocked him, a cousin who bullied him and an uncle who hurt him, unable and unaware that far away sat a family who loved him.