The Lost Prince of Olympus

The Happy days II

Magic did not come naturally to him.

It was no longer as simple as wishing, begging and thinking of what he wanted and finding it within his reach. No, there was so much more to it now. Pages of unfinished essays and nights sitting bleary eyed staring at the book in front of him, hoping some, if any knowledge would stick. Days of classes he would endure, his fingers restlessly tapping against the wooden table and hours of facts he had to memorise for whatever pop quiz the teacher fancied to give them.

The act of levitating, whether that be him or a feather, now involved him standing in front of the mirror, his hand raised and an obsolete stick gripped in his palm as he attempted the wand movement again. A swish and a flick!

Turning a match into a needle required patience and a certain magical affinity for the subject, something Professor McGonagall had spent their first lesson searching for, only to return to her desk at the end of the day and sigh with disappointment for Harry could not even begin attempting the spell, let alone succeeding. He may have his father's face but he does not have his talent.

Potions had been the worst. Fumes of multicoloured concoctions that had made him weezy and left him coughing for days. Hours of torture as he sat, his head bowed and Snape breathing down his neck sneering and laughing with glee when his potion overflowed or anyone in his vicinity dared to even breathe in his direction. The instructions he scribbled on the chalkboard did nothing to help; his spider scrawl looped and curved in a way that made Harry cringe and squint as the words floated, each letter now upside down or in another position as Snape sneered. He has his father's face, and his mother's eyes, but dear god he did not have their wit.

He did not think it would be this hard to learn magic.

He knew it should not have been. All the boys in Gryffindor were able to levitate a feather within their first class, watching in shock and disbelief as he sat, his ears red and his eyes narrowed attempting the spell yet again only to fail for the hundredth time. All the boys in Gryffindor were able to do something to their match, turn it silver or make it pointed, something small but something nonetheless. All the boys in Gryffindor could follow the instructions on the board. So why, in what twisted world could he not?

The boy who lived students would whisper as he walked past them, their eyes saying more than their mouths ever would. The boy who lived, a squib. Can you believe it? The Ravenclaws raised their eyebrow, tutting as he walked past them. A disgrace. The Slytherins jeered, their noses upturned as he scampered by, just one thought on their minds. Pathetic Potter, they would spit, their words so full of venom that every time Harry would reel back stung. The Hufflepuffs would only smile sympathetically to his face, rolling their eyes as he left. He just needs to work harder.

The Gryffindors were the worst. They were not quiet in their displeasure, nor were they subtle. The boy who lived. Yeah right. Oi Potter! Are you sure you defeated the dark lord? Shhh Ron, it was probably his mother you know that! Shameless...his mother died defeating that monster and he goes round taking the credit. At least act like you have half a brain first you know?

The insults felt like salt to his wounds, hot black pepper rubbed into his cuts and held there until he had tears in his eyes and nothing left to give. Please. Please. Please. He would whisper it as he walked past. He did not know what he was pleading for, or rather to who.

Please stop. Please don't. Please help.

Please Mum, Please Dad.

Please God, whatever you are, wherever you are.

Please, anyone.

Please.

The feather on his bedside table lay flat, no sign of life, no sign of movement within its strands. It taunted him, watched with bated breath until the rage grew and all he could feel was the overwhelmingly painful sting in his chest and all he could hear was the rush of blood, or water in his ears.

Harry Potter was not made to do magic.

"Maybe I'll leave it up in that tree, so its safe for when Longbottom and his fat arse returns."

Harry did not know what possessed him to mount his broom and kick off, but perhaps it was the way the broom rose, its material hitting the palm of his hand long before anyone elses had; or perhaps the overhelming itching urge to kick off and experience what it felt like to soar. Or perhaps it was that Draco Malfoy was a bully, and Harry had spent his entire life catering to the whims of children like him and had finally found the one thing he might be good at, something he could use.

Harry did not what possessed him, but god did it feel good. The air was crisp, cold gushes of wind hitting his face and tickling his cheeks as he flew higher and higher. The ground below him began to disappear, until all he could see was the green expanse below him and little figures staring up at him, unreachable and untouchable. There was a sense of freedom up here, in some odd way he had never felt freer. Up here there were no prying eyes and disapproving looks, there were no books written in curly scripture where the words swam and made his head hurt, but most of all there were no rules, no tests he had to pass and no things he had to prove. It was just him and the clouds, the rest of the world could fall away and he would not have cared. He was free, he was happy, he was safe.

Harry Potter had found his calling, and dear god for once did it feel good.

And when Professor McGonagall dragged him to Wood and introduced him as the new member of the Quidditch team and handed him the very broom he saw everyone fawn over in Diagon Alley in front of a jealous Draco Malfoy, well who was he to protest?

Notes:

Hi! Sorry its a bit of a short chapter. I have exams going on and recently fractured my left wrist 😓 so finding time to write and actually typing have been kinda hard to do. I had this chapter done mostly so I thought I'd just edit this and publish it. Hope you liked it!