AN: Hello, all! Thanks for all the reviews with your guesses on who Heri's godly parent(s) is/are. I've gotten well thought-out explanations for the obligatory Olympian parent as well as the second parent/guardian. Those of you that suggested lesser known minor gods have me mightily impressed. About Heri going to Camp Half-Blood: did you know that according to canon time-lines, Harry Potter is 13 years older than Percy Jackson? Harry Potter was 25 when the PJO series started. That means that at this point in my story, NONE of the Campers would be canon. Since I'm not much of a fan for OCs outside of minor situations, the answer is simple: Heri will have to wait until around the time PJO events start happening before she can go to Camp. "Wait, WHAT?! But she needs to go NOW! How will she blahblahblah?" you say. No doubt there will be protests of her being too old and the like. Rest assured that Heri will not be all grown-up and therefore too old to pair-up with the boy/girl of your shipping. She will have interaction with the PJO characters and Percy; she will have demigod training. I'm just not going to tell you how I'll make that work (TROLOLOLOL). I've actually had this planned out from the beginning so you won't be able to sway me into changing it either. P.S. I've been debating with myself over whether or not Heri should end up a Champion for another deity. It could go either way really, but I don't want to end up with some 'ultra-special' Mary-Sue. Before Revelation pt. 2 Steely green eyes glinted in the late afternoon sun. The cries of agitated birds were like white-noise in an echoing hall, the whips of flapping wings were like a tidal wave washing over a hapless victim. Something gleaming whizzed through the air, finding its mark in the still-beating heart of an owner to a pair of those thunderous wings. A cut-off shriek; a violent explosion of dust; then silence. For three heavy breaths, there was no motion. As if they were one mind in multiple bodies, a flock of furious birds swarmed into the air, their feathers glinting, their talons like daggers. They converged upon the small form of their prey that dared to cull one of their numbers. Before the monstrous birds could do any harm, another enemy came upon them, also from the air, taking more of them out before they knew what was happening. In the confusion of the sneak attack, the same blade that pierced the heart of the first beast was slashed through the necks of more. Under the wounded screams of the dying creatures, uncompromising eyes narrowed. In a tidy little neighbourhood in southern England, within an upper-middle-class suburb, there was a well-equipped park for the use of the general public. In the middle were slides of differing heights, swings built for all ages, two sets of jungle gyms, a trio of see-saws, and a merry-go-round. A bit to the side had a basketball court and tether-ball poles. Upon a small hill was a respectable-sized sandbox that doubled as a volleyball court. On the other side of the play equipment was a fenced off tennis court. This park was a popular place for people all over the neighbourhood to come to when they wanted a bit of fresh air. If one were to take a stroll past the picnic tables on the other side of the swings, they would find a stretch of field used for football and rugby, and a duck pond wherein balls were often tossed in. Sprouting up around the pond were trees children often dared each other to climb despite their parents' warnings. It was within one of these trees that a young girl was perched, idly watching the water-fowl milling about in the pond. It was late afternoon, a time other children the girl's age would have been expected to set out for home. Not so for this child; she had escaped the house only hours earlier after finishing her chores and wasn't eager to go trotting back just yet. At first glance, one would say her wayward hair was black (as black as her soul, those that thought badly of her would say). A more thorough look would have a less judgemental person revising their answer; her hair was not black so much as it was an exceedingly dark brownish colour, a colour that resembled Coca-Cola when the drink was held up to the light. She could be called pale, but there was warm pigmentation under her skin that kept her from being called such. Her face was finely structured; her lips were rounded and of a purple-pink colour; her eyes were shaped like almonds and were an oddly deep shade of green. All in all, one would call her an attractive child. That is, ignoring the scar on her forehead, the obstinate clench of her jaw, and the off-putting air she gave off. Heri Potter observed the frolicking ducks with an expression better suited on a Victorian psychiatric doctor contemplating an in-patient: clinical, nonplussed, with a touch of disgusted fascination. This was not because she was the mad scientist sort or the abusive Big Brother sort. No, it was because Hedwig was down there in duck form, shamelessly flirting with fowls of both genders, carrying on and thoroughly confusing the other birds. Heri had been taking to staying out of the house for as long as she could manage since she had returned to Privet Drive for the summer. The Dursleys were amenable to such a plan and didn't bother her as long as she got her basic chores done every day. A bit of cooking in the morning and evening, some tidying up around the house, the gardening she enjoyed doing anyway, and then she was free to do as she liked. It probably wasn't the most responsible of the Dursleys to let their niece run as wild as they claimed she was, but 'not the most responsible' was exactly the way one would label them.
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