Discimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Friday the 13th Series
For eight long years, Harry had known nothing but the cramped darkness of a cupboard under the stairs and the cold indifference of his retives, the Dursleys. When he was a toddler, barely fifteen months old, something unimaginably tragic happened—his parents were killed, leaving him orphaned and tossed into a world he never understood. He had come to number 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, as a babe in bnkets, delivered under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore. That strange, old man, though Harry remembered none of it, had chosen this pce—this family—for him.
Unbeknownst to Harry, that very same old man had conspired to keep him weak, quiet, and malleable. Dumbledore had ordered the Dursleys to break him, to ensure that when the time came, Harry would be pliable cy in the headmaster's wizened hands. Worse, Dumbledore had drained Harry's vaults at Gringotts, paying the Dursleys from the boy's own inheritance, all to maintain the veneer of familial care. None of it was genuine. Each pound sterling that Vernon Dursley pocketed in exchange for neglect and abuse was, in truth, Harry's own money.
Since the age of three, Harry had been made to serve them: cooking, cleaning, gardening—anything the Dursleys demanded. Standing barely the height of a child half his age, malnourished and sickly, Harry looked more like a frail four-year-old than an eight-year-old. He had no idea he was special, no clue that he carried a legacy that would echo through wizarding history. His world was dishwater and dustpans, scalding words and bruised ribs. The cupboard was his sanctuary, bleak though it was, and there alone he could be Lani, the little girl he imagined himself as in his quiet moments. There in the darkness, he sometimes whispered, "I'm Lani," and pyed at femininity in secret. His hair was unruly, his face pinched with hunger, and his oversized clothes fpped about him like sails. The Dursleys treated him as a household pest—now they had decided to rid themselves of him entirely.
It was mid-May 1988, and the Dursleys had a pn. Vernon had recently received strange instructions accompanied by a handsome sum of money from some unknown benefactor—an "associate" of that old codger, Dumbledore. Petunia and Vernon would rather have simply dumped Harry on a street corner, but the instructions were clear: Harry must be left at a particur pce in the United States, a deserted campground. The Dursleys didn't know why, nor did they care. The money was enough to make them swallow their questions and obey. After all, the sooner they rid themselves of the "freak," the better. Dudley was thrilled at the prospect of never having to look at his cousin again. Petunia's lips curled with disdain whenever she regarded the boy. Harry Potter was a blight on their pristine life.
So it was that Harry found himself stuffed into the back seat of the Dursleys' car with a single ratty backpack of his meager belongings. He didn't question it. He never dared. Vernon had shouted in the early hours: "Get your things, boy. We're leaving." Harry had done as told, shivering with fear. The drive to the airport was long and tense. Harry didn't know that he was leaving Engnd, didn't know why they'd brought him to Heathrow. He sat quietly, making himself small, eyes dull. Petunia carried papers—passports, tickets. A short flight to New York's JFK, followed by another drive. Harry dared not ask how they could afford it. He dare not ask anything at all.
The trip felt surreal. The overhead announcements, the strange accents at the airports, the rge American cars—they were all mysteries Harry had no words for. He was a ghost drifting through their journey, a burden cowering in Vernon's shadow as they crossed the Atntic. On arrival, they rented a car and set off on a long drive northward, away from the city's bustle, into rural New Jersey. The buildings thinned out, roads became narrower, and eventually forests swallowed the horizon. By the evening of May 15th, 1988, the Dursleys parked near a dipidated old sign: "Camp Crystal Lake."
The sign itself was nearly unreadable, its paint cracked and peeling away. Rusty chains, overgrown grass, and a pervasive hush hung over the pce. It was an old summer camp—abandoned since the early 1960s. The truth, known only to a few locals and whispered in certain fearful circles, was that once upon a time this pce had run red with blood. Murders, vanishings, and terror had stained this stretch of woodnd. Camp Crystal Lake was cursed ground—a perfect dumping ground for a small, useless boy.
"This is it," Vernon said, wiping sweat from his brow. He stepped out of the car, followed by Petunia and Dudley, who scrunched up his nose in disgust. "Absolutely revolting," Petunia sniffed, eyeing the moldy cabins and derelict docks peeking through the tree line.
Harry remained in the back seat, unsure if he should follow. Fear churned in his stomach. He wondered if he had displeased them so badly that they would leave him here. The notion seemed absurd—but then again, Harry was used to being punished in baffling, cruel ways.
"Out, boy!" Vernon barked, throwing open the car door and yanking Harry out by his scrawny arm. Harry's knees hit the dirt. He let out a small squeak of pain. He looked up through tangled bangs at the grim, empty campground. There were broken canoes piled near a half-colpsed boathouse and cabins with missing doors. The ke beyond—if he could call that stagnant body of water a ke—gleamed darkly, reflecting the st rays of the setting sun.
Harry was terrified. He didn't understand where they were or why they had come. But he knew better than to speak without being spoken to.
"We're going to have a little trip through these cabins," Vernon said, tone dripping with false joviality. "Aren't we, Petunia?"
Petunia nodded, her mouth a thin line. "Yes, Vernon." She took Dudley's hand and started walking up the dirt path. Vernon pushed Harry forward, as if guiding him deeper into the camp.
They marched past old campfire rings, piles of decomposed leaves, and crooked wooden signs beling once-happy pces: "Bunks," "Canteen," "Infirmary," "Waterfront." Harry glimpsed these words but didn't dare form questions. Still, confusion gnawed at him. What in the world were they doing here?
Soon, they halted near a cabin that had partially colpsed. The door was off its hinges, lying in the dirt. Windows were broken. Vandals had left behind graffiti—strange shapes and words Harry couldn't comprehend. Inside, a few rickety bunks stood like skeletons of happier days.
Vernon cleared his throat. "This... this will do," he said. Petunia pressed a white handkerchief to her nose. Dudley kicked a loose stone, sending it skittering over a rotten pnk.
"Vernon, hurry," Petunia urged. "This pce gives me the creeps."
Vernon turned to Harry. He bent low, his face inches from the boy's. Harry smelled tobacco and the stale scent of airpne food on his uncle's breath. "Listen here, boy," he began, voice low and menacing. "We're leaving you here. Understand?"
Harry's mind bnked with fear. His eyes filled with tears he tried desperately to hide. "I—I—" he stammered, heart pounding. This had to be a joke. A punishment. They'd done cruel things before—locked him in cupboards for days, starved him—but leaving him in a strange pce? Another country? Panic seized him. He felt something strange stir inside him—a tiny spark of strength, maybe magic, though he knew nothing of such things. But that spark was instantly subdued, as if something heavy pressed on his very soul.
"You're not worth the trouble," Vernon spat. "We've done enough, raising you all these years. You're a freak, and we're rid of you. Dumbledore—your precious guardian—wanted you weakened. Consider that job done."
Petunia frowned at the mention of the name, but said nothing. She just wanted to leave, to be done with this sordid business. Dudley snickered, as if Harry's misery was a grand joke.
Harry shook. "Please..." he whispered, voice barely audible. He dared not say more. Experience told him it would only anger them.
Vernon grunted and straightened. Without another word, the three of them marched back the way they had come. Harry stumbled after them, but Vernon shoved him back. Harry fell hard against the half-rotten bunk, dust billowing around him. By the time he scrambled up, coughing, the Dursleys were already disappearing into the trees. He heard the car doors sm, the engine roar to life, and then the crunch of gravel as they drove away—leaving him alone. Truly, hopelessly alone.
The setting sun elongated the shadows. The camp seemed to breathe around him: old timbers creaking, leaves whispering, and something else—a low sigh, almost a moan. Harry's tears slipped down his dirt-smudged cheeks. He stood there, a tiny boy amidst ruins, his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out all rational thought. Fear of darkness, fear of everything. But what was he to do? He knew only how to obey, how to serve. Here, he had no masters. Was he free? Or simply abandoned like a broken tool?
As twilight deepened, Harry wandered from the colpsed cabin to another, more intact structure. Overhead, the sky bled into oranges and purples. Tall pine trees towered over the camp like silent sentinels. He found a cabin that looked stable enough and slipped inside. Dust motes swirled, illuminated by the st sunbeams piercing the grimy windows. The pce smelled of must and old wood. Bunk beds lined the walls. Torn mattresses y on the floor. It was empty, lifeless, yet it offered some sembnce of shelter.
Harry curled into a corner, arms wrapped around his knees. He thought of the cupboard under the stairs, of the small moments of soce he'd had. He thought of being Lani, of how he'd secretly pretended to be a girl in the silence of that cupboard. Here, there was no one to sneer or ugh. He was still terrified, though. Tears streamed silently. He was hungry, but he had no food. He had never been this alone. The night fell slowly, and he drifted into a restless sleep, sobbing softly, a tiny figure in a vast, haunted darkness.
Morning of May 16th came quietly, with soft birdsong and a gentle breeze. Harry awoke stiff and sore, his stomach growling painfully. He rose gingerly and peered outside. The sunlight revealed more details: a main courtyard overrun with weeds, a dock leaning precariously out over the still ke, and a boathouse colpsed in upon itself. Harry swallowed hard. He had no choice but to survive. He knew how to find scraps, how to make do. Back at Privet Drive, he had learned to pinch leftover bread and stale crackers just to avoid fainting. He could do it again here. Maybe something was left behind. Maybe he could find... something.
He stepped outside, squinting at the brightness. Harry decided to search the camp thoroughly. He knew nothing of the horrors that had occurred here decades ago, nothing of the silent guardian who lurked in the woods. He just saw broken cabins, twisted nails, and overgrown weeds.
As he wandered, he came upon an old storage shed. Inside he found a rusty toolbox. While it made his heart skip with excitement—tools meant he could fix things—he also knew he needed food first. He put aside that thought for now and kept looking. Another cabin's remains revealed a mouse's nest. He dared not think of eating the poor creatures. He continued to explore until he found what looked like an old pantry attached to a rger cabin. The door was jammed, but after tugging and grunting for a while, he managed to slip inside.
A cloud of dust assaulted his lungs. The shelves were mostly bare. Old jars, their bels faded to nothing, stood like silent soldiers. Some were cracked. Others had lids rusted shut. He tested a few. Most were spoiled or empty. Eventually, he found a jar of honey—crystallized but still edible—and a tin of something that might have been dried beans once. Now it was more dust than food. Still, he licked at the honey, savoring the sweetness that stuck to his tongue. It was something. Later, he would have to fish or forage. He had seen the ke—maybe there were fish.
Moments ter, Harry noticed something strange. A gentle whisper echoed inside his mind, or perhaps just outside his ear. He spun around, heart thudding. There was no one there. But the whisper came again—a soft, maternal hush. "Poor dear," it seemed to say. Harry's eyes went wide. He had never heard anything like it. Was he going mad?
As the days passed, Harry kept himself busy. His fear and loneliness never left him, but he refused to simply lie down and die. He had chores to do—though no one demanded it of him now. The empty camp bothered him. It felt wrong to leave it in such disarray. Back at the Dursleys', if something was broken, Harry was made to fix it. He had become surprisingly adept at small repairs for someone so young and malnourished. And now, even though he was abandoned, that ingrained drive pushed him to work.
On May 17th, Harry found an old broom in one of the cabins. Its straw was half-rotten and the handle splintered, but he used it to sweep the courtyard. The weeds tangled around his ankles. He knelt and began pulling them out by hand, piling them in a corner. He coughed on the dust, but persevered. He pretended someone would praise him for this, that Aunt Petunia would be satisfied—though he knew she was gone for good. He tried not to cry. Instead, he made the camp a little cleaner, a little less broken.
By May 20th, Harry had established a rough routine. In the mornings, he searched for food—berries in the nearby bushes, pnts that he wasn't entirely sure he could eat, but he tried cautiously. He found an old fishing line and hook in a cabin closet and attempted to fish. His first attempts were clumsy, but after hours of patience, he caught a small sunfish. He cooked it over a makeshift fire, remembering how Aunt Petunia would yell if he so much as touched the stove at home. He burned his hand slightly, but the fish was nourishing. With meager rations and careful scavenging, he wouldn't starve immediately. He wondered if he could find seeds and pnt something. Maybe he could settle here, as frightening as the thought was.
Each day, as he worked, he felt a presence—soothing yet sad. A motherly whisper, as if someone watched over him. On the evening of May 22nd, Harry sat by a cabin window, looking out at the ke tinted red by the setting sun. He heard the voice again, clearer this time:
"My sweet child... do not fear..."
Harry jolted. He looked around. The cabin was empty. He had made it his main shelter, piling leaves and old bnkets into a nestlike bed. "W-who's there?" he asked in a trembling whisper. No answer came. But he felt warmth brush against his mind, like a comforting hand.
He closed his eyes, trying to imagine a kind mother who would protect him. He had no memory of his real mother, Lily Potter. He had no idea she died saving him. All he had now was a ghostly whisper, a gentle hush. He curled up and slept, dreaming of a smiling woman he'd never met, and vaguely comforted by this unseen presence.
Fshbacks tormented Harry's dreams. In one, he remembered kneeling in the Dursleys' kitchen, scrubbing the floor while Dudley tracked mud behind him. Another time he remembered Aunt Petunia shrieking at him for daring to burn the toast. In these dreams, however, there was something else—a sense of strength coiled within him, like a spring. He didn't understand it. It frightened him. But now, waking in the stillness of the camp, he felt the weight of silence. There were no shrieks, no Dudley, no Vernons. Only the whisper.
By May 25th, Harry had begun to focus on repairs. He took the toolbox he'd found, sorting through the rusted nails, testing each hammer and saw bde. Many were useless, but he salvaged what he could. He knew little about carpentry—other than what necessity had taught him at the Dursleys' house. He would fix squeaky hinges, nail loose floorboards, or tighten leaky pipes when forced. Here, he applied the same stubborn resourcefulness. Slowly, cabin by cabin, he tried to make them safer. He hammered nails into loose boards, scavenged intact pnks from colpsed cabins to reinforce others, and even tried to board up broken windows to keep out the wind and rain.
Day after day, he toiled. He was still scared, flinching at every strange sound in the forest. On May 27th, he glimpsed something huge lurking at the tree line. Frozen with terror, Harry hid behind a cabin's broken shutters. He saw a towering figure in the shadows—a hulking shape in tattered clothing, something white and inhuman about its face. He nearly whimpered, remembering Uncle Vernon's threats of monsters and freaks. But the figure did not approach. It simply watched for a moment and then melted back into the forest. Harry couldn't shake off the fear, but neither could he leave. He had nowhere else to go.
He heard the whisper ter that night, more insistent: "He is my son. He protects this pce. Do not fear him. He will not hurt you if you respect his home." The voice was gentle, urging Harry not to panic. Harry didn't understand. Whose son? What did this voice mean? Yet he felt oddly reassured. Somehow, he knew that this giant lurking in the woods was not here to harm him. Not if Harry caused no trouble.
As May blended into June, Harry's makeshift improvements bore fruit. He cleared paths between cabins, set aside a storage pce for nails and pnks, and even tried to patch holes in roofs with tar he scraped from an old maintenance shed. He was meticulous and patient. While working, he would hum softly, half-remembered lulbies he'd invented in his cupboard. It made him feel less alone.
On June 1st, while searching under the main cabin's floorboards for salvageable wood, Harry stumbled upon something strange: an old photo album, half-chewed by mice. Inside were bck-and-white photographs of children ughing, pying by the ke, counselors smiling, a young woman in a sweater, her kind face and warm smile radiating maternal care. Harry stared at the woman's face, drawn to it for reasons he could not articute. She reminded him of the whisper. He found a name written on the back of one photo: "Pame Voorhees, Head Cook, 1957 Season." Pame Voorhees. The name meant nothing to Harry yet. But it felt important. He kept the photos, pressing them carefully between two dry boards in a safe corner.
That night, when the moon was high, Harry awoke to soft sobs echoing through the cabin. He sat up, frightened, but determined to understand. "H-hello?" he called into the darkness.
A shape coalesced near the door. Not solid, not entirely visible—more like a gentle shimmer in the moonlight. The shape took form as a woman, dressed in an old-fashioned sweater and scks, her hair neatly styled. She looked almost like the photo. Her eyes glistened with tears. Harry gasped.
"I'm sorry, little one," the ghostly figure said softly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Harry's voice trembled. "W-who are you?" He pressed himself back against the wall, heart pounding. Yet, he sensed no malice from her. Quite the opposite.
"I am Pame Voorhees," she answered. Her voice was airy, as if carried by a distant breeze. "I was once the cook here. I—my son, Jason, he drowned here, and... and I—" She paused, pain twisting her spectral features. "Things happened. Tragedies. I remain to watch over him. He still roams this pce, protecting it from those who would defile it."
Harry blinked. He didn't fully understand. The idea of a ghost shocked him, yet he somehow accepted it more easily than he would have expected. After all, what did he know of the world? Maybe ghosts were real. He was living in an abandoned camp in America, after all. Maybe anything was possible.
"Are you... the one who's been whispering to me?" he asked, voice small.
Pame nodded, tears slipping ghostlike down her cheeks. "I saw you, abandoned and alone. So small, so afraid. I tried to comfort you. My poor boy... why have they left you here?"
Harry's lip quivered. He didn't know what to say. "They... my aunt and uncle," he managed. "They didn't want me anymore. They called me freak."
Pame's expression hardened, a motherly indignation burning in her eyes. "Cruel," she said softly. "No child deserves that." She moved closer, though she seemed to glide rather than walk. She reached out a spectral hand. Harry felt a gentle warmth rather than a touch. "You are safe here, as long as you do not bring harm. Jason can be... protective. But he respects those who mean well. I have spoken to him, told him of you."
Harry sniffled, tears welling again. "Thank you," he said, feeling a profound relief. He was not alone anymore. There was someone—something—looking out for him.
Pame's ghostly presence seemed to fill the cabin with gentle light. "You are so young," she murmured. "And yet, I feel something... something deep within you. A strength, straining against bonds." She frowned slightly, as if sensing the magical bindings Dumbledore had pced on him. She didn't fully understand magic, but she sensed the unnatural suppression around him. "You do not belong in this suffering," she whispered. "But I cannot undo what has been done. All I can offer is guidance and what comfort I can give."
Harry hiccupped quietly. "Please... I don't know what to do. I've been trying to fix the camp... I don't know why. I just... I don't have anything else to do."
Pame smiled sadly. "Jason and I... we loved this camp once. It was a pce of ughter. If you wish to help, then continue what you're doing. Repair what you can. Make a home here. You have nowhere else, do you?"
Harry shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. He was so tired of being unwanted. So tired of fear. If this ghostly woman would have him, would guide him, he would stay.
"Then stay," Pame said gently. "Stay and make this pce your own. I will watch over you. My Jason will keep harm away." She paused. "He may seem frightening, but he is protective. If he knows you mean no ill will, he will not hurt you."
Harry nodded slowly. He looked into her spectral face and saw genuine care, something he had never known from a grown-up. He felt a longing he could not describe, a hunger for love and guidance. He found himself wanting to please her, to do as she said. It was as if some part of him recognized maternal love, however ghostly. "I'll do it," he whispered. "I'll make it nice again. I can cook and... and clean. I'll do my best, I promise."
Pame's eyes glowed softly. "Good child," she said, voice warm. "I will come to you again. Do not be afraid. Sleep now." Her form faded slowly, like morning mist.
Harry remained awake a while longer, tears drying on his cheeks. He had a purpose now—albeit a strange one. He would make this camp livable. He had tools, he had some skills. He would survive. And he had... a mother figure, even if only a ghost. He drifted into slumber comforted by the idea that someone cared.
In the following days and weeks—the st week of May and into the first half of June—Harry poured his heart into restoring the camp. He started by cleaning the courtyard thoroughly. He pulled weeds, gathered debris, and set aside salvageable wood. He swept leaves off cabin porches and tried to fix broken steps. When he needed something, he searched high and low. He discovered an old tool shed behind thick bushes on May 28th. Inside he found more tools: hammers, axes, even a handsaw. Most were rusty, but with patience, he cleaned them as best he could.
Each evening, after working until his arms ached, Harry would sit near the ke and nibble on whatever he had managed to gather or catch. Some days, if he caught fish, he tried different ways of cooking them over a campfire. Necessity had made him a half-decent cook; here, he refined that skill. He learned which berries were safe by trial and error, memorizing their shapes and fvors. He often muttered to himself, pretending Aunt Petunia was about to scold him for wasting food, reminding himself to be careful. But now, he worked for himself—and perhaps for Pame's approval. He wanted her to be proud. He yearned for that.
Pame's visits were sporadic. Sometimes she appeared just before dawn, floating at the edge of a cabin, watching Harry work. Sometimes he only felt her presence, a comforting whisper in his ear as he struggled to lift a heavy beam or a sagging bunk. "Good, dear child," she would say, "You are doing well." Each word spurred Harry on. He began to think of Pame as "Mummy Voorhees" in his mind. He dared not say it aloud, but he clung to the idea. He was Lani in his cupboard, and now here he could be anything—maybe even Pame's cherished helper.
On June 5th, Harry ventured deeper into the camp's outskirts to search for berries and wild mushrooms. He carried a makeshift basket woven from reeds. While combing a patch of ferns, he heard a distant rustle. He froze, heart thumping. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hulking figure again—Jason Voorhees. This time, Harry dared to remain still and watch.
Jason stepped into a shaft of sunlight. He was huge, broad-shouldered and tall as a tree. His clothes were ragged—a tattered jacket and worn trousers. His face was hidden by a strange mask—white and hockey-like. He carried a machete in one hand. Harry's blood turned to ice. But Jason did not charge at him. Instead, Jason stood there, silent as a statue, watching.
Harry remembered Pame's words: "He will not hurt you if you mean no harm." Summoning all his courage, Harry slowly pced a berry in his basket and nodded slightly, as if acknowledging Jason's presence. He tried to convey respect through his body nguage. Jason tilted his head, as if studying Harry. Minutes passed, an eternity of silence and tension. Then Jason turned and lumbered back into the woods. Harry released a shaky breath. He had survived a confrontation with the camp's silent guardian.
That night, Pame came to Harry again. He told her, trembling with nervousness and pride, how he'd seen Jason and not been harmed. Pame smiled warmly. "He knows you. I have told him you are a friend. He will watch from afar. You need not fear animals or intruders. Jason keeps them away."
This comforted Harry. He realized that he was forging a strange family here—a ghostly mother figure and her silent son, both bound to this haunted ground. And he, an abandoned boy from Engnd, was trying to restore their lost home. The thought made him strangely happy. He had never had a family that cared—this might be the closest he'd come.
Harry's progress accelerated. By June 10th, he had one cabin partially restored. The door was fixed. The windows, though not repced with gss, were boarded neatly. He cleaned the interior thoroughly, scraping off moss and dirt. He arranged bnkets he had found, shook out the dust, and made a simple bed for himself. He discovered old dishes in a mess hall kitchen and cleaned them. Even the courtyard looked less wild. Harry's hands were blistered, his muscles sore, but he was proud.
Sometimes he caught glimpses of Jason moving silently through the trees, or standing on the far side of the ke. He never spoke—Harry never heard his voice—but the very fact that Jason did not chase him away was encouraging. Harry began to think of Jason as an older brother—silent, overprotective, fierce. He remembered Pame's instructions. She had asked him to respect Jason, and Harry did. He never touched the cabins that felt more personal, he avoided certain areas that gave him eerie feelings. He learned to sense where Jason preferred him not to go.
Pame, for her part, offered gentle guidance. "Focus on one cabin at a time. Make it livable," she said one evening as Harry ate a small meal of boiled greens. "You have done so well. You are resourceful, clever. Your aunt and uncle did you a cruelty, but they also gave you skills. You survive. I am proud."
Harry beamed at her praise. That feeling—pride from an adult—was entirely new to him. It warmed him from within, dispelling some of the shadows in his heart. He tried to ask Pame questions about her past, but she seemed reluctant to speak of the tragedies that occurred at Camp Crystal Lake. He only learned fragments: that Jason had drowned when he was a boy, that terrible things happened afterward. Harry sensed a deep pain there and did not press. He was content to have her presence, her gentle words of encouragement.
He continued to push himself, using every skill he had gleaned from the Dursleys to survive and improve. He practiced cooking over open fme, tried to repair old kitchen utensils, managed to create a makeshift root celr by digging a hole and covering it with pnks to keep a few days' worth of berries fresh. On June 12th, he found a hammer and nails sturdy enough to fix the main cabin's roof. Climbing onto that roof was terrifying, but he managed, driven by the desire to please Pame and make the camp shine again.
Sometime around June 14th, Harry began to notice small changes in himself. He was still weak and malnourished, but he felt slightly stronger than before. His muscles responded better, and he didn't get as dizzy as often. He didn't know that his innate magic, even suppressed at 99%, was pushing at the bindings, strengthening him little by little. Each day of physical bor, each moment of determination to survive, made that tiny percentage of magic burn hotter, giving him durability and resilience. He did not know he was a wizard; he only knew he felt more capable than ever before.
Pame noticed this too. She did not understand magic, but she sensed energy swirling around Harry, as if he carried a source of power that even he did not comprehend. She said nothing, though—simply watched with maternal pride as he grew more confident. He sometimes spoke softly, calling himself "Lani" when alone, enjoying that private comfort of a different identity. He was still Harry, but here, free from the Dursleys' scrutiny, he felt a subtle freedom to be himself—or herself—if only in the quiet corners of the cabins. In these moments, he imagined Pame approving, encouraging him to be who he wished to be.
By June 15th, a full month after his arrival, Harry had accomplished much. The camp was still far from perfect—roofs leaked, windows were broken, the docks threatened to colpse—but compared to the day he arrived, it was vastly improved. He had one main cabin he could sleep in comfortably, a small store of food, and tools arranged neatly in a shed. He knew where to fish and which berries were safe. He had learned to avoid certain boggy areas and where Jason liked to roam. He was no longer crying himself to sleep every night. Instead, he found a strange peace in his bor and the gentle guidance of Pame's spirit.
That afternoon, Harry stood in the courtyard, broom in hand, admiring his work. He remembered how he first came here, shivering and terrified, with no sense of hope. Now, he felt proud. Not just for surviving, but for making something better. He wiped sweat from his brow and turned as he sensed someone watching.
At the edge of the trees, Jason stood again. This time, Harry mustered the courage to wave shyly at him. Jason didn't wave back—he didn't move. But he didn't vanish either. He stood there for a long minute, silent and foreboding, as if acknowledging Harry's presence. It felt like acceptance.
Later that night, Pame appeared, glowing softly in the moonlight. Harry sat cross-legged near the campfire he had made in a metal fire ring. He had prepared a simple broth from boiled greens. It was thin and bnd, but warm.
"You have done well, my child," Pame said, voice filled with tenderness. "You have made this pce livable again. Jason and I both see that you respect our home."
Harry smiled, tears gathering in his eyes. He desperately wanted her approval, and now that he had it, he felt a warmth blossom in his chest. "Thank you, M—" He caught himself before calling her "Mummy," unsure if it would offend. But Pame only smiled, as if understanding.
"In time," she said, "this pce may feel like home to you. Until then, remember that you are not alone. We are here. Rest now, child."
Harry nodded. He took a sip of his broth, savoring the simple comfort. He watched as Pame's form drifted away, leaving only faint moonbeams dancing on the cabin walls.
He had survived a month in this forsaken camp. He had carved a life out of abandonment, found kindness from the unlikeliest sources—a ghostly mother and her silent, fearsome son. He had turned horror into sanctuary, in his small, determined way.
As he y down to sleep in his neatly patched cabin, Harry wondered what tomorrow would bring. More repairs, more cleaning, perhaps discovering new corners of the camp. He would continue to obey Pame's gentle suggestions, continue to respect Jason's silent boundaries. And in doing so, he would carve a pce for himself in a world that had thrown him away.
Under the stars, with the forest whispering softly, Harry Potter—small, timid, bound in magic he did not know—found a strange kind of peace in the ruins of Camp Crystal Lake. He fell asleep dreaming not of cold cupboards and screeching aunts, but of a quiet mother's voice guiding him, and a strong, protective brother watching from the shadows.
He had been cast aside, yet here, in this strange corner of America, Harry Potter began to grow.
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Kyubii Son Reborn: Harry Potter/Naruto Crossover (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Rescued by Tails: Harry Potter/Sonic the Hedgehog Crossover (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Rescued by Lamia: Harry Potter/Monster Musume Crossover (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Harry Potter and Toon Force: Harry Potter/Looney Tunes Crossover (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Shinigami's Vacation: Naruto/Bleach Crossover (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Harry Potter and BBPS Reborn: Harry Potter/ LitRPG (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Lonely Ruler and Her Sunshine: Harry Potter/One Piece Crossover (Up to 6 chapters avaible now)
Raised by Mew Reborn: Harry Potter/Pokemon Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
Fragile Hope: Harry Potter/Saw series Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
Symphony of Machines: Harry Potter/FNIA Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
Despair's Unexpected: Savior Harry Potter/Danganronpa Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
The Silent Lulbies of Forgotten Factory: Harry Potter/Poppy Pytime Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
Threads Woven Between Two Souls: Harry Potter/Coraline Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
Queen Of Forbidden Forest: Harry Potter (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
Worlds Unbound Magic: Modern Harry Potter(events are 20 years so instead of 1981 it is in 2001) (Up to 5 Chapters avaible now)
Moonlight and Mist: Harry Potter/Percy Jackson Crossover (Up to 6 Chapters avaible now)
You can read any of my fanfictions which are published here with 2 weeks of early access before everyone on my Patreon
Beyond Boundaries of Time: Chapter 8 and Chapter 9 already avaible on my Patreon
Neon Shadows of Fate: Chapter 8 and Chapter 9 are already avaible on my Patreon
Bound by Shadows and Sorrow: Chapter 8 and Chapter 9 are already avaible on my Patreon
Harry Potter and the Crimson Shadows: Chapter 8 and Chapter 9 are already avaible on my Patreon
Harry and the Wolf: Chapter 10 and Chapter 11 are already avaible on my Patreon
Naruto and Secret of Aperture Science: Chapter 10 and Chapter 11 are already avaible on my Patreon