When Wand and Sword Collide || Percy Jackson/ Harry Potter

I Join the House of Foreign Mushrooms

"Harry, you're drooling."

Half in trance state, thoughts of before clouding my head like a bad smell, I flinched awake, and feeling returned to my fingers and toes. I wanted to sleep, rest myself on this deliciously soft pillow and fall back into dreamland. Even as I closed my eyes and snuggled back into the covers, memory of the night haunted me. I had a really, really weird dream. I mean, it didn't surprise me all that much, because I was pretty sure me and weird dreams are practically married with kids now, but this time it was so... vivid.

A woman in a toga petted my hair down, speaking to me in a gentle voice. Although the voice was pleasant and soothing, she seemed hurried, almost desperate. I couldn't remember a thing she was saying to me either.

And then I'd woken up to this guy shaking me like a martini.

"You'd better get up soon," said the boy, turning away and yawning really loudly. "If you're not up I'm going to breakfast without you."

What struck me most about this boy was his accent: clear-cut British, no doubt about it. Not upper-class BBC presenter British, but, sort of common-like John from down the road. I cracked an eye open and leant to the side – he was tall and lanky, with loose ginger hair spilling to his shoulders, his face and arms covered in freckles.

It didn't occur to me that I had absolutely no idea who this kid was, too tired to do or say anything. I rolled back over, wincing as a sudden and sharp ache shot through my head. Like I'd been banging my head against a wall last night – I dreaded to think why. No actual reason came flooding back.

Knowing that I couldn't miss breakfast – thee most important meal of the day, kids – I sat up, propping the pillow behind me. "Urgh. I feel awful."

Then the scene finally settled – where the Hades was I?

I scanned the room, almost certain I had not fallen asleep here. The room was small and cushy. Five four-poster beds, made of beige oak, lined like a ring around an old clunky furnace that pumped out heat in the centre. Old-style castle windows let the dull morning light flow inside the cold walls, and everything was laden with red-and-gold material; canopies, curtains, chair covers, clothes, you name it.

The ginger kid turned around – his face was scrunched up in equal tiredness and his eyebrows cut through his blue eyes. "You sound awful, too—"

He stopped short when he saw my face, before his own twisted into horrified disbelief, like he'd just seen the dead. Gee, did I look that bad?

"What the—?" The boy seized a long, thin stick from his bedside table and pointed it threateningly at me, his arms quaking but his grip solid. "Who the bloody hell are you and what have you done with Harry?!"

Uh huh, I felt really intimidated by a twig.

He did have a fair point though. Who was I? My brain seemed to sizzle in overdrive, scouring through its roots and storage for something, anything, about my past, my memories. But instead, a name was on the tip of my tongue, ready to blurt.

"Percy Jackson," I mumbled, feeling a rush of nostalgia at the name. Yes, I was certain my name was Percy Jackson. It's a cool name, too, so obviously it's mine. "Yeah, I'm Percy Jackson. Who're you? Where am I?"

"Don't play dumb with me," accused the redhead. "Where is Harry?!"

He seemed to be the same age as me, riddled with acne scars and youthful pride. If pride wielded a stick.

I rubbed my eyes and yawned. "I don't even know who Harry is."

He flinched at my answer, but it was soon replaced with infallible rage. "I said don't play dumb! Are you some sort of an imposter?" He stared at me for so long I was starting to feel self-conscious. "You're sleeping in his bed too. Where is he?!"