Oh, wow! Didn't see you there. Thought you might've been a Brambleback or something... you know, one of those nasty little things that skitter around in forests. Could've accidentally zapped you. Ish. Anyway, consider yourself lucky that I didn't.
You're welcome.
Right, let me introduce myself properly. The name's Thaddeus Bartholomew—yes, that's a bit of a mouthful. But if you'd met me about... let's say five or six years ago, it'd have been even harder to keep track of who I was. Back then, I wasn't exactly what you'd call "ordinary," and not in the cool, mysterious way. More like "Why does that guy seem to attract chaos like a lightning rod?" kind of way. Oh, and in case it matters, I'm 21 now. Currently breezing—or stumbling, depending on who you ask—through my current year at Hogwarts.
Wait, yes, you heard that correctly. Hogwarts. The one with the wands, the robes, the everything-magical vibe. What, you think I'm just talking to myself here?
*Stares directly into your soul for dramatic effect.*
Yeah, I see you.
I'm watching you.
...
Haha, kidding.
Or am I?
Anyway, here I am. Under... let's call them "interesting" circumstances, I ended up at this school of witches and wizards. Dumbledore, in all his twinkly-eyed wisdom, called it part of my "coping process." Something about magical education is good for my personal growth. Right. Not sure how battling self-aware staircases or dodging poltergeists counts as therapy, but sure, let's roll with that.
Now, let's address the elephant—or should I say chimera—in the room. I didn't exactly sign up for this whole "Half-Blood" gig. Yeah, you heard me: demigod, half-mortal, child-of-a-somewhat-famous-divine-figure, whatever label you want to slap on it. Sounds glamorous, doesn't it?
Spoiler alert: it's not. If you're here reading or listening to this—really paying attention—then you're probably in the same boat as me. Or, gods forbid, you're just... curious. Either way, I've got one piece of advice for you.
Burn this book.
Seriously. Throw it in a fire, chuck it into a lake, bury it under a mountain, launch it into space—I don't care how you do it. Just make sure it's gone. And then? Forget you ever saw it. Pretend this never happened. Make yourself believe you imagined the whole thing—develop selective amnesia if you have to.
Why?
Because life's complicated enough without diving into the world of gods and monsters. Trust me on this one. You'd have been better off believing whatever story your mom told you about your dad going out for a 14-year milk run and never coming back. Would've been easier, simpler, and blissfully mundane.
But no. You're here. You've seen too much already. And now, whether you like it or not, life's about to get very interesting.
Still here?
Good luck, you're gonna need it.
...
Now, if you're still flipping through these pages, I've got to say: you've got guts, or you're just plain stubborn, either way, I did warn you.
Being a Half-Blood—or, in my case, a pretty "interesting" mage—is no picnic. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as the stories make it sound. I don't even fully understand how my magic works most of the time. Sure, I know it can blow things up if I focus hard enough (which, by the way, is giving me ideas for later—note to self). But magic, as fun as it sounds, is messy. Chaotic. Dangerous.
It's a scary kind of life. One that drags you into dangerous situations faster than you can say, "Oops." Most days, it feels like a one-way ticket to disaster. And not the kind of disaster you laugh about later—oh no.
I've heard the stories. Campers setting out on quests only to disappear, their names whispered like ghost stories around the campfire. Some never return. Some are never even found. That's the reality we deal with—not the kind you can see with mortal eyes.
If you're just a regular kid—or whatever you identify as (attack helicopter, M1 Abrams tank, overly dramatic samurai, doesn't matter to me)—then congratulations! You're living in blissful ignorance. You're free to believe this is all fiction, just a fun little story to pass the time. And honestly? I envy you. I envy that you get to read these words and think, Wow, what a wild imagination this guy has.
As long as you can think that, it means you're not one of us.
But... if you're flipping through these pages and something feels off—if you catch a shadow moving where there shouldn't be one, feel eyes on you when you're alone, or get a chill down your spine every time you step outside... stop. Stop right now. Put this book down and dispose it.
Therefore if that's you? You might not be as "regular" as you think. And it won't be long before they notice.
Let me be crystal clear: they will come for you.
Who are "they," you ask? Oh, you'll find out soon enough if you don't take my advice. Let's just say they're not friendly, "they" are the kind of beings that will make you regret ever wondering about the unknown.
So here's a golden rule to live by: Never chase what you don't understand.
Curiosity might sound like a noble quality, but, in our world, it's a shortcut to chaos. Stick to the life you know—the simple, treasure the unbothered existence you're lucky enough to have. Keep your head down. Stay out of trouble.
And for the love of all things good in this messed-up world, stop reading this book.
Unless, of course, you're already in too deep. In that case... well.
Welcome to the club!
...
So, am I a troubled kid?
Eh... that's debatable. Let's just say it's a toss-up. Fifty-fifty-ish, depending on who you ask. If you're looking for a definitive answer, you're not getting one from me.
I mean, I'm not exactly like my buddy Percy. That guy? He's got a gift for disasters. (Sorry, Perce, but you know it's true. Had to throw you under the bus there. Figuratively, of course—this time.) Anyway, back to me. Trouble finds me in more subtle ways, I'd say. It's less "Oops, I accidentally wrecked the school fountain," and more "Huh, guess summoning eldritch fire during math class was a bit much." You get the vibe.
Honestly, though? You don't need me to explain. Just ask my friends—if they're not too busy laughing about the countless times I've somehow managed to nearly burn my eyebrows off during "controlled" magical experiments—they'll give you the rundown. And sure, some of them might throw shade. Like the time Percy, nearly blew up a plane! At least that wasn't me. Professionals have standards.
Now, where were we? Oh, right—how things started to spiral out of control. Let's rewind to May, five-ish years ago.
Twenty-nine borderline feral teenagers, two harried teachers, and one woefully undersized yellow school bus, all crammed together on a one-way trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The mission? Learn about ancient Greek and Roman artifacts and maybe not burn the place down.
Sounds manageable, right? Wrong.
If there's one universal truth we all agree on, it's that Yancy field trips are the absolute worst. Always have been. Always will be.
Hence something stupid was bound to happen.