The Lost Prince of Olympus

The Happy Days: I

The Dursleys had been subdued since Dumbledore's visit.

He had been moved, the cupboard he had spent ten years of his life in was no longer a suitable space for him to live, and the blows he had spent seven years enduring were too dangerous to deliver.

Spending summer in the heat, with the garden no longer his priority and the cobblestone pavements no longer another means of escape, had been blissful. Dudley had been forced to leave him alone; the pigtail that they had scheduled to be surgically removed served as an embarrassing reminder of what would happen if Harry had been hurt again at his hands.

He now squealed, the sound so alike to that of pigs that Harry would hold back his laughter as he watched his cousin's eyes water and widen, the expression a comical exaggeration of fear whenever their paths crossed.

The summer had been spent inside; the room became his sanctuary, a world away from the Dursleys and his neighbourhood.

His room was the sky, where the small bed was no longer a simple bed but a carriage, pulled by Pegasus, which flew, their wings flapping as they took him higher and higher until his hands would cut through the clouds through a storm. The lightning flashed before him, the light ethereal, casting a blue shadow onto him and so beautiful in front of his eyes.

His bedside table was a stepping stone, the old wood shiny and smooth as he stepped on it. As he stepped forward, the carpet beneath him was now the sea in its ever-lasting glory. His feet landed on the cushion and blanket in front of him as he imagined himself an explorer. His room was the rainforest, where exotic creatures surrounded him, his oddities no longer the subject of attention or cause of concern.

At night, he would quietly tiptoe, his movements hushed as he crawled along the floor, the darkness his ally and his alibi that of a spy. He was on a small mission, albeit a mission nonetheless. The food in the fridge was his prize, the crown jewels he could spend the next day gorging on as he tried to decipher the words in his textbook, finding that they seemed to be more manageable when there wasn't a furious teacher screaming in his face, children giggling in the background and magic involved.

He was in bliss.

The life he had spent seven years living seemed so...foreign now.

Magic was real, and that alone changed everything.

"Move out the way, boy!"

"Platform 9 and 3/4s? Is this some sorta joke to ya?"

"Where are ya parents?"

It had reached the point that Harry was close to tears. This was the first time anyone had heard of the famed platform nine and 3/4s and certainly no one wanted to help him.

The train, his only ticket out and away from the Dursleys, left in 15 minutes. All Harry could do was stare at the wall separating platforms 9 and 10, hoping it would give way like the bricks in the Leaky Cauldron. When it didn't, he only felt the overwhelming pools of disappointment fill his stomach.

He was about to turn around, rip the ticket in his hand to shreds, watch the white scraps flutter to the floor, and turn around, his eyes burning and his head hurting. Maybe it was a test—a test Harry knew he would not pass. He was not wise, and he was not patient. There hadn't been a test he could pass, and Harry was convinced there would never be.

Or maybe it was a joke. A cruel, horrific joke, a scam that he had been the centre of.

"Come along dear! Its the same every year - packed with muggles I'll say"

Muggles.

"Now, what platform do we need to go to boys?"

"9 and 3/4s."