Percy Jackson at Hogwarts

by Anonymous

Summary:

The four demigods, Annabeth Chase, Nico di Angelo, Percy Jackson, and Thalia Grace, are enlisted on a quest to go undercover at Hogwarts and help figure out what is disturbing the balance of magic.

Chapter 1: wizards are what now?

Notes:

Please no hate or rude comments on my spelling, grammar, or writing in general. I'm not looking for criticism, I'm just writing for fun.

I anticipate this work having up to thirty chapters, but no promises.

I hope you enjoy!

*

Chapter 1: Wizards Are What Now?

Look, Percy never wanted to be a half-blood.

Being a half-blood was dangerous. It was scary. Most of the time, on top of having neglectful parents and a dysfunctional family that wanted you dead for petty reasons, it got you killed in other painful, nasty ways. There wasn’t a day that went by where Percy didn’t feel envious of the kids who didn’t have to deal with the mythological world.

Percy Jackson was seventeen years old.

Until a month ago, he was fighting a war against a Greek primordial, the Earth Mother incarnate, also known as his great grandmother, Gaea. Before that, he fought in a war against his grandfather, Kronos, the Greek Titan of Time who wanted to overthrow the Olympian gods and take over the world. Somewhere between all that, he also found time to spend a month in literal Greek hell, Tartarus, who also happened to be his great grandfather, and who also tried to murder him on sight.

Was Percy a troubled kid?

Yeah, you could say that.

And right now, he was still trying to clean up the mess from the Second Giant War.

One would think that the hardest part of war was the battle, and the easy part would come after victory, but as Percy was finding out, it was what came after that was harder. Work always followed war. And after the Battle of Gaea there was almost too much for the demigods to handle.

Barely a month had passed since Gaea’s defeat.

The days were filled with healing the wounded, helping each other get back on their feet, rebuilding the camps, and trying to keep the fragile peace.

There was still a lot to sort out and the gods weren’t as hands-on as most would like. News spread about how the gods helped the seven demigods of the prophecy fight the giants, because a giant couldn’t be killed by a mortal alone, and this made many angry. The Olympians could pop-in for a single battle against the giants when it was their own ass on the line, but not when a group of their kids needed to rebuild their home that was dedicated to the gods? It was infuriating, ancient godly laws or not.

Besides Chiron and Dionysus – the only god to physically stay at Camp Half-Blood following the battle against Gaea – there were no other adults. The oldest demigods were barely twenty. Despite age, most, if not all, the campers looked to the prophecy demigods for guidance and leadership.

The brunt of the responsibility fell on Annabeth and Percy. They had taken the reins in leading Camp Half-Blood through the Second Titan War, and now they were survivors of the Second Giant War.

Things weren’t easy for a long time.

Camp Jupiter sustained damage not just from Polybotes’ monster army, but also from the Argo II, when the eidolons forced Leo to attack. New Rome was filled with smouldering buildings, and the camp was intact but broken; however, the Romans were quick with building and were able to recover in only a week or so.

Meanwhile, everything had to be rebuilt for Camp Half-Blood.

The camp was completely ravaged.

During Gaea’s seize of the Greek demigod camp the cabins were burned by the monsters and toppled by Gaea’s massive earthquakes. Not even the Big House – the staple of Camp Half-Blood, the oldest building on the lot – survived the attack.

On top of the damage problems, nobody could be sent back to their mortal homes, with mortal parents, and a mortal life – “mortal” being the slang for “normal” among the demigod world – despite the new lack of residency at Camp Half-Blood. Kids needed to heal. There were nightmares, trauma, PTSD, wounds, and concussions. There were people to be counted and bodies that were missing, some so mauled they were impossible to identify. Several bodies were unearthed from the ground, sucked in by Gaea’s attack and suffocated beneath the dirt.

Shrouds were made for those who could be identified, the unknown buried in unmarked graves to be remembered. Those who were missing were given honorary shrouds, unknown if they were in one of the unmarked graves. The Romans were unable to do their traditional funeral rituals – transporting the bodies all the way to Camp Jupiter was just not feasible – and they were burned in shrouds alongside the Greeks.

Mortal parents simply couldn’t help. They couldn’t fathom their children being in a war.

There was also the fear that demigods would be taken away from Camp Half-Blood by their parents, horrified at what their kids were put through. Chiron especially worried about demigods who would be kept from Camp by their parents, forcing them to live alone without any mythological world support and made to defend against monsters on their own without any magic or special weapons.

So, among the remaining able-bodied demigods, Greeks alongside Romans worked together to erect the New Big House. Tents from the Romans’ siege on Camp Half-Blood were gifted to the Greeks to provide residency until the new cabins were built, while the Romans started to march west.

During the chaos, Percy didn’t have any time to sit down and process all that had happened.

The whole camp looked up to him as a leader, but Percy didn’t feel very strong or wise; he only felt bitter.

There were some who walked by and whispered “lucky” and “prophecy.” There were some who stopped talking as soon as he walked into the room – those who acted like he wasn’t even human, just some untouchable hero. They ostracised him, whether they meant to or not.

Percy was aware that he was one of the so-called “lucky” campers; lucky being in comparison, because at least he walked away with all his limbs intact.

It didn’t feel like he was lucky.

He wasn’t unscathed. He bore many scars, visible and not. It had been months since Tartarus, but some things didn’t peel off so easily. His time in the Pit was an impossible nightmare on bad nights, and a shadow on good days.

He was learning about new aversions and triggers, too. For both him and Annabeth.

Elevators. Gods, he hated elevators now. That feeling of weightlessness, the descent, the box of steel and stale air – it was too much like the Doors of Death. The elevator music made it twice as worse. Annabeth hated them, too. She wouldn’t say it aloud, of course, but the way her fingers would grip his tighter in those cramped spaces said enough.

They both said names softer now. Hecate. Nyx. Gaea. The power behind those syllables tasted too heavy, too sharp on the tongue. The words held echoes.

Annabeth had changed in other ways, too.

She flinched, just slightly, whenever Percy summoned water with too much force. Her mouth would go tight, her shoulders too still. He knew it wasn’t him – not really – that she feared, but the rawness of power. The memories that came with it.

She was also afraid of the dark, now. In the dark, her childhood fears returned with claws. She had never liked shadows as a kid, but after Tartarus? She lit a candle whenever she could.

Some nights, he would wake and find her twisting in their sheets, breath sharp and skin damp with sweat. The breeze from the open window wouldn’t help. She wouldn’t speak of the dreams. Wouldn’t even meet his eyes, sometimes. But Percy could guess.

The monsters. The whispers. The poison air. The eyes watching from the dark.

He had the same dreams.

And when she woke angry – short with him, sharp words with no explanation – he never rose to the bait. He saw the guilt in her gaze afterward. She didn’t apologise, but the apology lived in her eyes, and that was enough. He would lash out too, if it were the other way around.

Sometimes, Annabeth avoided him entirely. And those were the hardest days. Because he knew. He knew the guilt she carried. The helplessness. He carried it, too.

His own nightmares didn’t scream him awake. That would have been easier. Instead, he would rise in silence. Mind disoriented, heart thudding – but quiet. Trained by the Pit to be still, to survive. He would lay there, unmoving, watching the ceiling for hours. It felt like shattered glass beneath his skin. He couldn’t blink it away. Couldn’t breathe it out.

And always, the same thought: The sun never rose in Tartarus.

When dawn finally crept in, it felt like surfacing. Like a gasp.

And during the day … his triggers twisted different.

The empousai – he couldn’t even think the word without his hands shaking. He hated them. Kelli, especially. Her voice, her cruel grin, that sing-song mockery of their pain. His fists would clench until his knuckles went white. A deep, visceral anger would flare in his chest. Not righteous. Not sharp. Just raw and ugly. It left him winded and drained. Sometimes he had to excuse himself just to breathe.

The stars hurt to look at. Funny, how that worked. They were beautiful, sure – but also endless. Empty. They reminded him of Damasen’s cave, of sitting in the ruins with Bob, listening to a sky that didn’t exist, staring at a view made of memories. He couldn’t look at constellations without his throat closing up. He should have saved them: Damasen, Bob, Small Bob. He prayed they were alive. Somewhere. Somehow.

He prayed more now, too.

Not just to Poseidon, though that came often – on the shorelines, or near rivers, or even in the rain, whispering pleas like the tide could wash away the weight on his back.

He prayed to Damasen, asking for forgiveness.

To Small Bob the Cat, half-joking, half-hoping the skeletal feline still wandered somewhere beyond.

To Hestia, whose warmth reminded him that some things – some gods – were still kind.

But mostly to his father.

Not for power. Not even for help.

Just … for grounding. For belonging.

For proof that he was still part of this world and not left behind in the one made of death and ash.

He prayed like it might cleanse him. Like water could rinse away the rot that Tartarus left behind. The grief. The blood. The guilt.

But the tide always pulled back.

*

“Okay, so, how big is the situation? Is it like, ‘Aphrodite lost her hairbrush again’ big? Or is it ‘the Earth Mother has risen again’ big?”

Annabeth frowned. “I don’t know. All Chiron said was that someone needed our help.” She chewed her bottom lip in thought as they headed toward the New Big House. They had been asked to attend a private meeting with Chiron outside of their regular camp counsellor meetings. “He sounded serious, though. Whoever it is, they must be desperate to seek help so soon after the war.”

She isn’t wrong, Percy thought.

Jason had been appointed Pontifex Maximus at Camp Jupiter and, as such, he was responsible for advising the praetors, ruling over the Camp Jupiter council, and overseeing the work and prayers to the minor gods. His promise to the goddess Kymopoleia to bring worship and awareness for all minor gods became his full-time job and it was ruled that most gods and or deities must go through Jason to request help from either demigod camp. Someone asking for help directly after a full-scale war and using Chiron as their connection was not only strange – it made Percy angry.

A few demigods raised their heads in greeting as Percy and Annabeth passed by. Conner and Travis Stoll, who were trying to build bombs with bits and pieces from the forge, took one look at Percy, then at Annabeth, and wiggled their brows suggestively. Percy stuck them the middle finger and the two started to laugh their assess off while the couple continued to walk.

The Big House – or New Big House – was bigger now, after being rebuilt.

What could be scavenged from the attic was saved, but most of it was lost. Magical artifacts and ancient texts were burned and crushed. Now the New Big House served mostly as the infirmary, aside from the drop-by medical tent near the Apollo cabin, where more medical supplies were.

Other than the infirmary, the New Big House had a commons area for meetings and housed a kitchen, bathroom, and several bedrooms.

Checking in the commons area, Percy spotted several people: Chiron, Nico, and Thalia. Seeing Thalia made him raise a brow. The Hunters of Artemis had been too busy recruiting new members to stay at Camp Half-Blood; their participation in the war had cost them dearly. That wasn’t to say that they hadn’t helped with camp repairs in the beginning, but he knew they were free spirits. He hadn’t known that the Hunters of Artemis had dropped by Camp recently l … or, if that wasn’t the case, then whether that meant Thalia had specifically been called for this meeting.

Percy didn’t like the idea of three children of the Big Three being called on for this quest.  

Chiron was wedged in his wheelchair by the back wall. Nico was sitting at the beloved ping pong table, used for years as the camp counsellor table, which had somehow survived the siege on camp. Thalia was sitting backwards on a chair by the new counsellor table, which no one ever used. Percy sat next to Nico and picked up one of the new ping pong paddles they had bought for the table, twirling it between his hands as a fidget toy. Annabeth took her usual seat, which she used during council meetings.

Chiron cleared his throat. “Now, I know that only a month has passed since the end of the Second Giant War, but –” the air practically sparked with the collective tension that built “– a new quest has been issued.”

Annabeth leaned forward in her seat. “Chiron, you can’t have an official quest without a prophecy. And the last time I checked; the Oracle of Delphi wasn’t working right now.”

“Well, it’s a good thing this isn’t a quest from the Greek pantheon, then.”

Percy cocked a brow and shared a look with Annabeth.

“The Roman pantheon doesn’t have an oracle, and their last augur exploded himself, so –”

“It’s for an old friend of mine.”

Dead silence.

“Are you going to elaborate, or …”

“His name is Albus Percival Wulfic Brian Dumbledore –”

“That’s a mouthful,” Percy muttered.

“– and he is the headmaster of Hogwarts, a school for magical children, and is also one of the most powerful wizards of his century.”

There was more silence. There might have even been some crickets.

“Okay, I’m going to be the one to ask,” Nico said. “Magic? Wizards?”

“Ah, yes, I thought you might be confused. It’s quite a long story.”

“Well, we don’t really have the time for that, so –”

Chiron spoke over all them. “It all started hundreds of years ago, with the Triple Goddess. She is the sole deity of the Old Religion, which was once practiced in Europe hundreds of years ago by druids and general magic users. It belonged to Albion, a land of five kingdoms, before it split into the United Kingdom and Ireland.”

“And what does that have to do with us?” Nico asked.

“All those years ago, in the Middle Ages, after the golden age of the Greek pantheon, the Old Religion became very popular in Albion. Those born with magic potential could harness the gifts of the Triple Goddess – with proper training, of course. Through the ages, though, the religion declined, and the New Religion rose and became the staple. While the Old Religion relied on the magic of the land, sea, and sky; the New Religion relied on your inner magical core – with no god or deity – and so it greatly limited the types and level of power of magic people could use. After all, magical cores are fickle things, changing as easily as one’s physical health. The magic of the Triple Goddess, though harder to learn, was stronger.”

Chiron shifted in his wheelchair and pulled out a small stack of photos, but when he tossed them onto the ping pong table, the demigods saw that they held moving pictures.

In one photo, it showed a person standing over a boiling cauldron along with old parchment paper and a quill that moved by itself, writing on the paper. The picture moved, the character stirring the cauldron and occasionally looking over at their paper.

In another photo, two people stood facing each other, holding purposefully shaped wooden sticks, pointing them at each other. Bright lights exploded from the tips of the sticks and their robes and hair swayed with strong winds.

In the last photo it held a person wearing an old sports uniform, with a helmet and pads on their knees and elbows. They held an old broomstick between their knees with metal hinges on the back close to the bristles, like a hitch for the feet. In the picture, the person grabbed onto the end of the broomstick and shot into the air, like magic. It gave image to the stereotype of witches flying on brooms in the night.

“The Old Religion died out because the people abandoned their goddess, much in the same way most mortals believe all gods are simply myths today. Except, instead of the religion living on in those myths and retaining power the way our gods did, the Triple Goddess faded into obscurity, with little to no power. The land began to lose its magic. Now, only select spots hold magical creatures and natural magic. Magic was only preserved through the New Religion, and those who practiced the New Religion became witches and wizards. The lot of them went into hiding and created their own society – the wizarding world. And in today’s day and age, magic is passed down through genetics. Sometimes, those with magical cores can be born to those with no magic at all. The population of magic users stays stable, and there is balance in the world of magic …” Chiron winced. “Mostly.”

“These people have lost contact with the Old Religion entirely. They don’t worship or pray to any deity, and the Triple Goddess is almost completely faded. The wizarding world relies solely on their own magic, not what comes naturally from the land, like in the Old Religion. This makes it easier for the balance of their magic to change and tip, with no deity or anchor. And recently, war has passed for them. The Second Wizarding War ended four months ago. This has severely depleted their resources and magic, leaving then vulnerable to the monsters from other pantheons and communities.”

“Luckily, there is a school for the magic users, called Hogwarts, which was used as the stronghold during the war and is now the safest spot for any witch or wizard. The wizarding world’s hero is returning to Hogwarts to finish his studies. His moniker is ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ and he’s called Harry Potter. But he was only a child – is only a child. He and his peers are children who have been used to fight a war that they shouldn’t have had to fight.” Chiron looked very grim.

Percy sank back in his seat, bitterness rising in his throat. “We were kids, too.”

Chiron sighed but didn’t respond to Percy. “This war has thrown the balance of magic out of whack. The natural magic has been depleted for too long and there are those who are actively tipping the balance to sabotage the magic for their own gain. It’s suspected that the dark forces from the war – Death Eaters – are still operating in the shadows. It is because of this that Albus Dumbledore has called upon you as heroes to help restore the wizarding world and save magic.”

“You never explained how you know Albus,” Nico said, “and why it’s so important that we help him. After all, this isn’t our world or our pantheon. Why should we care?”

“Well, Albus is an … old friend of mine. He reached out to me for help in restoring the magic of the land. He saw the depletion of magic in his dreams and knew he needed heroes to help. If you choose to accept, of course.”

Percy eyed him sharply. “You say that as if we have a choice.”

“Despite what you think, yes, you do.”

“But this is from a whole other pantheon,” Nico said. “A group of magical people who don’t even believe in the goddess who brought about their magic. Why do we need to fix this?”

More silence.

Chiron looked down on them unapologetically.

Percy shifted uncomfortably. Chiron seriously expected them to just up and leave camp for this quest? Barely a month had passed since their own war, and they were getting by as they were. Percy didn’t believe Camp Half-Blood could afford to lose any support or cabin counsellors, even for a short period of time.

“So, let me get this straight,” Percy said. “Basically – if I just ignore the little prologue you gave there – you want us to go to this magical school, on orders of a random wizard who has no authority in our pantheon, stalk a kid, and watch out for people who like to try to rob the world of magic – magic, which they themselves use. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Chiron frowned. “No, I don’t believe they’re purposefully robbing the world of magic.”

“Oh, well that clears everything up.” Percy threw his hands in the air.

“Regardless, you understand what’s being asked. This is a quest, a favour for the Triple Goddess, requested through a wizard. It’s valid as a hero’s quest. It was decided it would be best that you go undercover as transfer students and secretly watch over Harry Potter, the target for most Death Eaters. Your goal is to prevent trouble before it gets serious, though I doubt that will be hard, as trouble always manages to find you –”

“Wait, hold on,” Percy said, still hung-up on the quest. “How are we supposed to fit in at a school for the magically gifted? None of us are wizards.”

“Albus considered this quest for a long time before coming to me,” Chiron said. “I have only gotten the request that you undertake this quest for the Old Religion and that he had plans in place to prepare you.”

Percy felt like grinding his teeth. “Oh, so he just expected us to accept the quest. He never considered us refusing? Why can’t the wizards fix their own problem?” Chiron said nothing. “Camp is still in shambles – we don’t even have all the cabins rebuilt yet! We can’t leave, not now. There’s still too much work to do here and too many new demigods to watch over and protect. And have you even considered that maybe we don’t want to go on this quest? That maybe we want a break? My entire childhood was prophecy after prophecy, quest after quest, serving the gods. We’re under no obligation to do this. You can tell Albus that he can stick his magic wand up his –”

He didn’t get the chance to finish because Annabeth had already taken a ping pong paddle and smashed a ping pong ball in his direction, the mutual action used to keep order in camp counsellor meetings. The ping pong ball slapped against his cheek, stinging.

“ORDER!” Annabeth yelled, slamming her paddle on the table like a gavel.

Percy scowled and took his seat again.

“Now, Percy,” she said sweetly, leaning over the table. “Where did you say Albus could put his wand?”

“Nowhere,” he muttered.

Annabeth acquiesced and put the paddle down.

“Where is this school, anyway?” Nico asked. He frowned. “And Hogwarts? What kind of name is that?”

“It resides in Scotland, its exact location unknown and hidden by powerful magic. Outside of the school there are other magical establishments. One place you will need to visit is Diagon Alley, a wizarding market. That’s where you’ll collect your resources for going undercover at school.”

“Again, you’re saying all this like we’ve agreed to go,” Percy mumbled.

He was ignored. Thalia raised her hand, confusion obvious. “Okay, I hate to be the one to say it – but how are we supposed to blend in with witches and wizards? We can’t use magic, and we know nothing about their world.”

“As demigods, you already have magical cores,” Chiron said. “They just need to be trained; refined. You will use the ways of the Old Religion to learn magics and go undercover. Albus wanted to send you to get wands from someone who still practices the Old Religion and can pair you with an appropriate wand. Your cover stories are fabricated and already with the wand maker. In fact, Albus left me something if you accepted …”

He shifted in his chair and pulled out a slip of laminated paper. He held it out to the demigods. On it, in fancy letters, it read: Littletree Farms, Dorchester, Boston, Massachusetts.

“This,” he said, “is called a portkey. It is an enchanted item; when touched by the intended people, or random persons, it can magically teleport you to a predetermined location. Touch this, all at once, and you will have accepted the quest.”

The demigods shared concerned looks. Chiron gave them an encouraging nod.

“Our responsibilities …” Thalia started, reaching up to grab at her lieutenant circlet from the Hunters of Artemis.

“Will be forgiven for the time while on the quest,” Chiron assured. “Albus does not ask for favours lightly. This has the potential to spill into the real world; to affect our pantheon. The Old Religion is younger than the Greek pantheon, but its reach goes far and wide.”

Nico hesitated but was the first to reach for the paper. “If this is really that important … why ask for us specifically? A larger group, organised and planned, could do better.”

“Albus has listened to the stories of your heroics and believes you are the right heroes to help save magic.”

“But right now? This instant? Can’t we have time?”

“You will come back to camp before you leave for Europe.”

Annabeth pursed her lips, then also reached for it. “Okay.”

Percy looked at her, askance. “Okay? Just like that?”

Annabeth shrugged. “A quest is a quest, and someone needs help. We are in peace right now and have no threats. I don’t see why not.”

“Fine,” Percy said, tone short. He looked over at the laminated paper. “So, this will take us where? What’s in Boston that could be so magical?”

“A wand wood farm,” Chiron said. “And your quest starts now.”

Percy’s eyes snapped to the paper, where Chiron had pushed it into their collective hands unwillingly. Then the world began to spin, and there was a sharp tug in his gut, yanking him out of time and space.

*

Notes:

I have most of this story planned out (about half of the story, and the ending - I just need to figure out the blank space), and some plans include Percy and Annabeth breaking up, and Percy and Draco getting together. Yes, Draco will be receiving a redemption arc. I'm going to ignore canon and make him a victim of his circumstances, because I'm a simp like that. Annabeth and Percy will remain friends, I'm not trashing a character for my preferred ship.

Also, there will be plenty of OCs, but none of them will be part of the immediate story (ex. none will be appear as main characters or take focus away from the protagonists). All OCs are basically plot devices to help with introduction of information, and direction of plot.

Share any of your personal headcanons you would like to see in this fic!

Chapter 2: i'm a what?

Summary:

CW: anxiety, brief argument, self hate.

The demigods go to Littletree Farms to get their wands for their quest, and Percy reflects on his new situation.

*

Chapter 2: I’m A What?

“Welcome to Littletree Farms!” A warm voice greeted.

Percy, disoriented and nauseated, found it hard to look up to the source of the voice due to the sudden bright light. The scent of pine and fresh dirt filled the air. In front of the four demigods, who had been unceremoniously dumped on the ground through the portkey, stood a person wearing protective camp gear. They had windbreaker pants and knee-high rubber boots, which were completely covered in mud. Wrapped around their waist was a thin jacket, and their tank-top showed off well-defined biceps. Their dark hair was tied up in a bun, with an undercut. They were covered in freckles, and a large birthmark stretched across their nose and under their left eye, making the hazel in their eyes stand out.

“Uh … ma’am? Sir?” Thalia ventured, unsure.

“Jonnie,” they said, offering a hand. “Jonnie Littletree, wizard of nature and healing, at your service!”

Jonnie pulled Thalia to her feet, along with the others.

“You’re here for the quest for the Triple Goddess, right?”

“You get four random strangers popping out of nowhere often?” Annabeth asked.

“More often than you would think,” Jonnie admitted. She wiped her hands on her pants and beckoned the demigods to follow her. “I’m one of the few people who still follow the Old Religion and know about the other pantheons. I specialise in making wands for Old Religion magic, even though the Old Religion didn’t use wands much back in the day. There is a distinct difference between New Religion and Old Religion magic, so don’t even think about trying to use a regular wand; it’ll just explode.”

They trudged through the tree farm, walking through a muddy path and tall pines to a house that looked like the old Big House. The paint was chipping and on the front porch sat a rocking chair. Jonnie welcomed them into the house, seated them on an old couch with cushions that almost swallowed the demigods whole, and went to get drinks for them.

“So, darlings, you’re looking for wands?” Jonnie said, pouring lemonade.

“Apparently,” Thalia said. “This is all extremely rushed, though.”

Jonnie laughed. “Well, that’s the Triple Goddess for you. Gods in general, I would think.” She finished with the lemonade and sat down, grabbing a notepad and pen. “Now, getting down to business: finding a suitable wand for you guys. One of the first rules of wands is that the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around. Tell me about yourselves.”

Thalia smiled awkwardly, looking over at her friends, as if to confirm that this was really happening. “The wand chooses the wizard – is that a metaphor?”

Jonnie hummed. “You would think so, right? But it’s not. Wands are semi-sentient. They hold their own magic and can channel your magic. Every piece of a wand – the components: the wood, the core, even the length – all create a certain personality for a wand. Some wands favour more impulsive natures, other prefer certain types of magics, others need a certain personality from their user to work consistently. Wands will even go as far as exploding, hexing people, and wilting, if they do not want to work for a user. Some wand makers only measure size and height as markers for picking a wand, which is stupid; you need to find out the personality and who someone is to accurately pick a wand.”

She reached into her left boot, which she hadn’t taken off inside the house, and withdrew a long wooden stick – a wand. She held it out for the demigods to observe.

“This,” they said, holding it reverently, “is my wand. I carved the shaft myself, from a willow tree grown right on this property. On the inside is something called a core; cores help channel magic. While wood gives to the personality and type of magic, the core gives to the potency of magic, and how it is cast. The core in my wand is a jackalope antler, one of the first used cores in North America.”

“Willow wood, uncommon for wands, often lends itself to healing magic and those who are still figuring out their path in life. I was born with a talent specifically for healing; willow seemed like the obvious choice when crafting my wand.”

“Jackalope antlers are commonly used in North American wands, but not in European wands. They lend themselves well to steady, nature-connected magic. Often, wands with a jackalope antler core do well in duels and fights, because it is believed the spirit of the jackalope lives in the antler and wills it to survive and grasp strength from the Triple Goddess.”

“My wand is twelve inches in length, but wands can be anywhere from eight, to twenty inches in length. Typically, length is related to the height and size of a user; but length can also lend itself to how big of a personality someone has, and how outgoing or extraverted they are. Shorter wands create more subtle magic, while long wands like visual and extravagant magic. Twelve inches is, as far as wands go, a little on the longer side.”

“And the last component to a wand: its flexibility. You might believe its flexibility is related to its wood, but it’s not. The flexibility is created by the sentient magic of the wand and is connected to the will of its user. The less flexible a wand, the less the user is willing to adapt and change their ways; however, their willpower is strong. The more flexible the wand, the more open the user it to change; however, they are more willing to bend to persuasion and change their morals. The flexibility scale is different in North America than it is in Europe, but by American scale, my wand is unyielding, which is high on the less flexible side.”

They let Thalia hold the wand. The Hunter could feel the weight of it and a nice tingly feeling shot up her arms with the wand in her hands.

Jonnie took her wand back. “So, I want you to tell me about yourselves. Your hobbies, your aspirations. What kind of magics do you think you would be interested in? This isn’t a twenty-question game; I just want to get a feel for who you are, to narrow down the selection. Then we can work our way from there and pick wands more likely to favour you.”

“I like architecture,” Annabeth offered. “I want to make an impact on the world; build something worth making history. I enjoy reading. I like to draw. I’m not a fan of camping or animals. I hate flying and swimming. Stuff like that?”

“Perfect!” Jonnie praised. She started writing. “What about magics? What are you most interested in? Healing? Divination? Dueling?”

“Creation?” Annabeth said, uncertain.

“Transfiguration,” Jonnie offered. “You can’t create something out of nothing; not even magic can do that. But you can change and transfigure things with magic.”

Annabeth shrugged. “Is that all?”

Jonnie thought for a moment. “What about your biggest fear?”

“Being helpless,” Annabeth said, without pause. “I’m afraid of being helpless, unable to do anything. I’m afraid of being dependent on someone or something.”

Jonnie gave Annabeth a sympathetic look. Then she turned to Nico. “And what about you, Mr. Dark and Scary? Are you secretly a softy on the inside?”

Nico twisted his skull ring. “Um … I like games. I used to play a card game obsessively. I like learning and pushing the limits. I talk to ghosts and spirits all the time. I’m not afraid of death, but … I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of being alone for the rest of my life; not having anyone to reach out to for help.”

Thalia went next. “I like being the leader of the Hunters when Artemis is gone. I feel proud when my Lady trusts me and my skill. I take pride in my strength and skill, too. I like the outdoors, continuing to move around; I hate feeling static. I enjoy the rush of hunting, and quick success. My biggest fear is … hmm, well. One of my fears is responsibility. I find it hard to commit to things and take on responsibility when it effects many people and is important on a large scale. Leading my hunting group feels like family; leading an army is something else altogether.”

“Are you a Sagittarius?” Jonnie asks with a laugh. They tapped their notepad with their pen. “Sounds exactly like what Reese – my friend, an astrologer – predicated for their horoscope this week.”

Percy found it harder to describe himself. “I don’t … I don’t really have hobbies outside of being a demigod?” He said helplessly. “I’m really good at sword work, and enjoy it, too. Water hobbies would be the only other thing I’ve ever had time for; canoeing, boating, swimming. Um, any other activities from camp would do – rock climbing, campfires, singing. I haven’t gone to school full time since sixth grade, so I have no idea what I want to do in the future, let alone what I would be interested in outside of the mythological world.”

Jonnie hummed. “It sounds like you never got the chance to explore yourself. That’s okay; you will just be a little harder to pair. What about your fears? Your faults? Wands often like to pair with persons who hold certain morals or talents and faults.”

Percy pursed his lips. “I was once told by a goddess that my fatal flaw was personal loyalty. And, hmm … sometimes I go too far; I will do just about anything to accomplish certain goals.”

The wand maker smiled at him. “That’s actually very informative, thank you.”

*

The first wand Annabeth tried had a shaft made of hornbeam wood, a core of veela hair, and was ten inches long. With one simple flick, the entire room almost went up in ashes. It was only thanks to Jonnie’s quick wand work and a yelled extinguishing spell that the fire did not spread. After that, they went outside to test more wands.

To speed the process along, Jonnie brought out multiple wand boxes – long, thin cardboard boxes with a fluffy pillow coating inside – for them all to test out simultaneously.

Thalia matched to a wand first.

She had only just touched the wooden shaft of the wand when a bright light fell out from the tip, tossing through the air with a static pattern like lightning. The air felt charged, and just as the other demigods were getting ready to duck an incoming lightning bolt, the smell of rain filled the air, and the light dissipated like mini fireworks.

Jonnie honest-to-gods squealed.

“Oh, this is always so exciting when I watch people match with wands! It’s one of my favourite parts of the job.” They grabbed the lid of the box to read what type of wand it was, still smiling. “Congratulations, Thalia! You matched with a beautiful wand; thunderbird tail feather core, pine wooden shaft, ten inches, stiff flexibility.”

“Thunderbird tail feathers, like the birds they are taken from, are able to sense danger and can cast curses on their own. They’re also known to fire curses automatically when supernatural dangers are present, and can create explosive, powerful magic.”

“Pine wood always chooses an independent, individual master, who may be perceived as a loner, intriguing, and perhaps mysterious. Pine wands enjoy being used creatively, and unlike some others, will adapt unprotestingly to new methods and spells. Pine wands are also more sensitive to non-verbal magic and are usually matched to those destined to live long lives.”

Jonnie held the lid of the wand box to their chest. “Ah, I remember making this wand. I’m so glad you matched to it!”

She took the wand from Thalia and packaged it back up, putting it in a little paper bag along with other wand-related items. She explained that some wizards and witches liked to wax their wand, to give it a smooth feel and a visual gleam, despite the magic of the wand preventing splinters and wear on the wood. She also packed some magical tape, meant as a temporary fix if the wand snapped, to keep it together long enough to take to a wand maker for repair.

Nico matched next.

His wand held a basilisk horn core, had a hawthorn wooden shaft, was ten inches long, and was slightly yielding in flexibility. Jonnie took great joy in translating what each component meant, admitting that they had basically memorised the wand maker’s textbook.

“Wands with a basilisk horn core often lend themselves to the dark arts and magics and perform well with necromancy and offensive spells; though, they don’t have the same explosive, extraverted power of a thunderbird tail feather.”

“Hawthorn wood makes a strange, contradictory wand. Hawthorn wands have a complex and intriguing nature, usually like the owners that best suit them. Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses. But you must be careful; hawthorn wands have a notable peculiarity; their spells can, when badly handled, backfire.”

Then Annabeth matched with a beech wood wand that had a core of unicorn hair, was eleven inches, and was brittle in flexibility.

“Wands with unicorn hair cores produce the most consistent magic, are least subject to fluctuations and blockages, and are most difficult to turn to the dark arts and magics. However, they do not make the most powerful of wands and are prone to melancholy if mishandled. They are also the most faithful of wands and will physically wilt and die if passed on to another user unwillingly.”

“Those who match to a beech wand will be, if young, wise beyond their years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant. When properly matched, the beech wand is capable of a subtlety and artistry rarely seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation.”

Percy’s wand had a core of the spine from a water serpent, a cedar wooden shaft, and was long with twelve inches with pliant flexibility.

“Water serpent spine; a highly diverse core, as there are multiple species of water serpent capable of supplying cores. Broadly speaking, saltwater species produce more playful and powerful cores, while those from freshwater species have a slightly darker magic and excel with boundary and transitional magic. Both types are smooth casters with a knack for water magic. They tend to select quiet, secretive masters who often surprise those around them.”

“Cedar wands are reputed to find their perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. Those that carry a cedar wand have great strength of character and unusual loyalty; and yet cedar retains a particularly dark and fearsome reputation in the spheres of duelling and all curses. The magic user best suited to a cedar wand might prove to be a fierce protector of others, and the witch or wizard who is well-matched with cedar carries the potential to be a frightening adversary, especially if harm is done to those they are fond of, which often comes as a shock to those who thoughtlessly challenge them.”

*

Holding a wand felt … right.

Percy couldn’t place the feeling exactly, but it was akin to being cradled by his father’s domain, like being comforted by the power of the sea. The wooden wand felt sturdy and warm in his hands, and the first time he held it, a beautiful, giddy feeling had shot through him, as if he could physically feel the magic course through his veins.

For the first time since he learned of the new quest, he felt excited for it.

After the demigods were done oohing and aweing over their new wands, Jonnie dug out several letters and a thick packet of papers from her bag, handing out the letters first. The letters were yellow with age and were folded and stamped closed with a thick red wax seal. On the seal, there was a crest split into four with a big “H” in the middle, each quadrant holding an animal: a snake, lion, eagle, and badger.

Percy opened his letter.

*

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Dear Perseus Jackson,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You will find enclosed in your envelope a list of all necessary books and equipment for the school year. You will be signed on for the core classes of Hogwarts, with electives being chosen for you. 

As a transfer student from Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you will be traditionally sorted into a Hogwarts house for your school year.

The term begins on September 6th. We await your owl no later than August 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster

*

Percy frowned. “I thought we were going to Hogwarts. The fuck is Ilvermorny?”

“Language!” Annabeth scolded.

Percy ignored her and squinted and reread the last line. “And isn’t today the thirtieth?”

“Yes.”

“They want a response back by tomorrow?!”

“Well, it’s not like we’re going to decline. We already know we’re going –”

“We don’t even have owls! Why do we need owls, anyway? What does that have to do with anything?”

Annabeth took a deep breath. “Percy …”

Jonnie giggled. “No, this is a reasonable response from someone who is new to the wizarding world. Are you familiar with the concept of homing pigeons? They were used for long distance messaging back in the old days. In the wizarding world, modern technology often doesn’t work in tandem with magic, so we use owls for sending messages; except most owls are specifically bred as mail owls and often have some form of magic in their blood.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes total sense,” Percy said sarcastically.

“Percy!”

“Not like you have, I don’t know, magic to message and transport things?” He continued.

Annabeth grabbed the letter out of his hands, putting a stop to his commentary. “I am so sorry about him,” she said to Jonnie. “He doesn’t –”

Jonnie burst out laughing, which petered off to giggles as they tried to stop. She had to catch her breath. “No, I just … yeah, standard no-maj response. I think he’s got the right idea. You’ll soon learn that not much makes sense in the wizarding world. It’s almost like they purposefully wanted to make everything as confusing as possible – and I say that having grown up in a wizarding household.”

“Along with the school letters, I also have booklets detailing the American wizarding school, where you’re supposedly transferring from.” Jonnie winked at them. “It’s like an undercover spy mission from one of those movie theatres no-majs like so much. Albus, the headmaster of Hogwarts, will be aware of what is really going on. No one else knows, not even the other teachers, on Albus’ orders. He was the one who originally discovered that the magic in the world was unstable.”

“What’s that word – no-maj – that you keep saying?” Thalia asked.

“It’s slang for ‘non-magic person.’ Someone without magic is a no-maj, though the term is mostly North American. I’m pretty sure they call them muggles in Europe, which I personally think is a bit sillier. You’ll learn that the wizarding community is isolated for safety and secrecy, and there are lots of culture learning curves when first introduced. But don’t worry, these information booklets can help.”

Jonnie reached over and grabbed the booklets they had. She double-checked the names on each before handing them out. “I was given one for each of you. They contain specific backstories and other information needed to convince others you really are wizards.”

Annabeth flipped through the first couple of pages, scanning the paragraphs.

The first page was a brief-down on the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It listed the sorted groups, or ‘houses,’ within the school which the students were placed into for their education. Annabeth was surprised to find that the wizarding school wasn’t located that far from Camp Half-Blood. It was only a four-hour drive away in Massachusetts. Apparently, it resided on Mount Greylock, in plain view. Annabeth could only assume that the Mist, or something similar in the wizarding world, hid it from mortal eyes, the same way Camp Half-Blood was protected.

On the flip side of the paper was a paragraph briefly explaining North American wizarding history and how it was started. On the separate pages were listed details for the backstory Annabeth was meant to follow, including which Ilvermorny house she was from, and her wizarding bloodline – that one piqued Annabeth’s interest – among other things.

Apparently, Annabeth was a half-blood wizard and was placed in the Ilvermorny house of Horned Serpent, which was said to favour scholars. Annabeth almost laughed at the irony of being a half-blood wizard because demigods were also half-bloods.

“What does yours say?” Percy asked.

“I’m a half-blood wizard, apparently. Funny that we share that terminology with the wizarding world. You will probably need to study your fake life, though, or else we’ll end up blowing this quest.”

Percy waved her off, not even looking at his papers. “I’m sure it’s just as riveting as my real life.”

Annabeth took his papers to look at them. She skimmed through them, then grinned.

“You’re a Pukwudgie.”

“I’m a what?” Percy said, sounding affronted. He took his papers back and squinted. “I’m a no-maj born and … huh. I guess Camp Half-Blood isn’t that different from this wizarding school stuff. These ‘houses’ sound just like our cabins, just … not determined by a dysfunctional family.”

“It says houses are determined by what you value most,” Thalia piped up, still looking through her own packet. “Like morals and certain traits. The Pukwudgie house … hmm, it says the house favours healers.”

“My house name sounds like another word for vomit,” Percy said, ignoring Thalia. “Why did I get the gross house?”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Jonnie said. “I was a Pukwudgie, the house that represents the hearts and favour of healers. The name is a little funny, but it’s based off a funny magical creature. I may be a little biased, but in my opinion it’s the best house.”

“Well, I guess if you were in it, it can’t be that bad,” Percy muttered.

“Don’t worry about it, honey. Most of the European wizarding population is ignorant of North American wizarding culture. They have a lot of pride, that lot. None of them will be grilling you with questions about this.” Jonnie then brought two fingers to her mouth and let loose a shrill taxi-cab whistle. All the demigods flinched as a shadow swooped in from above, landing on Jonnie’s outstretched forearm.

The bird was a startling white, peppered with black and grey spots. Its eyes were dark, and its beak was white dipped in black. The bird looked like some sort of falcon. Percy winced when he realised Jonnie didn’t have any sort of gauntlet to protect against the bird’s claws. Jonnie only cooed at the bird, which immediately nibbled at her fingers in affection. “Now, I don’t have a messenger owl like most wizards and witches, but I do have my little Milo here. He’s a gyrfalcon. I will have him take your letters back to Europe to accept the invitation to Hogwarts, and then you can finally head home to get ready. The last step is to travel to Europe to get the rest of your required school supplies.”

Jonnie had them all sign their letters with their acceptance, and then rolled the papers together and tied it with a ribbon. They took the letters and very carefully tied them to Milo’s leg, cooing at him and stroking his feathers. Milo nipped at her again, and then Jonnie took her wand out and softly tapped Milo’s beak three times.

“Protego amatum,” they muttered, and a soft blue light enveloped the bird’s form and faded. Jonnie kissed Milo on the top of his head. “I wish you a safe flight.”

With a little chirp, Milo stretched out his wings and took off.

Jonnie sighed in fondness. “I’m sure you guys understand the love for a pet.”

Percy thought about Mrs. O’Leary and Blackjack. Even with Blackjack’s donut obsession, he was still Percy’s favourite pegasus, and Percy considered him one of his best friends. Mrs. O’Leary was like a comfort dog, too, no matter how much her barking sounding like a machine gun.

“Now, today has been long,” Jonnie said. She pulled out a small piece of paper, with the words “Long Island Sound” written on it in shaky writing. “You came here through a portkey, and I have another to send you back. It can’t teleport you directly within your camp, because of the magic barrier, but it can bring you close. I wish you luck on your quest, and as a follower of the Old Religion, I hope you can bring balance to magic again.”

This time, when the portkey was held out, none of the demigods hesitated to take it.

*

A soft breeze carried through the open windows in cabin three. The fountain trickled over in the corner. Annabeth sat at the desk while Percy sat on the edge of his bunk. She watched as he read through the papers they were given, increasingly getting more tense.

“It’s not that bad,” she offered. “We could have been asked to go on another war quest across-country to slay monsters. I think this is tame, in comparison. It could be a break, almost; used as a wind-down.”

Percy’s shook his head. “We can’t afford to take a break.”

Annabeth frowned. “I know you’re worried about Camp Half-Blood, but it’s in fully capable hands. We can treat this like any other quest and just stumble through it blind, or we can make the most of it. Personally, I believe we could be learning a lot from Hogwarts. This is a whole other world, and I think it’s smart to want to know about it.”

Percy still didn’t look happy. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it. It seems … unfair, almost. Why are we the ones responsible for this? I worry that this will never stop.”

Annabeth tried to give him a comforting smile. “It’s completely fine to worry. But could you in good conscious leave someone to be harmed, when you had the ability to help?”

Percy scowled. “That’s a low blow.”

“But I’m not wrong,” she said, with finality. “And I still believe it’s the right decision.”

Percy looked resigned. “Okay. I know it’s the right decision.”

*

The water was hot – too hot, probably – but Percy didn’t care. Children of Poseidon were difficult to burn, anyway; a little hot water wouldn’t hurt him. He let it scald across his shoulders, washing off the day – or trying to, at least. Steam clung to the walls, curling around the blue and green mosaics plastered to the ceiling and floors.

When he was done, he stepped out, towelling his hair dry, the edges still damp around the nape of his neck.

Then he looked up.

The mirror was fogged, mostly, but through the fog Percy was still able to see his reflection.

The person looking back at him wasn’t recognisable from the twelve-year-old boy who had stumbled into Camp Half-Blood all those years ago.

For one thing, Percy recognised his father in himself.

Percy was always told how much he looked like Poseidon. His mother often joked that he was a carbon copy of his father. Hazel had admitted that the first time she saw Percy, she had assumed that he was a god – Neptune himself. Of course, Percy looked like Poseidon, and he was okay with that because that meant that he wasn’t turning into what many of his half-siblings had: monsters. Poseidon was also the Father of Monsters, and Percy was quite glad to have inherited his more human qualities.

But there was also something else that stared back at Percy through the mirror – a version of himself that wasn’t human.

On the late nights, when the fluorescent lights above flickered, and he was bone-tired from a day spent running the camp, he could have sworn that he saw the other version in the mirror.

Just for a second, never more.

His skin went pallid, grey-blue like drowned flesh. His face was ghoulish and gaunt. Pucker marks lined his cheeks, scars became open wounds that oozed blood, and his hair was tangled and matted down to his shoulders. His eyes glowed faintly – not with the softness of the ocean, but the cold, merciless shimmer of the abyss. His veins were black, like cracks in marble, and something terrible curled at the corners of his mouth.

A thing born of Tartarus. A thing that had clawed its way out, but maybe never really left.

Percy blinked.

It was gone.

Just him again: damp hair, green eyes, steam curling in the air.

He stared at himself a moment longer.

He reached out and flipped off the light.

Darkness swallowed the room in an instant, and he turned his back on the mirror.

He didn’t want to see himself anymore.

Not tonight.

*

Notes:

SO. That little detail was dropped like a bomb in the last few paragraphs. It plays a part in the whole "resentment for the gods" complex Percy is fostering, and will play a part in Percy's alienation from the group of demigods. Not going to say anything else about it, but I'm hoping to use it for Percy's character arc.

Jonnie Littletree is an OC character that I don't anticipate bringing back, though I did fall in love with them when writing. They were mainly meant to push the plot forward, but they might have use in future chapters if my brain decides to change plans.

I also created my own spell for this chapter, and that is something I anticipate doing in the future, too. It's Latin, and follows the general structure of other protection spells I researched when writing this chapter. No other protection charms could be focused specifically on a living individual (not that I could find), so I winged-it.

Chapter 3: meeting the silver wizard

Summary:

For a moment, he looked silver, like one of the monsters on a hunt.

Percy blinked.

The silver was gone.

Notes:

Yes, Dumbledore is alive.

A few others that have been resurrected include Severus Snape and Fred Weasley, but Sirius still passed through the veil.

The demigods will meet the ‘Golden Trio’ soon! I also intend to sit down the demigods and go through a quick run-down of Ilvermorny history and information about Hogwarts.

*

Chapter 3: Meeting the Silver Wizard

The night was still.

Camp Half-Blood slept under a velvet sky. The woods beyond the borders whispered with wind and the restless stir of monsters just out of reach. Thalia stood on the porch of the New Big House, arms crossed, her silver parka shining softly in the moonlight as she shifted her weight.

She should have been in bed.

She should have been in Artemis’ cabin, curled in her bunk, pretending to sleep while her mind spun in spirals about the quest to come. Hogwarts. England. A magical world none of them truly knew.

But her feet had carried her here.

She just … she needed to talk to someone. Someone older. Someone who understood what it meant to lead people into danger. To carry a bow in one hand and duty in the other – and who wasn’t her goddess, Artemis.

She needed Chiron.

The porch boards creaked as she stepped toward the door. She had just pushed open the door and crack when –

Voices. Inside.

She froze.

Chiron’s voice was calm but tight; strained.

And there was another man’s voice – it was unfamiliar. Clipped. An English accent, maybe.

“You owe me, Chiron. You gave your word. That should still mean something to you.”

Thalia’s breath hitched. Her fingers slipped from the door handle.

Chiron’s voice followed, low and hard to make out. “I didn’t expect you to do this. There are lines, and you’ve crossed –”

“We agreed balance was worth sacrifice. Or have you gone soft over the years?”

Silence.

Then hoof steps – pacing.

“I’m sending them,” Chiron said at last. “That’s what you wanted.”

“That’s what’s necessary.”

Thalia’s heart beat faster. She stepped backward, quietly, off the porch, boots muffled in the grass. She left the door open.

The air suddenly felt colder. Heavier.

She didn’t know who the other man was. But she knew that tone – the edge behind the words. It sounded like Luke, before he had turned.

She didn’t want to hear more.

She didn’t want to know what it meant.

She returned to Artemis’ cabin, silent and shaken.

The Hunters were already asleep, bows leaning against bunks, silver light drifting from the open window, their goddess cradling them in the shining moonlight. Thalia lay down on her cot, jacket still on, and stared at the ceiling.

“You owe me.”

The words rattled in her head like arrows in a quiver.

She would be leaving the Hunters for this quest – temporarily, she reminded herself – but suddenly, she wasn’t sure if they had been told everything.

*

Percy woke to the sun shining across his face, like Apollo himself was giving him a wake-up call. Percy groaned and slipped out of his bunk. The morning was brisk, just how Percy liked it, and he could feel the calmness of the nearby waters in his bones.

Percy stood on his heels and stretched his arms over his head. His back popped and his head cleared. Percy got to work on dressing for the day.

He settled on his favourite Camp Half-Blood t-shirt over a white long-sleeve. The shirt was so faded that you could hardly make out the pegasus on the front, and the letters were chipped and almost illegible. This was matched with a pair of blue jeans, which weren’t as old, but it was still surprising they hadn’t fallen apart yet. Clothes had a very short lifespan in the world of demigods, having been put through multiple monster fights, and unsustainable washing practices (you wouldn’t believe the amount of bleach it took to get all the blood stains out).

Percy also wore his camp necklace, which he almost never took off.

Everyone at Camp Half-Blood got their own necklace, and every year a new bead was added as a celebratory gift that basically meant, “yay, you’re still alive! Congratulations!”

Camp necklaces – a thin cord of leather – were given to newbie campers at the start of their first summer. The necklace beads were given to them upon their completion of the summer at Camp Half-Blood. The bead design often represented the most special event of that year or summer.

The new beads were made and distributed at the end of each summer, and even with the Second Giant War intruding, the camp had managed to keep to the tradition.

Percy’s necklace now had five beads.

The first bead one Percy’s necklace was black with a green trident, to represent Percy’s first quest; it showed that a quest leader, a son of Poseidon, had gone into the darkness of the Underworld and made it out alive. The second bead featured the Golden Fleece hanging from Thalia’s pine tree; it represented the retrieval of the Golden Fleece from Polyphemus’ Island by the campers to save Thalia’s pine tree from poisoning. The third bead had an intricately designed maze to represent Daedalus’ Labyrinth and the battle that took place in the Labyrinth. The fourth bead showed the Empire State Building, with the inscription “gone, but never forgotten” in ancient Greek writing, to remember the casualties against Kronos’ army.

The fifth, and the plainest, bead was green, not unlike the colour of the camp’s lake, and it had the Roman numerals for the number seven – “VII” – to represent the Roman’s involvement and the seven demigods of the Prophecy of Seven. Percy liked it and what it symbolised, and the weight of the memories it held, despite its simplicity.

As he finished dressing, Percy grabbed his newly acquired wand and tucked it in his back pocket.

He left his cabin.

*

Annabeth struggled to put her hair up as she jogged to the pavilion for breakfast. Her and Percy had ended the night on a sour note. Annabeth was excited for the new quest, and she didn’t feel guilty about it. She knew it wasn’t a vacation, and she shouldn’t look at it like one, but it was refreshing to have something new to do. The month following the Second Giant War was filled with too much work and too much focus on the tragedies that happened. It was exhausting and physically and emotionally drained Annabeth, and she was itching to jump on a new quest, to find something else to focus on so that her responsibilities didn’t drown her.

When she reached the pavilion, she saw that Percy was already there. He sat at the far Poseidon table. His eyes looked unfocused while his hands were frozen, hovering over his plate, gripping his fork and knife.

In his back pocket, she saw his new wand.

Annabeth carefully slid in beside him and reached out for his hands.

“You good?” She asked.

Percy shrugged and turned away from Annabeth but let her hold his hands. He set his utensils down. “You won’t like it.”

“Percy …” Annabeth said, “What’s wrong?”

Percy grimaced and pulled his hands away from Annabeth, wiping them on his jeans.

“You won’t like it because you’re so excited for this quest and I’m not. I’m just worried about camp. I mean, it’s only been a month since the war. You know there are still monsters out there – angry, aggressive monsters. And with all the new campers we’ve been getting, it just doesn’t seem smart to leave in the middle of it all. Surely there are others who can do this quest, rather than us? I don’t like it at all.”

Annabeth frowned. She spoke carefully. “You don’t need to like it, Percy. No one expects you to. And don’t get me wrong, I’m worried, too. But think about it – these people at Hogwarts need us. This quest? It will help so many people. Camp Half-Blood is not alone, either. We have the support of Camp Jupiter now.”

Percy wouldn’t look Annabeth in the eyes. “Well, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”

Annabeth huffed. “No, I guess you don’t.”

Percy hummed as he reached for his fork again, passive aggressively stabbing his blue waffles. His sleeve, pushed up for convenience, revealed the mark on his forearm.

A trident, the symbol of power for Neptune, with the large letters “SPQR” below. Underneath that, a single line was branded into his forearm, to show one year in the legion. Annabeth had never liked the tattoo from the Roman legion. It always felt like they had claimed him – taking him from Camp Half-Blood, trying to erase his Greek roots. It wasn’t just a tattoo; it was a branding saying “we own him now. He’s one of us.” But Percy insisted it was important to him, and showed he stood for both the Greeks and the Romans, so Annabeth agreed not to bother him about it.

The nymphs brought Annabeth her breakfast, a bowl of hot oatmeal, mixed with nuts and brown sugar. On the side was French toast with strawberry jam, and a cup of cool water.

On Percy’s plate were waffles that were blue and indigo in colour, courtesy of the blueberries mixed into the batter. On top were more blueberries, blackberries, and a generous pouring of sweet syrup. His cup was filled with a thick yogurt drink, also a light blue in colour. It didn’t matter how many times Annabeth saw Sally’s homemade blue cookies, accidentally opened the Jackson’s designated blue food-dye cupboard, or ate lunch with Percy as he proceeded to try and find every single blue jellybean in the bag. Annabeth would never understand Percy’s blue food obsession.

Before digging in fully, the two demigods went over to the fire pit and scraped off the best or tastiest portions of their meal as a sacrifice to the gods.

Annabeth gave up a dollop of oatmeal with a chunk of brown sugar. Percy offered over half his plate of waffles, with the syrup and all. The food went up in flames, and though one would expect the combination to smell awful, the smoke smelt heavenly. Annabeth sent a quick prayer up to her mother and went back over to cabin three’s table. Percy lingered at the fire a little longer, probably praying to more than just his father.

As the two began to dig into their breakfast, Chiron stomped his hooves for attention. Everyone fell silent almost immediately, though some of the newer campers took a while to stop their chattering. The counsellor of cabin five yelled at some kids to “shut the fuck up.”

They quieted very quickly.

“Unfortunately, capture the flag will have to be postponed until next week due to some issues that came from an invalid alliance. Team captains stay the same – Athena versus Ares – and the previous champion is the Ares cabin, despite rumours. And again, you cannot split a cabin in half to take both sides. You must choose one side.” Chiron shot a look toward cabin eleven’s table. Connor and Travis both whooped and hollered, getting the rest of their table riled up. Chiron sighed. “And that is not something to be proud of. It’s not a loophole, boys, despite what you may think.”

Snickers from the older campers rose above the whispers. Annabeth frowned. In the rush of receiving a new quest, Annabeth had forgotten about capture the flag. Though Annabeth had relinquished her cabin counsellor position to her younger half-brother, Malcolm Pace, she still liked to lead the Athena cabin during capture the flag.

“In addition, I want to see the four campers that convened with yesterday in the New Big House promptly after breakfast.”

With that, Chiron turned and trotted back to the head table.

Percy snorted. “Yay, more quest-talk.”

Annabeth hummed as she ate her oatmeal. “It’s most likely going to be about transportation for the quest. We’re going to Scotland from Long Island Sound. We’re going to need a boat or something, or that magical portkey thing we used yesterday.”

Flying was out of the question.

Zeus couldn’t harm Percy, not unless he wanted to start a war. Tensions between the sky and sea were no longer as high as during Percy’s first quest, but if Zeus hurt the twice Hero of Olympus … then regardless whether the other gods favoured Percy or not, they would go up in arms immediately. It would be political suicide for Zeus. However, that didn’t mean that it was completely safe – or even comfortable – for a son of the sea to use air travel.

Unless this wizarding school could pull a portal out of thin air, they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

*

Percy and Annabeth made their way over to the New Big House and walked in on a familiar scene. Chiron was in his magical wheelchair, Nico was at the ping pong table, and Thalia was at the new counsellor table. Percy and Annabeth each took a seat at the ping pong table.

“At three this morning, Albus paid me a visit and mentioned that plans have changed,” Chiron said. “You will be heading to Europe immediately, to stay with a wizarding family the days leading up to the Hogwarts school year.”

Thalia looked like she wanted to say something about that, but what came out was: “And this is good news?”

Chiron gave a tenuous smile. “Yes, very good news. This is a chance to slowly integrate with the wizarding world, instead of having a culture shock when you first get to Hogwarts. It’s also good news because you will be staying with the Weasley family, a pureblood wizarding family, and a family that also hosts the wizarding world hero, Harry Potter.”

“Albus has informed the family that you will be staying with them before school starts, which is in several days. They are the ones who will show you around Diagon Alley.”

“So, will they know we’re demigods?” Thalia asked.

Chiron shook his head. “No. Only Albus will know. He’s one of the few wizards to remember where the source of the wizarding world’s magic came from and also know about the other pantheons. Unless it is necessary, in extenuating circumstances, you will not reveal yourselves. Understood? The entirety of Hogwarts doesn’t need to know about our world, now, does it?”

He wasn’t wrong. The life of a demigod was already filled to the brim with danger flying in from every direction, and they didn’t need any potential spies or monsters in the school knowing about the Greek gods and Camp Half-Blood.

“When do we leave, then?” Percy asked.

“In a few hours.”

Dead silence.

The four demigods continued to stare at Chiron as if expecting him to reveal he was joking.

Chiron wasn’t joking.

“Tomorrow, they will take you to Diagon Alley. So, I propose that you go and pack right now. Clothing required includes dress shirts and pants, or jeans and plain shirts. And remember, please do not blow your cover in a single day.”

Percy really wanted to give his mentor a big “fuck you” for the late warning and subtle insult at his lack of grace on past quests. Unfortunately, he figured that it wasn’t appropriate, and that Annabeth would not appreciate it. She was already fretting at Percy’s side.

“We need to pack right away. What do you even need at a magical school?”

*

The four demigods all headed to their respective cabins to pack as quickly as possible.

Percy wasn’t excited.

The problem about over half of the camp population having ADHD was that cabins tended to be cluttered. Percy’s cabin was particularly bad. His bed was never made because Percy “didn’t believe in that.” He had a ‘clothing corner’ on the floor, where it was vaguely sorted into dirty and clean clothes, because he hadn’t been able to force himself to put them away. The tops of his dressers were cluttered with pens, clothing, weapons, and papers. In another corner, where the cracked water fountain sat, was a little makeshift prayer altar for Poseidon.

Percy sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. This was going to be difficult.

He started with the necessities: clothes and toiletries. Percy didn’t have any dress pants or shirts – he doubted any demigod had those – so he stuck to his plain cotton shirts and the jeans with the least number of holes and rips.

Percy grunted as he shut his suitcase, a little overfilled.

To the side, he had pulled his wand back out, alongside his information booklet.

Percy still had time to spare, so he decided to read through his pseudo backstory.

*

Reading through the booklet didn’t take long. It contained information about Ilvermorny, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the history of the school. It also taught about the four houses of Ilvermorny and listed several teachers and famous wizard and witch names in the magical community.

Aside from the technical information, it also held Percy’s backstory.

Percy was a no-maj born – also known as born to two parents who were non-magical. His mother was Sally Jackson, and his father wasn’t in the picture. Percy’s magical moment as a kid was when he caused the water in a fountain to divert and spray all over his childhood bully, Nancy Bobofit. And after that, his eyes were forever opened to the world of magics. The rest of the booklet had a bunch of beginner spells to learn, along with some more educational blurbs.

It was fun, in a way, to get to act like someone else; to imagine he had a simpler life.

When Percy was done reading through his booklet, he decided to head to the training arena to burn the rest of his time.

Upon entering the arena, he spotted Thalia.

She had a strange look on her face.

When Thalia spotted Percy, she quickly made her way over to him, pulling him sharply to the side by his arm.

Percy yelled out. “Hey, hey –”

“Shh!” Thalia hissed. “Look, I think something fishy is going on with this quest.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Percy said. “Nothing about this quest makes sense.”

“No, I mean …” Thalia looked around, as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping. “I went to talk to Chiron last night, and he was talking to someone. I didn’t see who, but the other person was saying something about Chiron ‘owing him,’ whatever that –”

“What are you guys talking about?”

Annabeth had entered the arena.

“Nothing.” Thalia crossed her arms over her chest.

Annabeth squinted at them, frowning. “I’m sure it was nothing. That’s why you were huddled in a discrete corner whispering.”

Thalia frowned, then smiled. “We’re just messing with you, Annie.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “I told you not to call me Annie!”

Percy looked between the two girls, lost. He didn’t understand why Thalia didn’t want to tell Annabeth about Chiron, but he wasn’t going to be the one to spill the secret.

“Anyway,” Nico said, scaring all three demigods.

“Holy fucking – I told you not to do that!” Thalia swore.

“What do you mean? I’ve been here the whole time.” Nico tried to bluff, but his slight smirk gave it away. He loved to scare people with his shadow travelling.

Annabeth huffed as she pulled out some papers, opening them so everyone could read them. “Right. Okay. Sure. Anyway, we need to go through our information packets, so we know what we’re doing.”

“The booklets Jonnie gave us have some basic information to know, and a brief-down on the differences between North American and European wizards. You know, culture differences. Obviously, it’s not all going to make sense without context, but we’ll figure it out. Besides that, apparently, they sort wizards into more condensed groups, kind of like how we have cabins here at camp. They’re sorted by characteristics they value and exhibit. Our story from Ilvermorny is that I’m from the Horned Serpent house. Percy’s a Pukwudgie.” Annabeth traced a finger over a paragraph. “Nico, you’re a …”

“Thunderbird?” Nico said with distaste. “Sounds like a house dedicated to Zeus.”

Annabeth squinted and read the page. “It’s a house for wizards that favours adventurers. Go figure.” At Nico’s flat look, she laughed. “Horned Serpent favours scholars, so no complaints here. Pukwudgie favours healers, though I can’t really figure out why Percy would come from that house.”

“And what am I?” Thalia said, humming. Nico flipped to the next page, and Thalia scowled. “What the fuck is a Wampus?”

“Wampus favours warriors,” Annabeth said. “Makes sense.”

“But why would we all be sorted into separate houses?” Percy said. “I was reading through the booklet, too. I mean, we’re lying about going to Ilvermorny anyway, so why would Albus decide to split us up? It’ll make it more confusing when we’re all sorted into the same house at Hogwarts.”

Annabeth shrugged. “To keep up appearances, I suppose. I mean, I guess it wouldn’t make sense to send transfer students that are all from the same Ilvermorny house. They’d want to send one from each house; a variety of wizards.”

“We are all from different cabins,” Nico pointed out.

Thalia frowned. “Still seems like more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Whatever it is, we still need to get it memorised,” Annabeth said. She folded her papers back up carefully. “When we get a period to study, I want us all to go over everything together so that we’re all on the same page. We can test each other. It’ll be fun.”

“You need to fix your definition of fun,” Percy said.

Behind the demigods, there was the stomping of hooves. The group turned around to see Chiron enter with the strangest looking man Percy had ever seen.

The man was wearing a silver dress and had a hat that looked like it belonged at the Salem Witch Trials. Around his neck was a necklace that was gold and had purple gemstones and shaped like the lunar cycle. His spectacles sat on the bridge of his long and crooked nose, which made it look like he had lost one too many fights. His beard was so long that it hung past his waist and was so pale that it looked silver.

Standing beside Chiron, he looked frail.

“Annabeth, Nico, Percy, Thalia; meet, Albus Dumbledore.”

Chiron gestured at the strange looking man with a nervous smile. Albus gave a short bow to the group.

For a moment, he looked silver, like one of the monsters on a hunt.

Percy blinked.

The silver was gone.

“Hello young demigods,” Albus greeted warmly.

*

Chapter 4: the "transfer students"

*

Chapter 4: The Transfer Students

Thalia paused.

She knew that voice.

That was the voice that she overheard speaking with Chiron. She needed to tell Percy. Something was going on that the demigods weren’t being told about. Thalia wanted to tell Annabeth, who was practically her sister, but she knew Annabeth looked up to Chiron as a father figure. There was no way she would believe Thalia when she said Chiron was doing something suspicious.

Percy looked weirded out. “Why is Gandalf greeting us?”

“I didn’t know you knew who Gandalf was,” Annabeth said.

Percy paused, then said, “I don’t.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but the Gandalf duplicate laughed. “I’m afraid the confusion happens often.”

Thalia gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded along. Usually, she wouldn’t care enough to question such figures or guests because her mistress taught her to be a good host to outsiders, but the man didn’t look as if he belonged in this century. He was very strange, even for Thalia’s standards, and she had met numerous psychotic gods.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore.”

“Oh, no need to call me that. To you, I can be known as Albus. Only within Hogwarts will you call me Professor or Dumbledore.” Dumbledore’s grey eyes sparkled in a way that reminded Thalia of Athena. It made her uneasy. It felt like he was patronising her.

“I assume you’re not here just to make small talk,” Nico said. He looked at Dumbledore with dark eyes, narrowed.

The wizard nodded. “I am here to apparate you to the Burrow.”

“You’re going to do what to us?” Percy said.

“The Burrow is what we call the Weasley’s home, Perseus.” Albus’ thin lips curved upward in a small smile and Thalia frowned. Weird usage of Percy’s name and a condescending smile; he was definitely patronising them. “And apparition is a form of transportation that wizards use to get from one place to another over long distances.”

“It’s just Percy,” Percy mumbled out of habit, but Dumbledore dismissed him.

*

The summer sun was barely peeking over the hills when chaos broke loose.

“Harry! Ron! Wake up!”

Harry jolted awake, hair sticking up in every direction, and feeling disoriented. Hermione’s voice pierced the early morning stillness like a rogue Howler.

From the other side of the room came a loud thump.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron groaned from the floor, tangled in a mess of blanket and leg. “You sound like a banshee with a grudge.”

Hermione stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Well, if you two would actually respond to a normal wake-up call, I wouldn’t need to resort to volume.” She sniffed. “We need to leave soon for Diagon Alley, and Molly says the new transfer students will be arriving early.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, reaching for his glasses. The world snapped into clarity – sunlight painting golden streaks on the wooden floorboards, dust swirling lazily in the air, Ron still flailing like a beached flobberworm.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned. “Transfer students … right.” He tried to sound interested, but something about it made his stomach twist uneasily.

Hermione, ever efficient, launched into her checklist. “You two need to start packing, double-check your Hogwarts lists, and – Ron, for Merlin’s sake, put on a shirt.”

Ron grumbled something about morning tyranny but obeyed.

Harry stood and stretched, gazing out the crooked window that overlooked the garden. Ginny was out there somewhere, likely helping her mother with the last of the breakfast prep. The air smelled of toast and summer dew, with the faintest scent of smoke from the fireplace crackling downstairs.

Eighth year. Or, more accurately, their seventh year again. Hogwarts had offered all students a chance to redo their NEWT year, and somehow, the trio – Harry, Hermione, and Ron – had said yes. After everything – horcruxes, battles, and loss – it felt strange to be going back like a normal student.

Normal.

That was what he had wanted. A quiet year. No saving the world. No being hunted. Just classes, quidditch, and maybe sneaking into Hogsmeade under his invisibility cloak for fun, not war.

But now, international transfer students were being placed into the house system. Unprecedented, Professor McGonagall had said in her letter. Highly gifted, she had added. And Harry … Harry had a bad feeling.

He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because new people meant new dynamics. Maybe it was just nerves.

Or maybe, deep down, some part of him didn’t believe he would ever have a normal year at Hogwarts.

Ron finally joined him at the window, yawning.

“Think these transfers’ll be weird?” He asked blearily.

Harry hesitated. “I hope not. I just … don’t want any trouble this year.”

Hermione appeared behind them with an exasperated huff. “Honestly, they’re just students. Not every new person is a harbinger of doom.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

She narrowed her eyes. “I heard that.”

*

The unmistakable crack of apparition echoed across the garden like a firework.

Harry turned from where he stood by the crooked fence, half a buttered scone still in his hand from breakfast, just in time to see Dumbledore appear at the edge of the garden path, his cloak flaring behind him in the windless air. But what drew Harry’s attention wasn’t the headmaster – it was the four figures beside him.

The new transfer students, Harry realised. This is them.

The first figure stepped forward, and Harry instinctively straightened.

She was was short, maybe a few inches shorter than him, with black hair that stuck out in jagged layers like she had just walked through a thunderstorm – and liked it. Her silver parka gleamed in the sun. Her eyes, sharp and electric blue, scanned the Burrow’s garden with an edge of suspicion.

She looked like someone who would rather punch a Death Eater than shake your hand.

Then there was the boy beside her. He looked younger – paler, so much so that he looked sick – with a sharp jaw and a mop of messy, raven-dark hair that almost covered his eyes. He wore black from head to toe, right down to his boots. There was something ghost-like about him, like he was half in the world and half somewhere else.

He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Not even Dumbledore’s.

The third was a girl with tan skin and a storm of wild blonde curls pulled back in a braid. She had a book under one arm and the kind of calculating eyes that made Hermione sit up straighter beside him. Her expression was thoughtful, already assessing the garden, the house, maybe everyone in it.

She wore practical clothes: fitted jeans, a jean jacket, and sneakers that looked like they’d seen a few dozen battlefields. Her hand rested instinctively on the strap of her bag like it held something important.

She looked like she had backup plans for her backup plans.

And finally – the last one stepped out from behind the others, his posture loose, like none of this worried him.

He was broad-shouldered and tall, easily dwarfing his fellow students, with sea-salt hair in an inky black, windswept and damp at the edges. He wore a faded orange shirt over a white long sleeve, with an icon on the front that was so chipped that Harry couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. His eyes – Harry blinked – they were sea-green, vivid and intense, like staring into waves mid-storm. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and he was chewing something – gum, maybe – as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Ron leaned toward Harry. “These are the Americans?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was still watching the last student.

The boy glanced at him, just for a second, and smiled.

And Harry had the oddest feeling – like something enormous had just shifted underfoot. Like the chessboard had changed and no one else had noticed.

Dumbledore clapped his hands lightly. “Well then. Let’s all get properly introduced.”

“Thalia Grace.”

She was the one with electric eyes.

“Nico di Angelo.”

The boy who looked like death warmed over.

“Annabeth Chase.”

The scary blonde.

“And Perseus Jackson.”

Of which, said “Perseus Jackson” promptly contradicted Dumbledore and said to call him “Percy.”

Dumbledore resolutely ignored Percy and turned to the wizarding family. They got the hint and started to take turns introducing themselves, awkwardly shaking hands.

Harry allowed himself to feel relieved when none of the international students reacted to hearing his name. These days, “Harry Potter” was synonymous with the war effort, and the resulting victory for the Light Side. But the Americans’ eyes glazed over him like he was nothing special. They didn’t even point out Harry’s scar, which most others found interesting.

Part way through introducing the Weasley family, Fred and George introduced themselves. Of course, they tried to fool the transfer students, giving smirks all the while.

“‘Ello, I’m Fred,” George said.

“And I’m George,” Fred said.

To be honest, Harry still had trouble telling the difference between the two. They pulled this kind of trick all the time, and he never called them out on it because he could never be sure. However, Harry wasn’t expecting the transfer students to figure it out as quick as they did, and he definitely didn’t expect them to boldly call-out the twins on their bluff.

“Looks like we have another pair of Stolls,” Percy said. Harry didn’t understand – what did stealing have to do with the twins? – but Percy grinned, showing off his pearly-white teeth. His canines were sharp. He pointed to each twin in turn. “I’d bet my left sock that you’re actually Fred, and you’re actually George.”

The two stood there for a second, a bit stunned. Then they broke out in devious grins.

“You know,” Fred started, looking over at George in jest, “I have a feeling –”

“That we’ll be good friends.” George finished their sentence.

Percy shook hands with the boys eagerly. But when he stuck out his arm, his sleeve rode up, and Harry noticed something strange. There was the beginning of a mark on his forearm.

Harry frowned. “Hey, what’s that?”

Briefly, Percy looked down at his arm and blinked, almost as if he were surprised to find the mark. He tugged his sleeve back down to cover it again. “Just a tattoo,” he said. “I got it recently and, uh, I keep forgetting I have it. I have some bad memories attached to around the time I got it, though.”

Annabeth’s gaze sharpened. Harry got the feeling that they were suddenly walking on eggshells.

“Time to go to Diagon Alley,” Molly announced, breaking the tension.

“Okay, so, how do we get there?” Nico asked.

“The Floo Network,” Ron said, a little miffed by the fact that they didn’t know that. Almost all wizards, even the muggle-born, had used it once, or at least knew of it.

Next thing you know, Harry thought, they’ll say that they don’t even know how to cast a Lumos Spell.

Percy looked confused. “Huh?”

Annabeth’s expression was guarded. “We … haven’t used the Floo Network before.” 

“Never?” Hermione said. “I find that awfully hard to believe.”

Molly huffed and cooed over the transfer students. “Oh, that’s alright, dears. Don’t you worry. It’s very easy!”

Harry was reminded of his first time using Floo Powder as Molly briefly explained how to use it to the transfer students and then held out her flowerpot of Floo Powder. Everyone took a pinch of the glittering powder, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. Harry took extra caution with pronouncing the name correctly, seeing as he rarely used Floo Powder, and didn’t have a good track record with it. With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Harry, who stepped right into it, shouted “Diagon Alley!” and vanished.

When Harry stepped through and ducked out of the fireplace on the other side, he was relieved to open his eyes to Diagon Alley and not some back alley like he had last time. He scurried over to Ron and Hermione and then turned back to the fireplace to wait for the transfer students.

Thalia was the first one to come out, followed by Nico, who then stumbled right into her. They flailed for a bit before Thalia managed to untangle herself, scowling at the other.

Instead of fighting, they made the smart decision to jump out of the way.

Percy came through not even moments later.

He casually strolled out of the fireplace like he used Floo Powder everyday, but Harry noticed Thalia giving him a sour look after Nico leaned into her side to whisper to her. Percy simply gave her a grin and shrugged, looking innocent. He quickly stepped out of the way for Annabeth.

“You pushed me!” Nico said, pointing an accusing finger.

Percy scoffed. “Why would I do that?”

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “Here we go again.”

Then, Thalia darted forward so quickly, Harry blinked and almost missed it. She poked Percy harshly, growling, and Percy suddenly stood ramrod straight, as if he had just stuck his finger in a light socket. He scowled at her. “Cheater –”

Harry walked up to them quickly, trying to avoid a conflict, and flinched when they all turned to him in sync.

“Uh …” He said weakly, “we should probably get going.”

He pointed to the shops awkwardly. *

*

Chapter 5: wizarding alley

Summary:

Στους θεούς.

Notes:

10 points to whoever knows what Στους θεούς means. Yes, I used Google Translate. Yes, I will continue to do so. Suck it up lol

*

Chapter 5: Wizarding Alley

The cobbled street bustled with life – witches and wizards chattering in clusters, parchment shopping lists fluttering in hands, owls hooting irritably from their cages, and the scent of warm cauldron cakes drifting from a nearby stall.

Hermione adjusted her bag over her shoulder and fell into step beside Harry and Ron, stealing a sidelong glance at the four new students walking with them. International transfer students from Ilvermorny. At least, that’s what Dumbledore had told them.

So far, they had been polite enough. Friendly, even. But something about them didn’t quite sit right with her.

Thalia, the one in the silver parka, had her hands jammed in her pockets and an expression like she was cataloguing possible exits. She responded to questions in clipped phrases, and Hermione had caught her flinching – actually flinching – when a street performer’s crystal balls exploded in a harmless puff of green smoke. She recovered quickly, making a joke about it, but Hermione had noticed.

Nico, the dark-haired boy in all black, walked as if the sunlight offended him. When Ron had asked if Ilvermorny had a decent herbology greenhouse, Nico had given a faint, vague “dunno,” before retreating into silence. He hadn’t spoken since.

Annabeth, at least, made an effort. She was sharp – sharp enough that Hermione felt both comforted and mildly threatened by the way her eyes flicked across signposts and shop windows, soaking in information like a sponge. She joined their conversation when they talked about wizarding exams, though Hermione noticed she never spoke about Ilvermorny’s tests in return.

And Percy …

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly, walking just behind him as they turned the corner past Madam Malkin’s. Percy had cracked a joke earlier about goblins being the IRS of the wizarding world – an Americanism, she assumed – and he laughed easily with Ron. He even teased Harry a bit about how he couldn’t remember his Gringotts vault number. All very normal.

Too normal.

Because every time the topic drifted toward their past, all four of them shifted uncomfortably. The jokes dried up. Percy would suddenly tie his shoelace or make a passing comment that steered the conversation back toward quidditch or wizarding sweets.

But what unsettled Hermione most happened just a few minutes earlier, outside Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Percy had reached up to scratch his head, and his sleeve slid up just enough for her to catch a glimpse of something on his left forearm.

Dark ink. A line. Something long and twisted.

Her breath caught.

It looked eerily like a Dark Mark – but not quite. She wasn’t sure what she saw. Just that it was hidden, that he hadn’t noticed her seeing it, and that it looked dark. Not tattooed in the way most magical ink appeared. Etched, almost. Branded.

“Just a tattoo,” he had said earlier, at the Burrow.

Hermione hadn’t said anything yet. She wasn’t sure.

But now, watching Percy walk ahead, his shoulder brushing casually against Ron's as they argued over Chocolate Frog cards, Hermione felt a cold stone of doubt settle in her stomach.

They were nice. They were trying. But something wasn’t being said. Something big.

They were hiding something.

And Hermione Granger hated being kept in the dark.

*

The tall, sloping white building of Gringotts Wizarding Bank gleamed in the late evening sun, its crooked entrance flanked by goblins who stood so still they might as well have been carved from stone. Hermione tilted her head back to take it all in, a little thrill running down her spine as always. No matter how many times she visited, the sight of Gringotts still filled her with a peculiar sort of awe – and maybe a touch of intimidation.

The group slowed their pace as they approached the steps. Witches and wizards bustled past with heavy coin purses and wriggling bags that hissed and clicked from the inside.

Annabeth Chase, walking just ahead, narrowed her eyes at the marble columns. She tilted her head thoughtfully and muttered, mostly to herself but loud enough for Hermione to hear: “Late eighteenth-century construction. Primitive symmetry. Over-reliance on vertical emphasis – typical.”

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

Annabeth glanced at her. “The architecture. It’s functional, but nothing elegant. They clearly modeled it on classical imperial design, but it’s missing proportional balance.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, then promptly closed it again.

Was she supposed to defend Gringotts? She liked Gringotts. It was safe. Magical. Iconic. But Annabeth’s tone wasn’t cruel, just analytical. It was like she was assessing a historical ruin or a blueprint gone wrong.

Ron leaned toward Harry and muttered, “She sounds like Snape when he gets talking about his potions.”

Hermione half-smiled, still feeling wrong-footed.

As if on cue, Percy stepped up to the goblin standing at the doors and gave a small, respectful nod. “We’re here to access the vault registered to Chiron. Professor Dumbledore arranged it.”

The goblin eyed them, his narrow gaze flicking over the group before he nodded curtly. “Follow me.”

Hermione shot a questioning look at Annabeth, who answered without prompting. “Chiron’s our mentor. He sent funds ahead through Gringotts for our supplies.”

Harry raised a brow. “Your Ilvermorny mentor?”

There was the briefest hesitation before Annabeth nodded. “Yes. Him.”

Hermione tucked that moment away.

As they crossed the threshold into the glittering, echoing hall of the bank, Hermione couldn’t shake the sensation that this trip to Gringotts – something so familiar to her – was utterly foreign to her companions, and yet they handled it with a sort of unspoken readiness.

Almost like they were used to things going wrong.

And as she watched Nico tense ever so slightly when they passed a snarling dragon sculpture, and Thalia’s eyes flick side to side like she was measuring the escape routes, Hermione felt that stone of unease settle in her stomach once again.

They were here to buy school supplies. This should be simple.

But for them? Nothing ever was that simple.

The goblin led them over to the vault entrance. It struggled with the giant, enchanted door. Its voice was as cold and clipped as ever. “Third track. Two carts. The vault is deep.”

Hermione tried not to sigh as she climbed into the second cart with Harry and Ron, the goblin already seated at the front like a chauffeur. The four transfer students had piled into the first cart ahead, fitting with ease despite the tight space. Percy sat nearest the back, with Thalia crammed beside him, Nico slouched across from them, and Annabeth upright.

Hermione adjusted her grip on the side of the cart just as it lurched forward, rails groaning. They picked up speed immediately, the third track diving steeply into the shadows.

She hated this part.

The first turn hit hard and fast, the cart whipping around a sharp bend with such force that she slammed into Ron’s shoulder. Everyone in her cart gasped – except the goblin, who seemed immune to the terror of being flung to one’s doom at high speeds underground.

But what made Hermione’s stomach twist wasn’t the drop or the speed.

It was the sound from the cart in front of them.

Laughter.

Loud, joyful, reckless laughter.

Through the howling wind and tunnel echoes, she could hear hoots and whoops and someone yelling “FASTER!” like they were on some mad amusement park ride. Hermione squinted into the darkness ahead. The other cart was maybe twenty feet in front of them – close enough for her to make out vague shapes.

Thalia’s arms were in the air.

So were Annabeth’s, as if this whole death trap was a leisure cruise. Percy’s head was thrown back in a grin.

And Nico …

Hermione blinked.

Nico was hanging out the back of the cart.

Not leaning – hanging. His torso was completely out of the cart, legs held only by Percy’s arms locked around his shins.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Merlin – Harry! He’s going to fall!”

Harry leaned forward. “Is he dangling?!”

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, his face going several shades lighter. “This is a death wish.”

The cart twisted again, shaking violently as it jolted over what Hermione was certain was a cracked rail. She clutched the side of the cart like her life depended on it – because it very well might – and peered ahead once more.

Percy was still holding onto Nico, who seemed completely unbothered by the possibility of bashing his brains on the rails. Nico even looked like he was grinning. Then, with surprising strength, Percy yanked him back into the cart in one clean motion just as they rounded the final bend.

Both carts slowed abruptly, screeching to a halt beside a massive, iron-bound vault door.

Hermione all but tumbled out of the cart the moment it stopped, nearly kissing the stone platform in gratitude. Her knees wobbled.

Harry was already climbing out beside her. “That’s the last time I ever get in one of those things,” he muttered, running a hand through his windblown hair.

Ron, still inside the cart, didn’t move right away. “I think I left my stomach on track two …”

Hermione’s gaze darted back to the transfer students, who were laughing and stretching as if they had just stepped off a perfectly normal train ride.

Annabeth was adjusting her backpack. “Nice dip on that second turn.”

Thalia punched Percy lightly on the arm. “Next time, you hang off the back.”

Percy grinned. “Deal.”

Nico offered no comment, but the smirk he gave Percy said more than enough.

Hermione couldn’t hide her disbelief. She exchanged a look with Harry, who looked equally baffled.

Who were these people?

The goblin easily hopped out of the second cart and hobbled over to the vault door. He turned to the Americans.

“Vault nine-seven-three,” the goblin said shortly. “Registered for the four international students. Come on, hurry up. We have two other vaults to visit.”

Percy took a key out of his jacket pocket – big, bronze, and glimmering, like starlight. He inserted it into the keyhole, turned it without grandiose, and pushed open the vault door with ease. With a massive creak and shudder, the vault door shifted open. Though it was only cracked open, that was all Hermione needed to be able to sneak a look inside where there was an excessive amount of gold.

Percy shrugged, seemingly not surprised by how their mentor had spared no expense. “Time to load up.”

The transfer students all followed Percy inside the vault. Hermione took caution in checking to make sure they were busy picking through the stash of metals, then immediately turned to Harry and Ron.

“Boys!” Hermione whispered. “Did you see it?”

All she received were stares.

“The Dark Mark,” she hissed, rubbing her own forearm subconsciously.

Ron’s eyes were as round as saucers.

“Dark Mark?” He said, shocked. “They have Dark Marks?”

Harry nodded, grim. “I mean, I didn’t see it on the others, but there was a mark on Percy. He hid it when I pointed it out. He said that it brought back bad memories – probably memories of Voldemort!”

Ron’s eyes narrowed.

“What’re you saying?” He demanded. “You defeated You-Know – ugh, fine – Voldemort! There! I said it! He’s dead now – well, like, you know, for good.”

“Yes, sure, that’s all fine and dandy, but that doesn’t mean that his old followers aren’t still around.” Hermione felt something ugly crawl into chest her as she spoke – it was a truth none of them wanted to hear. “I don’t really believe it – and I don’t want to – but we must stay cautious around them. At this point, it would be stupid to act ignorant.”

“Just in case,” Harry added. “Until we know for sure.”

Ron shook his head and scowled. “Good luck, then. There probably isn’t even anything going on. I’m tired of all this Voldemort stuff, and I don’t want to get involved anymore. It always leads to trouble, and I don’t know about you, but I want to get through a school year without causing a scandal or newsworthy story – or almost getting killed!”

“But did you see it?” Hermione pressed.

Ron pursed his lips and looked away, stubborn. “You ever heard of tattoos?”

Despite his reluctance, he confirmed what Hermione had seen. Almost as if on cue, the transfer students came out of the vault with coin purses that she hadn’t seen them carry inside.

Something was going on, and Hermione was going to get to the bottom of it.

*

Harry and Ron were walking ahead, Hermione beside them, talking about which shops to visit next. Hermione mentioned something about books.

And then, behind them, a voice: “Where’s the bookstore? Flourish and Blotts?”

The wizards jumped, surprised by Nico’s sudden appearance, despite the fact that he had been with them the entire afternoon. They had definitely forgotten that he was there.

Even Annabeth blinked.

She let out a small laugh before she could help herself.

Harry tilted his head, clearly startled. “Er – right. It’s, um … that way.”

Hermione recovered first, pointing toward a two-story brick building wedged between a cauldron repair shop and what looked like a store that sold nothing but self-writing quills. It was painted green, with a large awning and a table full of books out front.

“There – Flourish and Blotts,” she said.

Nico nodded and faded back into silence just as easily as he had spoken. Annabeth watched as he slipped back a few paces, nearly vanishing into the shifting crowds. He was good at that.

They headed for the shop, a bell chiming overhead as they entered. Annabeth inhaled instinctively.

The smell of books was like a tonic. Dust, leather bindings, old paper – exactly the kind of scent that made her feel calm, grounded, and focused.

The shelves stretched high and deep, the entire shop buzzing with quiet magical energy. Books fluttered slightly on their shelves like birds shifting in sleep. Some had protective charms sparking along their spines. A few even whispered faintly as they passed.

“This is amazing,” she murmured under her breath.

The group instinctively split up, each of them drifting to different sections. Hermione, of course, was already halfway down the Defense Against the Dark Arts aisle, scanning titles like they were old friends. Harry and Ron hovered near the front desk, looking lost, muttering about booklists and “which one had that thing about banshee counter-curses.”

Annabeth made her way to the potions shelf, sliding her fingers along the titles: A Modern Guide to Elixirs, Brews and Balms: A Mediwitch’s Handbook, Theories of Transmutation in Herbal Drafts. All neatly organised, thoroughly magical, and completely alien.

She frowned slightly, pulling one down and opening it. The text shimmered faintly – charmed, definitely – but the format reminded her of an old Roman medicinal codex she had read once. Alchemy and Greek alchemy weren’t so far apart.

Across the store, she saw Percy – already carrying three books under one arm – flip through something large and leatherbound. He caught her eye and gave a little shrug, like who knew potions had so many rules?

Annabeth smiled faintly and turned back to her own book, the soft rustle of pages around her oddly soothing.

Once she’d had her fill of admiring the books and comforting atmosphere, Annabeth pulled out her list of textbooks she would need for the year at Hogwarts. One of the first books on her list – The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 – was written by a wizard, Miranda Goshawk. Annabeth started her search right away.

She adjusted the strap of her bag as she scanned another high shelf, lips pursed in concentration. Advanced Potion-Making was nowhere to be found in the potions section – or if it was, it had disguised itself too well.

She glanced at her supply list again, frowning. That book, along with Dark Arts Defence: Confronting the Faceless, was proving annoyingly elusive.

Rounding the corner of the aisle, she heard a voice – low, smooth, and vaguely disdainful.

“What’s it to you?”

She stopped, just out of view.

Another voice responded – familiar, casual, and annoyingly calm.

“Just curious. You’re wearing green, and I heard that’s a Hogwarts house thing, right? Slytherin?”

Annabeth peeked around the shelf.

Percy stood there, tilted slightly on his heel, balancing a thick book in one hand and trying – genuinely trying – to make conversation. His hair was a little wind-tousled from the mine cart ride, and there was a smudge of dust on his cheek, but he looked earnest.

The boy he was talking to was something else entirely.

Paler than even Nico, with hair so platinum-blond it looked like spun frost. His black robes were crisply pressed, accented with dark green trim, and his expression – though perfectly neutral – reeked of disdain.

Annabeth’s instincts flared.

The stranger narrowed his eyes, looking Percy over like he was something that had tracked mud across an expensive rug. “You ask too many questions.”

Percy just shrugged, unbothered. “Sorry. I'm a transfer student from Ilvermorny. You know, America? They haven’t sorted us yet. I’m just trying to figure things out.”

Annabeth held her breath. She had seen Percy’s temper flare for less. Much less. But he wasn’t that boy anymore. Not since Tartarus. Not since everything.

The blond boy raised a brow. “Well, if you keep talking like that, they’ll throw you in Gryffindor.”

The name was spoken like it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Annabeth watched Percy’s reaction closely.

But he only laughed. “That’s the red house, right? I like red. But I like green more. Makes me think of sea glass.”

The boy blinked, as if thrown off guard by the answer.

Before the tension could twist tighter, Annabeth stepped into view, brushing her braid over one shoulder.

“There you are,” she said to Percy, keeping her tone breezy. “Still haven’t found Advanced Potion-Making, huh?”

“Not a clue,” Percy admitted, offering her a grateful look.

Annabeth turned her eyes to the pale boy and offered a polite, neutral smile. “Sorry if he was bothering you. We’re still figuring out the bookstore layout. Do you happen to know if that book’s shelved in a different section?”

The boy glanced at her, grey eyes calculating.

He sniffed. “If it’s not in the potions aisle, it’s probably locked behind the case in the back. Higher-level texts attract sticky fingers. Ask the clerk.”

“Thanks,” Annabeth said, genuinely, “for pointing us in the right direction. I’m Annabeth. This is my boyfriend, Percy.”

Percy gave a little wave, offering his signature lopsided smile.

The boy blinked. “Malfoy,” he said, like it meant something. “Draco Malfoy.”

He paused, clearly waiting for some kind of recognition. When neither she nor Percy reacted, he tilted his head slightly, brow arching. “You haven’t heard of my family?”

“Nope,” Percy said. “Should we have?”

Draco said nothing, just gave a small, unreadable smile. “Never mind.”

Instead of walking away, he surprised Annabeth by moving toward the counter at the front of the shop. “Come on, then,” he said over his shoulder. “If the book is behind the case, you’ll need to speak to Mr. Flourish. He’s usually lurking by the register.”

Percy glanced at Annabeth.

She gave a small shrug. “Let’s go.”

They followed Draco, who handled the exchange with the clerk with cold efficiency. He didn’t say much else, except the occasional comment about the Hogwarts curriculum. He was helpful, in his way – sharp, well-informed, and oddly eager to point out how “first-years wouldn’t even touch a text this advanced.” Annabeth suspected it was his way of hinting he was smart enough to read them years ago.

After they collected the last of their books, Percy turned to Draco with a grin.

“Thanks, Draco. Appreciate the help. Maybe we’ll see you around Hogwarts, yeah? Who knows, we might end up in your house.”

Draco snorted. “You?” He asked, looking between the two of them. “Not likely.”

Annabeth blinked, unsure how to take that.

“You’re both obviously Gryffindors,” Draco said, matter-of-factly. “You practically radiate it. Especially him.” He jerked his chin toward Percy, then added, with a reluctant smirk, “Too loud. Too … noble.”

Percy laughed. “That a compliment or an insult?”

“Yes,” Draco said coolly.

Annabeth frowned, folding her arms. “Well, you never know,” she said, chin raised. “We might surprise you.”

Draco raised a brow again, but this time with a trace of amusement. “Doubt it.”

Annabeth held his gaze, unflinching.

“I guess we’ll see,” she said.

Percy grinned again – bright and sea-salt warm – and Draco looked away fast, adjusting his sleeve. His posture shifted, ever so slightly, and the pale flush of color crept faintly into his cheeks.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Draco muttered, before turning on his heel and walking away, his robes billowing behind him with practiced drama.

Annabeth watched him go, then turned to Percy. “He’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Percy said. “But kind of interesting.”

Annabeth nodded absentmindedly. She ran her hand along the new bag she had bought, to store the textbooks in. It was a leather bookbag, but it wasn’t a normal bookbag – no, it was enchanted to be bottomless. She recalled, just moments before, when she’d had to pay for everything. Their total, together, had come to thirty-one galleons, six sickles, and twenty knuts. Draco had given them an impromptu lesson on the European wizarding currency; seventeen sickles in a galleon, and twenty-nine knuts in a sickle. That meant that there were four-hundred three knuts to a galleon. Annabeth’s head was spinning.

Exiting the store, Annabeth tucked her school shopping list into the outer pocket of her bookbag. Beside her, Percy opened a purple hardcover, flipped through the book, and groaned. He hit his forehead over the cover.

Ron gave him a weird look.

“What’re you doing?” He asked. “Trying to kill yourself with a book?”

“I wish,” Percy said. He threw a distasteful look down at the textbook. “It would probably be way less painful than actually trying to read it.”

“Oh, shut it,” Annabeth said. “It won’t be that bad. I’ll help you with homework.”

They then made their way over to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. When they entered, they were quickly approached by a short woman with a big smile. She rushed them over to some stools and forced them to stand still so that she could get all her measurements right.

Madam Malkin, the lady who owned the store and was measuring them, made small talk while they waited. She was constantly snapping at Percy for fidgeting.

Thalia and Annabeth had their robes finished first, and they were left waiting for Nico and Percy. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had long past left, not needing new robes. They had told them that they would return after a quick trip to an ice cream parlour not too far away. Annabeth watched, thoroughly amused, as Percy seemed torn between asking for an ice cream or risking Madam Malkin’s wrath for moving.

He pouted as he watched them leave.

Nico finished next, going to join Annabeth and Thalia by the doors. The little bell above the door gave a sharp chime as someone else stepped into Madam Malkin’s. Annabeth barely glanced up from the enchanted measuring tape floating beside her until something – someone – registered.

She blinked.

Draco Malfoy.

His eyes scanned the room with casual disinterest, until they landed on them.

Percy was perched on a low stool, arms held out stiffly as Madam Malkin pinned the sleeves of his Hogwarts robes. When he saw Draco, he grinned like he wasn’t currently being stabbed in the armpit with a pin.

“Hey!” Percy called, careful not to jostle too much. “You here for new robes too?”

Draco faltered, just for a breath. Like he had been caught off guard. But he recovered quickly, slipping on that practiced sneer like a second skin. “I’m simply here to have the patches replaced on my work robes,” he said coolly. “I already own the best that money can buy.”

“Nice,” Percy said, unfazed. “My clothes have sea salt stains and a tear in the elbow, so I figured it was time for an upgrade and to get some robes.”

Annabeth shot him a look. “You tore them fighting sea monsters,” she muttered.

“Still counts,” Percy muttered back, trying not to smile.

Draco tilted his head slightly, either amused or confused – Annabeth couldn’t tell which.

“Well,” he said, brushing an invisible speck off his sleeve. “I suppose even saltwater peasants need new robes eventually.”

Annabeth narrowed her eyes. “You always this charming, or are we just special?”

Draco blinked. For a moment, he looked like he might actually laugh – but instead, he shrugged, as if to say: take it or leave it.

“Just observant,” he replied smoothly, but the edge had dulled from his tone.

Madam Malkin bustled in between them then, muttering something about hems and enchanted stitching as she maneuvered around Percy’s leg.

Draco lingered a moment longer, watching Percy with a strange, unreadable look before finally giving a small nod.

“I’ll see you at Hogwarts,” he said.

Percy grinned again. “Looking forward to it.”

Draco didn’t respond – just turned and glided toward the counter with the faintest swish of robes, vanishing behind a curtain a second later.

Annabeth turned back to Percy. “You’re collecting odd friends.”

“He’s not a friend,” Percy said, too quickly.

She arched a brow.

“… yet,” he added.

Annabeth huffed and folded her arms. She said, “Just don’t let him rope you into anything illegal.”

Percy grinned again. “No promises.”

*

When they reunited with the wizarding trio, they agreed to meet up with the rest of the Weasley family. As they walked, Harry began to pepper them with questions.

“So, what’s Ilvermorny like? Do you have four Houses, too? Are your classes the same as ours? Do you play quidditch? Wait, do you even have quidditch?”

His green eyes were bright with curiosity – borderline blinding, if Annabeth was honest. She recognised that intensity. It was the kind of energy people got when they needed answers to feel in control of their world.

Thalia, walking a few paces ahead, was less impressed.

Harry hadn’t noticed the way Thalia’s hand was twitching near the hem of her hoodie, where Annabeth knew her charm-laced hunting knife was tucked away.

Behind her, Nico walked like a shadow – silent, half a step behind the others, glancing sideways down alleyways like he expected something to come slithering out of the brickwork. He hadn’t said a word since they left Gringotts. Harry didn’t seem to have noticed that he was there at all.

“Harry,” Hermione said, her tone sharp enough to make him flinch, “maybe let them answer one question before you fire off six more.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

Ron looked mildly amused, like this was the first real entertainment of the day. “You do talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he muttered.

Percy, to his credit, tried to salvage the moment. He scratched the back of his neck, offering a sheepish grin. “Uh – well. I was in Pukwudgie.”

The three wizards blinked at him in unison.

“Puk … what?” Ron asked.

Annabeth winced. She could feel the collective shift of unease among the other demigods. Nico raised a brow. Thalia rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that Annabeth was pretty sure included the word “mortal.”

“Pukwudgie,” Percy repeated, slower. “One of the houses. At Ilvermorny. The American wizarding school.”

Blank stares. Annabeth didn’t know whether to feel second-hand embarrassment or admiration for Percy’s commitment to their story.

“Sounds like something Hagrid would keep in a chicken coop,” Ron muttered.

Hermione, at least, seemed to register that something wasn’t quite adding up. She tilted her head slightly and gave Annabeth a curious look – too curious.

Annabeth forced a polite smile, but her stomach was coiled tight.

They couldn’t tell them the truth: that they had never seen Ilvermorny except in pictures; and that their summer hadn’t been spent prepping for NEWTs, but sparring with monsters and training under a centaur who had more years of war experience than any of them had years alive.

Percy coughed awkwardly. “Yeah. Pukwudgie is … the healer house. Kind of like your Hufflepuff, I think.”

That seemed to satisfy Harry, at least temporarily.

Annabeth let out a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. But Thalia was still tense, and Nico had pulled his hood up a little higher.

Annabeth walked a little faster, not entirely sure if she was leading or fleeing.

*

Chapter 6: the dark mark

*

Chapter 6: The Dark Mark   

The sun hung low over Diagon Alley, casting long golden shadows across the cobbled streets and warming the backs of Percy’s arms. He walked slightly apart from the others, hands shoved deep into his jean pockets.

As Hermione launched into another cheerful explanation about Hogwarts’ academic structure – terms and houses and prefects – Percy tuned her out and let his mind drift.

British wizards, he thought dryly, were staggeringly ignorant.

He hadn’t studied their cover story beyond the basics: pretend they had gone to Ilvermorny, toss out a few house names, and nod vaguely at mentions of classes. He hadn’t even heard of some of the stuff Hermione went on about – like animagus licensing or NEWTs – but nobody questioned them. No one had blinked when he claimed to be in “Pukwudgie.” No one asked where Ilvermorny was located, or even what subjects they studied. Percy wagered he could have said he had majored in wand repair and aquatic broom sports and gotten away with it.

Still, it wasn’t their fault. British wizards didn’t know about demigods. And hopefully, they never would.

He glanced sideways. Nico was a whisper of shadow under his hood. Thalia had gone ahead with Ron, pretending to listen to him complain about his second-hand potions book. Annabeth walked beside Hermione, nodding and smiling, but Percy knew that look – polite, alert, just slightly too tense. He didn’t blame her.

They turned a corner and there it was – a bright little shop spilling over with colour and noise: Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream & Sweets Parlour. The window was fogged from the warmth inside, where a small crowd had gathered. Percy recognised the shock of red hair before anything else.

Molly Weasley stood just outside the shop, holding a cone in each hand and waving them. Beside her were Fred and George. They laughed as they sampled something pink and steaming.

Molly caught sight of them and beamed. “Oh, there you are! Come in, dears, come in! You must be starving!”

Percy hesitated in the doorway. The scent of warm caramel and fruit syrups wrapped around him like a hug.

Molly bustled forward and pressed a dish of something into Annabeth’s hands. “You poor things, traveling all the way from America! You need sugar, I always say. Helps with the time change!”

Percy felt something strange squeeze in his chest. It was the way her voice lilted with automatic care, the way she reached up to brush crumbs off Thalia’s shoulder without asking, or how she chattered like they were already part of her household.

Like mom, he thought. Not exactly, of course – his mother didn’t fuss, not quite like Molly – but there was something in the warmth of her that made him ache for blue chocolate chip cookies and the smell of fresh laundry on a Sunday morning.

He smiled before he could help it.

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” he said. “But I think we’re okay for now. It’s been a long day. We should probably head back to the Burrow, check through our stuff, maybe settle in. Jet lag and all.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” she said, immediately moving on to offering scoops to Nico, who mumbled a quiet “no thank you” and looked like he was trying to merge with the wallpaper.

Percy backed out of the shop slowly, the warm scent lingering in his nose.

Outside, the sky was getting darker, turning a shade of violet that reminded him – painfully – of the horizon above the Styx. But then Annabeth stepped beside him, nudging his arm, and the sound of Fred and George arguing behind them grounded him.

*

They had five days until they had to leave on the train to Hogwarts. Annabeth seemed determined to kill Percy before then, and her method was madness. For the past three hours they had been studying Albus’ booklet, and the new books Annabeth had bought, learning about Ilvermorny and the wizarding world.

Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had four houses to sort the students, and the witch who founded Ilvermorny drew inspiration from the stories she had heard of Hogwarts.

There was Horned Serpent, Pukwudgie, Thunderbird, and Wampus.

Horned Serpent was named by Isolt Sayre, the witch who founded Ilvermorny, after a magical creature that she had befriended. Said magical creature was apparently one of the most terrifying creatures in America: a large serpent with a jewel set in its forehead. To Percy it just sounded like another kind of sea serpent. He had strangled one before; once you had seen one, you had seen them all. Horned Serpent was said to favour scholars among its ranks and was often referred to as the “mind” of a wizard or witch.

Next was Percy’s house – Pukwudgie. It was named by James Steward, a muggle – or no-maj, as American wizards called them – after another magical creature because he had made friends with one and it made him laugh. James was the no-maj partner of Isolt. Pukwudgies were creatures distantly related to goblins, which were then distantly related to cyclopes, and they hunted and lived like Native Americans used to thousands of years ago. They also worked within the magical community, much like house elves, but were independent and not bound by magic. Part of pukwudgie culture also held strict moral code to always repay a debt, and they were therefore regarded as very loyal and trustworthy creatures. Pukwudgie was said to be the “heart” of the wizard or witch, and the house favoured healers.

Then there was Thunderbird, named by Chadwick Boot, adopted son of Isolt and James. He named it after his favourite magical beast, one that could create storms. The thunderbird was seen as a symbol of power and strength. It was said to be able to create thunder by flapping its wings and lightning by flashing its eyes. The house favoured adventurers, those similar in character to Chadwick himself, and was said to be the “soul” of a wizard or witch.

Lastly, there was Wampus, named by Webster Boot, also an adopted son of Isolt and James, and full brother to Chadwick. The Wampus was his favourite magical beast, a panther-like creature that was incredibly strong and fast. It could walk on its hind legs, outrun arrows, and its yellow eyes were reputed to have the power of hypnosis. Wampus was said to be the “body” of a wizard or witch, and the house favoured those who were warriors.

But while the Ilvermorny houses were inspired by Hogwarts, the sorting process was a little different.

The sorting ceremony at Ilvermorny took place on a symbol called the Gordian Knot – a symbol that meant much to Isolt Sayre – on a stone floor. Each student was called to stand on the engraved symbol. Around the room were statues of the magical beasts that the houses were named after. The crystal of the horned serpent would light up if that house wanted the student. The wampus would roar if that house wanted the student. The thunderbird would beat its wings if that house wanted the student. Lastly, the pukwudgie would raise its arrow if that house wanted the student. If more than one house claimed a student, the student got to choose.

After that bit of brain-destroying cram time, they moved onto what their schooling should have consisted of for the last six years they weren’t actually attending Ilvermorny.

Pertaining to wands, students received them when they arrived at the school, but it wasn’t completely uncommon to not take on a permanent wand right away if you were waiting for the right one. Wands were also left at the school during breaks, and when students turned sixteen, they were legally allowed to carry their wands with them off Ilvermorny grounds.

The school dress code consisted of blue and cranberry robes, fastened with a Gordian Knot.

Both boarding schools possessed similar classes, though with different traditions, with which they didn’t need to bother because they wouldn’t be doing them at Hogwarts. Not to mention, it wasn’t like the European wizards and witches would know anything about them, anyway.

“Dinner’s ready!”

Molly’s voice rang from downstairs, and Percy startled, half-asleep.

There was a knock at the door, and they scrambled to hide the papers. Percy got up and cracked open the door to see Harry on the other side, hand still up, about to knock again.

“Uh …”

“We’re ready, Percy,” Annabeth said. He saw her stack the papers and tuck them in her endless bookbag, which was a miracle-worker in disguise. She opened the door more and gave Harry a warm smile. “I can’t wait for Molly’s dinner. It smells wonderful.”

“Um …” Harry cleared his throat. “Of course, yeah. She’s one of the best cooks I’ve ever met.”

The demigods bounded downstairs and were greeted by the silver wizard, Albus, again. He sat at the end of the dining table, as if he were the head of the house, looking quite pleased.

“Greetings,” he said.

Percy raised a brow. He had never actually heard someone use that as a greeting before, unless you counted a few gods that wanted to kill him. “… hey.”

Albus smiled at them – not a normal smile but instead his weird way of smiling, the expression his face seemed to be stuck in – and his grey eyes twinkled. “I came by to see how your trip to Diagon Alley went. I hope you found everything pleasant. I know there can be a bit of a culture shock from North America.”

“Something like that,” Nico muttered. “Europe is full of weirdos.”

Luckily, no one heard him.

Thalia pushed past Percy to grab a plate and started to fill it with food, snagging a cob of corn. Molly beckoned them with her oven-mitt to join at the table. “Come and eat. We can talk all about your lives over in America when we’re settled.”

The rest of the demigods gratefully took their plates and piled them high with the food laid out. It was like a mini buffet, and Percy was surprised that Molly had thought to make so much food – even with all the people in the house, he didn’t think they would finish it all. The idea must have been to have leftovers to last them the five days before they left.

Percy was ready to dig into his meal, but when they were all situated at the table, the interrogation started.

“So,” began Hermione, who was hardly touching her plate in favour of leaning toward the demigods. “What’s Ilvermorny like? You didn’t get the chance to tell us about it before.”

Annabeth carefully pushed her peas into her mashed potatoes. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s the location like?” Hermione asked. “Is it like Hogwarts? A medieval magical castle? Or something more modern pertaining to American culture?”

“Castle, obviously,” Percy said. “Is there any other way for a wizard to live?”

Thalia snorted, almost inhaling her gravy.

“Oh, you’re a pureblood?” Harry said, noticeably less friendly.

“Um …” Percy wracked his brain for his cover story. He was Perseus Jackson of the Pukwudgie house, and he was a no-maj born wizard. “No. I’m from a no-maj family. I guess you’d call me a muggle-born, though.”

Utter bafflement crossed Hermione’s face. “No-maj?”

Annabeth nodded. “Yes, we have a few different terms in America. No-maj is short for ‘no magic.’”

Arthur leaned forward. He looked a little bit too eager. “Really? You’re from a muggle family?”

Ron snorted. “You’ll have to excuse my father; he’s always been obsessed with muggles. He’s head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry.”

Nico cocked a brow. “You … study normal people?”

Arthur looked really enthusiastic. “Yes! How muggles get by without the use of magic is quite interesting. Ingenious, really. Brilliant with their technology. You see, I once got possession of one of their funny contraptions called a car –”

“We’re not talking about that at the dinner table,” Molly said sharply. “It was a very irresponsible act on Ron’s part, and you were at fault for even taking it from the Ministry.”

Everyone ignored Ron’s indignant cry.

“You keep mentioning a ministry,” Nico said.

“Oh, yes, it’s our government for wizards,” Hermione said. “Do you not have a ministry over in America?”

Percy hesitated. They had covered this topic, but he forgot most of it, such as the departments, and the important wizards and witches in it. “Of course, we have a governing body for wizards. But it’s called the Magical Congress of the United States – or MACUSA, for short. It was founded because of the Salem Witch Trials.”

Harry’s expression darkened. “Those were real? I thought those were myths.”

Percy almost snorted. Myths. Hah.

“Yeah, wizards fell on tough times in America,” Annabeth admitted. Percy remembered what he had read about their struggles. They’d had everything going against them and yet still prevailed. “It was harsh to try and build a life – but it was like that for everyone coming from Europe, magic or no magic. MACUSA was created as a way to protect the magical community from with hunters in America. Because of that, and Rappaport’s Law, it’s a fairly remote and isolated community. Though, the law was reappealed, eventually.”

“Rappa-what?” Ron said.

Percy grinned. This one, he remembered. “A law passed way too long ago to matter, though it’s no longer in effect. It basically segregated the magical and no-maj communities, to avoid anymore Salem Witch Trial situations or public exposure. We’re talking complete segregation – like, no interaction whatsoever unless absolutely necessary. It’s the reason North American wizarding culture is so different to European wizarding culture – because we lost contact. Even now, we’re pretty isolated.”

That had everyone’s attention. Clearly, the European wizards were so far removed from American wizards that their governing bodies didn’t even interact. Their ignorance would work in the demigods’ favour. Annabeth smiled, looking pleased that Percy remembered so much.

Albus gave them a strange look.

When the meal was finished, Molly shooed them out of the kitchen, insisting that they get a good night’s sleep. Percy tried to object and offer his help, the way his mother raised him, but he received a slammed door in the face for his troubles. Molly locked them out of the kitchen with magic.

Ginny laughed at Percy’s expression, then shrugged at him when he looked at her like her mother was crazy. “Trust me, it’s not usually like this. But you’re her guests, so she wants to treat you well.” She smiled. “I’m not complaining, though. But for sleeping arrangements tonight, girls with Hermione and me, and the boys with Ron and Harry?”

Nodding, Ginny led them upstairs, the old wooden stairs creaking all the way up.

When they reached the top floor, Hermione gave them a tour of the compact home. They found their luggage already at the top, though Percy could have sworn that they had left it downstairs when leaving for Diagon Alley. He shoved his coin purse and bookbag beside his suitcase and had to squeeze his new robes, clothes, and other supplies in. Then Nico and Percy followed Harry and Ron to their bedroom.

They directed them to the bathroom, and Percy showered and got dressed for bed. Percy had just climbed into the top bunk, hair damp from his shower, cotton pajama shirt clinging slightly to his back, when –

“So, you do have a Dark Mark!”

Harry’s voice rang out across the room like a spell gone wrong.

Percy jerked in surprise, flailing. His pillow slipped from under his arm and dropped to the floor with a thud. In his scramble to catch it, he stubbed his toe – hard – against the wooden bed frame.

“Dark what?” Percy yelped. “What did you just say?”

Nico, who had been sulking in a shadowed corner with a book, sat bolt upright. He hissed, “Percy,” and gestured – subtly, frantically – at his forearm.

Percy glanced down.

Oh, right.

The tattoo.

There, on the underside of his forearm, stark and bold even in the dim lamp light, was the outline of a trident, the letters SPQR, and one thin bar beneath it – his year of service. The black ink looked even darker against the pale, fresh-washed skin of his arm.

“Crap,” he muttered.

He didn’t even have time to weave the Mist over it. It was out in the open.

Too late.

“Oh, you mean that?” Percy said quickly, as he slid down from the bunk and snatched his pillow off the floor. “It’s just a tattoo.”

Harry was still staring like Percy had grown horns. “I thought … I thought it was a Dark Mark.”

“What’s a Dark Mark?” Percy asked, brow furrowed.

Ron, now sitting upright in bed with hair sticking out like a haystack, offered, “It’s what Death Eaters have – Voldemort’s followers. They’re branded with it. It’s … kind of a big deal.”

Percy blinked. “Right. Okay. No, it’s not that, I swear.”

“Well, then what is it?” Harry demanded, stepping closer to get a better look.

Percy resisted the urge to yank his sleeve down. He didn’t hate the legion tattoo – he hated everything that had happened after it. New Rome being exploded. Running away. Being branded a traitor. Starting the Prophecy of Seven. Gaea rising. It wasn’t just ink.

“It’s … an initiation thing,” he said finally. “From … camp.”

Ron scratched his head. “Wait, what kind of camp gives you a permanent tattoo? Sounds kind of daft, doesn’t it? Especially if it brings back bad memories.”

Percy sighed and sat down on the edge of Nico’s bunk. His toe still throbbed.

“I didn’t exactly want it,” he said. “It’s … complicated. Just part of the rules where I’m from. Everyone gets one, whether they like it or not.”

Harry was still trying not-so-subtly to get a look at it. Finally, Percy held out his arm and bared the tattoo for the room to see. “You see this? It’s a trident. It represents Neptune. The camp was Roman themed. The letters are for a quote. And that line underneath – it’s for one year at the camp.”

Harry’s shoulders slowly eased.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, sounding sheepish. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of … you know, being a Death Eater.”

Percy waved it off. “No offense taken. I’d probably be suspicious, too, if some new guy showed up with weird ink and didn’t explain it.”

He climbed back into bed with a huff, tossing the pillow behind his head.

Ron mumbled. “At least it wasn’t the actual Dark Mark. I don’t think mum would’ve let you stay if it was.”

“Good to know,” Percy muttered, burying his face in the pillow.

There was a beat of silence, and then Harry added, quieter, “It’s a cool tattoo, actually.”

Percy didn’t answer, but he let that sit there. Maybe not cool to him – but it was his.

And for now, that was enough.

*

Notes:

I’m mostly following canon for Ilvermorny history, but I will be bending some details to fit better to the story. I had to research it because it’s pretty recent, so some things might be mixed up. I apologize for the info-dump I did in this chapter.

Also, spells are generally derived from Latin – at least in canon – so I’d like to imagine that since you can literally create new spells, the demigods can use some level of magic by just speaking in their native tongues (I’m including Greek in this) and using their wands to better channel magic. It’s a personal headcanon.

Chapter 7: we're off to see the wizard of oz

Summary:

no summary for you except to tell you this chapter is over 10k words. you little fuckers better enjoy.

*

Chapter 7: We’re off to See the Wizard of Oz

The first thing Annabeth registered was heat.

Stale, thick air clung to her skin like a second blanket, even though she had kicked hers off sometime during the night. Her shirt stuck to her back, and her hair had curled even more in the humidity – now a wild halo around her head. She groaned softly and sat up, blinking blearily in the dim light leaking in through the cracked window.

The small bedroom was quiet save for the soft snuffling sounds of sleep. From her perch on the top bunk, she could see the others still sprawled in tangled sheets. Hermione’s curls were fanned across her pillow. Ginny had one arm flung dramatically over her eyes. Thalia had somehow managed to curl up with her boots still on, one leg hanging off the bottom bunk.

Annabeth stretched slowly, careful not to shift the old wooden frame too much. The Burrow had charm, sure – but it creaked and groaned like it was barely holding itself together. She climbed down the ladder one rung at a time, grabbed her clothes and toiletry bag, and tiptoed out of the room.

The hallway was narrow and a little cooler. She padded down it barefoot, wincing when the floorboards betrayed her with a sharp squeak. No one stirred. She exhaled, then made her way to the small upstairs bathroom.

Inside, it was cramped and cluttered – razors and potion bottles fighting for space with floral soaps and vaguely magical knickknacks – but it had a mirror, and blessedly cold water. Annabeth flipped on the tap and let it run, splashing her face, trying to chase away the stickiness of sleep.

As she got ready, she thought about who else might already be awake. Molly, probably. Annabeth had noticed her the day before – always bustling, always preparing something. Arthur, too, if he had to be up early for work. Maybe she could catch one of them and start asking questions.

There was so much she didn’t know about wizarding schools in Europe. The trio had mentioned Hogwarts a dozen times yesterday, but the little things had slipped past her. House rivalries, school customs, terms she didn’t recognise. She hated being behind. Even if she was just supposed to be blending in, Annabeth Chase didn’t do “uninformed.”

She picked up her brush and started the tedious job of detangling her curls, which had turned into a bramble overnight. She worked through them section by section, jaw tight with focus. When she finally reached the last tangle, she paused, leaning closer to the mirror.

There it was.

The grey streak, slicing through the blonde like a scar. A mark from holding up the sky – from the war. A reminder.

Annabeth’s fingers hovered over it, just for a moment.

Then she dropped her hand, squared her shoulders, and stepped back from the mirror.

She was up. She was ready. And she was going to face whatever Hogwarts threw at her.

She headed downstairs.

The stairs creaked under her bare feet as Annabeth descended, the morning light slowly illuminating the mismatched wooden walls of the Burrow. The scent of tea and something sweet – maybe cinnamon – hung in the air.

She was surprised to find the main floor empty.

She stepped into the kitchen and paused.

Molly Weasley sat at the table, her hands cradling a steaming cup of tea. She was already dressed, hair tied back in a loose, practical bun. A gentle smile pulled at her cheeks the moment she noticed Annabeth.

Across from her sat Nico.

That part made Annabeth blink.

The son of Hades was curled up in one of the kitchen chairs like a shadow that had decided to play human for the morning. His dark hair stuck up in places, his oversized black shirt hanging off one shoulder. A cup of untouched tea sat in front of him. The Daily Prophet – she read the name upside-down from where she was standing – was held open in his hands. And the pictures … the pictures were moving.

Annabeth’s eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. Nope. A grainy, black-and-white image of a witch was wagging her finger mid-sentence while a banner scrolled across the bottom. She looked at Molly, who didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

Right. Wizard newspaper.

“Ilvermorny must create early risers,” Molly said warmly, glancing between the two of them.

Annabeth nearly choked on a laugh. Ilvermorny doesn’t create early risers, she thought. But years of being woken by monster attacks certainly does.

“What time is it?” She asked instead, rubbing the last of the sleep from her neck.

“About seven,” Nico answered without looking up from the paper. His voice was soft, still a little rough from sleep. Completely casual, like being up before the sun was second nature. Because for them, it was.

Annabeth snorted. “That’s not early.”

Molly chuckled into her tea. “Well, it’s earlier than my boys usually bother with, I can tell you that. I’m usually down here alone at this hour. Having company is nice.”

Annabeth smiled despite herself. “Thanks.” She accepted a cup when Molly offered one and slid into the seat beside Nico. The warmth of the mug settled into her palms, grounding her.

The Burrow’s kitchen was cluttered, in a homey way. There were brass pans and teacups floating just above the counters. Colourful knit potholders. A clock on the wall that didn’t tell the time – just the locations of family members: home, work, danger, lost.

The table was covered in old tea rings, crumbs from last night’s snacks, and a few stray spellbooks stacked in the corner.

It felt very lived-in.

Annabeth let her eyes wander over the collection of magical trinkets lining the shelves and windowsills: enchanted utensils, tiny broomsticks, a photo frame of a smiling Weasley family (some of whom she hadn’t met yet), even a pair of self-stirring teaspoons that kept clicking restlessly against an empty mug.

Finally, Mrs. Weasley set her cup down with a soft clink. Her eyes, warm but curious, turned sharp with interest. “I must say, dears, dinner last night was quite interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation about Ilvermorny before.” She leaned forward slightly. “We aren’t really taught much about other wizarding cultures here in Britain. It’s all rather centered on Hogwarts.”

Annabeth’s stomach tightened just a bit.

Across the table, Nico shifted his paper aside, his dark eyes flicking toward her, unreadable. They exchanged a brief look – nothing obvious, but just enough.

Abort, Annabeth thought. Do not engage.

Smiling politely, she gently set her tea down. “That’s really interesting. I was wondering, actually … we don’t know much about Hogwarts. Could you tell us more? Like the houses and how they work?”

It worked instantly. Molly’s expression lit up as easily as if someone had flipped a switch. “Oh, of course, dear! Hogwarts is quite special in that way. The Sorting Hat places every student into one of four houses based on their personality.”

Annabeth leaned in slightly, feigning interest, but truthfully, she was interested. She needed to learn the rules of this world. Quickly.

“There’s Gryffindor,” Molly said, her smile widening, “which is where all my children ended up. It’s the house for the brave, the courageous. People in Gryffindor are passionate, bold, and full of pride. Heroes, most of them.” There was unmistakable fondness in her voice.

Annabeth glanced at Nico, wondering what he made of that. He raised a brow and returned to his tea.

“Then there’s Hufflepuff,” Molly continued, and her tone softened considerably. “It’s the house of the kind and the patient. Hard workers, loyal to a fault. People in Hufflepuff are helpers – you want one at your side, especially when things get rough.”

That sounded … nice. Too nice, maybe. Like a warm sweater in the middle of the summer. Annabeth could almost see Hazel in Hufflepuff, actually.

“Ravenclaw,” Molly went on, her voice now holding a kind of respect, “is the house of the clever and curious. Full of thinkers, scholars. Writers and artists, too. It’s a house that values knowledge for the sake of it. Some of the brightest minds I’ve ever known were in Ravenclaw.”

Annabeth didn’t let her expression change, but she felt something tug in her chest. That was probably where she would end up, had they not been on this quest and destined for Gryffindor.

“And then,” Molly said, her face suddenly hardening, “there’s Slytherin.”

There was something cold in the way she said it – clipped and with a kind of practiced disdain.

“They’re the cunning ones,” she said, waving a hand as if brushing off the word. “Manipulative. Always looking for the upper hand. It’s the house You-Know-Who came from, if that tells you anything.”

Annabeth didn’t move, but she felt Nico’s posture tense next to her.

Molly continued, not noticing. “They’ll do anything to get what they want, and you need to be careful around them. That lot’s always scheming, always with some secret plan brewing. I always say – there’s never been a snake who didn’t end up dabbling in the Dark Arts.”

There was silence at the table for a moment.

Nico slowly folded the newspaper and set it aside, his dark eyes unreadable again. He took a quiet sip of his tea, gaze fixed firmly on the table.

Annabeth said nothing. She processed the words – manipulative, scheming, Dark Arts – each one settling in her stomach like a stone. Her fingers tightened slightly around her teacup as Molly’s voice trailed off into the clatter of dishes and the gentle bubbling of the kettle.

She believed her. Molly Weasley didn’t seem like the kind of woman to exaggerate. Stern, but warm. Fiercely loyal to her family. If she had that reaction to Slytherin, then there had to be truth to it.

And if Voldemort – You-Know-Who, as they called him – and his followers all came from that house …

Then maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the poisoned tree.

Annabeth had seen what happened when power met unchecked ambition. She had seen it in the monsters they fought. In the gods themselves. She wasn’t quick to judge, but she also wasn’t naive. Some paths were worn too deep with blood to pretend they were safe.

Still, something gnawed at the back of her mind. A twinge of doubt. Because she had also learned that where someone came from didn’t always define where they would end up.

She sipped her tea again, letting the warmth steady her. No decisions yet. Just observations.

She would keep her eyes open. Especially around the snakes.

“Well,” she said eventually, carefully, “I guess every system’s got its flaws.”

“Quite right, dear,” Molly said brightly, standing to fetch more tea. “But let’s hope the Sorting Hat sees fit to place you in the right house.”

Annabeth only nodded, thoughtful.

She wasn’t sure what the “right” house meant anymore.

As the morning passed, Annabeth hadn’t even realised how long she, Molly, and Nico had been sitting around the kitchen table until the sleepy stampede began.

Thalia appeared first, Ginny and Hermione trailing close behind, all of them still yawning and bleary-eyed. Thalia looked a little less stormy than usual, though she glared at the sunlight spilling through the windows like it had personally offended her. Ginny gave a tired wave, and Hermione offered a polite smile before going straight for the teapot.

Moments later, the boys clattered down the stairs in a less-than-graceful mess. Percy had one hand on Harry’s shoulder, gently steering him before he could walk face-first into the corner of a cabinet. Harry squinted at the world around him like he was trying to make sense of it all without his glasses.

Annabeth allowed herself a small smile. They looked more comfortable together now – her group and theirs. The lines were starting to blur a little, which she appreciated. It would make everything easier – protecting Harry, keeping the balance of magic in their world.

Molly moved back into the kitchen with practiced grace, already cracking eggs and conjuring up a sizzling pan with a flick of her wand.

That’s when Percy piped up.

“We should practice,” he said. “You know, with our wands. Just in case we need to use them.”

He was met with a wall of blank stares from Harry, Hermione, and Ron.

Hermione blinked. “We … can’t,” she said slowly. “Not outside of school. It’s against the law.”

Percy frowned. “Why? Don’t we need the practice?”

Ron ran a hand through his hair, still mussed from sleep. He was frowning. “We’re not of age yet. You need to be eighteen to use magic freely.”

“Eighteen?” Annabeth’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? In America, you’re allowed unrestricted access to your wand at sixteen. Once you’re trained enough to avoid … accidents.”

Ron looked scandalised. “That’s not fair!”

From the kitchen, Molly’s voice rang out with surprising clarity. “It’s perfectly fair! You three got up to more than enough trouble at eleven, let alone sixteen! I can’t imagine the chaos if you’d had free rein.” A pan clanged. “You’ll be following Ministry’s laws while the transfer students are here.”

Annabeth exchanged a glance with Percy. His lips were pressed into a thin line, clearly irritated.

“But you’ve got no cameras or anything, right?” Percy asked. “Couldn’t we just … practice a little? Who’s going to know?”

Harry shook his head. “They can detect magic. Especially if it’s a big spell. And they can confiscate wands to check what the last spells used were.”

Annabeth frowned thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of her cheek. That sort of surveillance would make things complicated.

 “Well, it was just a suggestion,” Percy muttered, clearly annoyed.

Annabeth didn’t blame him. They had spent their lives preparing to wield swords and defeat monsters. But now, here they were, expected to rely on fragile sticks of wood and follow rules that made no room for the dangerous reality they lived in.

Still, they were guests here. And rules, annoying as they were, had to be followed – for now.

*

By the time everyone had gathered downstairs, Molly had somehow set out an entire breakfast feast on the long dining table.

Annabeth blinked at the sheer volume of food. Plates of crispy bacon, stacked toast, golden hash browns, fried tomatoes, scrambled eggs, and something she thought might have been blood pudding sat steaming across the wood. There were jugs of pumpkin juice, bowls of cut fruit, and at least three types of jam. It was overwhelming. Even at Camp Half-Blood, breakfast was efficient, not extravagant. She was used to a bowl of oatmeal and maybe some fruit. This? This looked like a banquet.

She took her place at the table between Thalia and Hermione. Percy squeezed into the seat across from her, already eyeing the bacon.

The food was good, but Annabeth found herself only half-focused on it. The conversation drifted easily into Hogwarts talk, and the demigods, still on high alert in this unfamiliar magical world, leaned in and listened carefully.

Most of the conversation centered around Gryffindor. It was easy to see why – everyone in the Burrow had either been sorted into Gryffindor or idolised someone who had. Molly and Arthur. The Weasley siblings. Even Harry, Hermione, and Ron. There was pride in their voices when they spoke about their house, like it was a badge of honour.

And then there was Slytherin.

The tone always shifted when someone mentioned that house. It was subtle sometimes – tightened jaws, curled lips, a narrowed gaze – but it was there. No one seemed to like them. Most spoke about Slytherin like it was a disease: tolerable in small doses, but dangerous in any real quantity.

Annabeth listened closely, parsing each story. The tales were consistent – Slytherins who hexed students in the halls, spread rumours, manipulated teachers, and bullied anyone they could. Maybe it hadn’t started that way, Annabeth reasoned. Maybe the house’s ideals were once rooted in something good. But from what she could gather, those ideals had long since curdled into something rotten.

After breakfast, the group started to split off. Ginny and Hermione went to the sitting room with a stack of quidditch magazines. Fred and George disappeared, no doubt off to do something involving explosions. Harry looked like he was waiting for Percy – and Percy, of course, was more than eager to join him.

Annabeth cleared her throat and lightly tugged Percy’s sleeve as he passed her.

“Hey,” she said. “Aren’t we going to go over the cover materials? You still haven’t reviewed the wizarding currency section, and I’m not sure you even remember how many departments MACUSA has.”

Percy grimaced. “We’ll have plenty of time to study. I just want to hang out for a bit.”

“We won’t,” Annabeth said sharply. “Once we’re at Hogwarts, we’ll be thrown into the deep end. No more explanations. No more do-overs. And if we say the wrong thing to the wrong person –”

“We’ve bluffed our way through worse,” Percy interrupted with a shrug, already edging toward the hallway. “I’ll catch up later, okay?”

Annabeth clenched her jaw. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the booklet in her hands.

He didn’t get it.

This wasn’t like the other quests. They weren’t in monster territory or the wilderness. They were infiltrating a school. One where they would be surrounded by hundreds of magically trained teens who had grown up in a culture that she and Percy still barely understood. They wouldn’t get second chances if they slipped up.

But Percy – he could never resist making friends, even when the stakes were high. That part of him hadn’t changed. And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe.

Still, she sighed, feeling the familiar prickle of frustration sting her eyes.

Another argument. Another point of divergence between them. She didn’t say anything else as Percy followed Harry and Ron out of the room.

She dropped into a chair by the window, pulled the booklet into her lap, and flipped it open again.

Someone had to be ready.

*

Annabeth rubbed her temples and leaned back in her chair, the corner of the Ilvermorny cover booklet flopping closed in her lap. She had been studying for a few hours, and her eyes were starting to blur the difference between terms like “Gobstones Club” and “Goblins’ Rights Commission.”

She sighed, slipping a bookmark between the pages and getting up to stretch her legs. The voices drew her to the Burrow’s main room.

Thalia was crouched by the foot of the stairs, having dragged her silver duffle bag – stamped with the Hunters of Artemis insignia – into the middle of the room. She had it unzipped and was digging through its contents with a familiar gleam in her eye.

Annabeth stepped closer just as Thalia pulled out what looked like a mace canister.

It didn’t fool Annabeth, though. She knew from experience that, with a click and twist, the canister could extend into a full celestial bronze spear. Deadly to monsters and demigods alike.

On the couch nearby, Hermione peered over the top of her thick book, her brow furrowed. “Is that … pepper spray?”

Thalia gave her a sideways smirk. “Sure. Special kind. Good against monsters.”

Annabeth gave her a sharp look. “Thalia.”

“What?” Thalia said. “Just going to get some warm-ups in. Stretch, jog, maybe stab a tree. Practice a little.”

Across the room, Percy perked up from where he and Nico were tangled in a Wizards’ Chess game. The pieces were currently engaged in what looked more like a tavern brawl than a strategy match – Annabeth watched one pawn throw a rook off the board with a triumphant roar.

Percy looked up eagerly. “Can I join?”

Thalia smirked again. “Only if you can handle getting your ass kicked.”

Percy grinned and immediately abandoned his game. Nico didn’t even look up, just made a grumbling sound as Percy stepped on a bishop scrambling to flee the board.

Hermione lowered her book slightly. “What exactly are you planning to practice?”

“Light exercise,” Thalia said innocently.

Annabeth crossed her arms, eyes flicking to the hidden weapon still in Thalia’s grip. “And you should stick to light exercise, only,” she said pointedly.

Percy shrugged and twirled his pen, Riptide, between his fingers. “The Weasley property is huge. No one’s going to notice if we jog and … practice a little. Besides, we’ve got time to kill.”

“Time to kill.” Annabeth bristled slightly. That phrase, so casually tossed out, grated at her nerves.

Still, part of her wanted to join them. The thought of sparring – of moving, of doing something physical instead of pouring over pages of wizarding etiquette – was tempting. It tugged at her muscles, the way a sword tugged at her hand after too many days without practice.

But someone had to keep an eye on the wizards. Someone had to make sure they didn’t stumble across Percy hurling water from his fingertips or Thalia snapping lightning from the sky.

And someone had to keep studying. Percy clearly wasn’t going to.

She sighed, watching him disappear with Thalia and Nico toward the back door.

“Be careful,” she called after them.

Thalia shot her a wink. “Aren’t we always?”

Annabeth didn’t dignify that with a response.

If no one else was going to be the brains on this quest, she’d make damn sure she was.

*

The afternoon drifted by in a haze of parchment, diagrams, and chatter. Annabeth had found a rhythm, flipping between notes in the Ilvermorny briefing packets and trading quiet conversation with Ginny and Hermione. To her relief, the two girls were sharp and patient, eager to talk about Hogwarts and answer questions without pressing too hard in return. Hermione was especially helpful, with the kind of mind Annabeth immediately recognised as dangerous in the best kind of way. Ginny, for her part, offered the unfiltered version – gossip and house dynamics, which professors were decent and which ones to avoid.

Annabeth soaked it all up. Every word, every detail. Social dynamics, the way they used magic in classrooms, how students handled exams. It all mattered. She wasn’t going to walk into Hogwarts blind.

The back door creaked open just as the scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread wafted through the house. Percy entered first, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat. Thalia followed close behind, carrying her spear in its collapsed form, and a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. Nico trailed them, not quite smiling but less tense than usual, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

They were laughing – actually laughing. Something about Percy tripping over a root, followed by Thalia threatening to spear him for being a seaweed-brained liability.

Annabeth watched them from her place at the kitchen table. A quiet pang tightened in her chest.

She wished she could have joined them. Not just for the exercise, but for the ease they seemed to share now, the kind of bond forged in combat and quiet trust. Children of the Big Three weren’t exactly known for getting along – but here they were, joking like siblings who had grown up under the same roof instead of gods who ruled opposing forces.

Still, she reminded herself, she had stayed back for a reason. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to spar, to move her body until the restlessness eased. But someone had to take this mission seriously. Someone had to know what they were walking into.

By the time everyone was seated for dinner, the house had filled with warm light and clinking silverware. The table was crammed with plates and bowls of food that Molly had somehow conjured together in a matter of minutes. It was far more than Annabeth was used to at camp, and she wasn’t shy about filling her plate.

At first, dinner passed like the night before – chatter, polite questions, some laughter. But soon the questions came. Again.

Ron asked Thalia about Ilvermorny’s quidditch equivalent. Hermione wanted to know if Nico had studied magical law. Ginny prodded at Percy about American magical sports. It was exhausting, dodging truth with half-lies and deflections, watching Percy try to explain sports he had never even seen, and Annabeth could tell he was getting tired of it.

Then, without warning, Percy flipped the script.

“I mean, sure,” he said casually, “Ilvermorny was intense. But Hogwarts sounds way more dramatic. Didn’t you guys fight a troll in your first year?”

Ron blinked. “Wait – how’d you know that?”

Percy grinned. “You talk in your sleep.”

And suddenly, just like that, the spotlight was on them. Percy leaned back, letting the questions roll away from him and land squarely on Harry and his friends.

It was brilliant. Subtle, easy, and effective – exactly the kind of tactic Percy used when buying time in battle. Distract the monster, stay alive. Annabeth raised her brows across the table at him. He caught her look, shrugged one shoulder, and kept sipping his pumpkin juice.

For the rest of the meal, Annabeth sat back and listened. To tales of three-headed dogs, duels with professors, forbidden forests, and cursed diaries. Molly’s scolding interjections only added to the richness of the stories, her voice sharp as she listed the number of rules they had broken year after year.

“You never told me about the basilisk,” she scolded Ginny.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Ginny mumbled.

“And the Triwizard Tournament?” Molly turned to Ron and Harry with wide eyes. “A dragon? You fought a dragon?”

Percy nearly choked on his drink. “Okay, now that’s a story.”

Even Nico looked up from his plate, mildly intrigued.

But as soon as the conversation turned toward the Second Wizarding War – the rise of Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and the final battle – Molly shut it down with a decisive shake of her head. The warmth in her voice vanished. “That’s not dinner conversation,” she said firmly.

The silence that followed was heavy and immediate.

No one argued.

Annabeth stared at her fork, pushing the last bit of food around her plate. Her mind swirled – not just with the new information, but with the sharp reminder that this world had known war, too. Real loss. Real fear.

The wizards weren’t just kids playing magic. They had lived through their own apocalypse.

When the plates cleared and the table quieted, Annabeth sat back and studied the faces around her – half of them still bright with stories, half darkened by memories.

So, this was the world they had entered.

*

The next five days were a blur of parchment, lectures, and the constant sound of Annabeth saying, “No, that’s not right. Again.”

Percy had faced monsters. He had faced gods. He had even faced primordials. But nothing compared to being subjected to Annabeth’s crash course on wizarding culture.

Every morning at the Burrow, like clockwork, she would round up the four of them – Nico, Percy, Thalia, and herself – and herd them into the living room or garden. She made them sit down with their wizarding information booklets, which might as well have been written in hieroglyphs for how much sense they made at first.

“Okay,” Annabeth would say, voice sharp, “name the four founders of Hogwarts. Go.”

“Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw,” Percy muttered, eyes half-lidded, “may they all rest in peace, even though one of them apparently created a snake cult.”

“Better,” she’d say. “What’s the Trace?”

“Some kind of magic GPS that makes sure teenagers don’t blow up their neighbours,” he replied.

“Crude, but not wrong.”

It went on like that for hours each day – quizzes, pronunciation drills, spell theory. Percy practiced Latin incantations until his mouth went numb and his head spun. They didn’t dare actually use magic, thanks to the Ministry laws and Hermione’s constant reminders about how “very illegal” it was to do so. It didn’t matter to Annabeth.

“You need to understand the spells before you try them,” she said, holding up a diagram of wand movements. “Otherwise, you’ll turn someone into a frog by accident.”

“I wouldn’t mind turning Ron into a frog,” Nico muttered once. Percy couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Somewhere between memorising the founding years of wizarding schools and trying to remember the difference between a jelly-legs jinx and a leg-locker curse, Percy started to feel like his brain had been deep-fried. Spells, wands, wizarding laws, school houses, magical creatures, goblin rebellions, Ministry departments – it was a lot.

Thalia tried to skip lessons more than once. Nico pretended to fall asleep with his eyes open. Percy tried to argue that “learning by doing” was way more his speed. But Annabeth wouldn’t hear it.

“None of us are stepping foot into that castle unprepared,” she snapped. “We’re already walking in with targets on our backs. We’ll blend in, or we’ll blow the quest before it starts.”

Percy muttered, “You said this was going to be like a vacation. Vacations are supposed to be fun.”

Annabeth stopped and stared at him with a blank look. “What are you talking about?” She said. “Studying and quizzes are fun.”

Percy wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

By the time the morning of September 5^th arrived – the day of the train ride to Hogwarts – Percy woke up feeling like his skull had been stuffed full of wizard trivia and spell flashcards. He knew the names of Dumbledore’s ten most famous quotes, he could rattle off the core components of a proper wand, and he even had a basic working knowledge of wizarding history from the 1700s onward.

He also hadn’t cast a single spell.

Not once.

But as he pulled on his new school robes and adjusted his grip on the wand in his pocket, Percy stared at himself in the mirror and muttered, “Well … guess I’m a wizard now.”

*

Percy woke to an empty room.

Which was weird, because he was always up before the other boys. He stared blearily at the ruffled, vacant beds around him, sunlight already streaming through the crooked window. A loud pop! echoed from somewhere downstairs, followed by a yell and a clatter of something – or rather, someone – falling.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up, and quickly threw on his clothes. A half-packed suitcase sat by the side of his bed. He stuffed the rest of his things inside it, grabbed his new bookbag and slung it over his shoulder, and, still groggy, he padded downstairs with both.

The scene that greeted him was something between a magical stampede and a war zone.

Fred – or maybe George – appeared in with a pop! right in front of Percy, shouted something unintelligible, and disappeared again with another pop! The other twin materialised a second later halfway up the stairs, laughing like a maniac as he bolted down, nearly knocking over a tired-looking Ginny, who was trying to pull her bag through the chaos.

Ron came stumbling around the corner, arms full of something, before he caught a glimpse of the twin and let out a startled yelp.

Percy watched in stunned disbelief as Ron face-planted spectacularly down the stairs. His arms pinwheeled mid-air before he crashed with a thud.

“Oof,” Percy muttered. “Rough start, dude.”

The living room looked like it had been overtaken by a pack of harpies. Annabeth was zipping from one corner to another, eyes scanning the floor for any forgotten items. She checked her bag, then darted over to Hermione and Ginny to double-check their things too – because of course, she did. Annabeth couldn’t leave well enough alone, even when it wasn’t her stuff.

Nico stood off to the side, almost entirely enveloped in shadow. His hood was up, hair messy, and his expression blank in that classic “I hate mornings” kind of way.

The whole house smelled like breakfast – eggs, toast, something sweet – but the dining table was empty. Percy’s stomach rumbled in protest. Of course, he had missed food.

“Percy!” Annabeth called, catching sight of him. “Finally. We’re leaving soon. You need to be packed and ready.”

He held up his bag and suitcase in response. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. What time is it?”

“Time you were already downstairs,” Hermione huffed, suddenly appearing beside Annabeth with a purse that was probably enchanted to hold a small library. “I told Harry to wake you early. Honestly, we’ve had enough disasters on this train to fill a history book.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said from behind her, sounding exasperated. “I thought I woke him.”

“You thought wrong,” Hermione snapped, crossing her arms.

Ginny, who had just wrestled her trunk upright, slid in between them. “This year will be different.”

Harry raised a brow. “How do you know?”

Ginny gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Because you three,” she said, eyeing him, Hermione, and Ron, “are going to stop breaking school rules and starting adventures.”

Hermione snorted. Ron looked offended.

“And,” Ginny added with a solemn expression, “this is the first year without the looming threat of You-Know-Who.”

Percy felt the room go a little still at that. Even he, who hadn’t lived through the wizarding war, could feel the weight of those words.

It was Molly Weasley who broke the tension, bursting into the living room like a whirlwind with her sleeves rolled up and her apron still dusted with flour.

“Everyone grab your bags!” she called over the chaos. “Time to apparate – don’t dawdle now!”

Molly Weasley was in full panic mode.

She was shooing everyone toward the door, muttering to herself about train times, flying cars, and something about murderous trees, though Percy wasn’t entirely sure he had heard that last part right. He figured it was best not to ask. 

“Come on, come on – we’re going to be late!” She fretted, glancing down at her watch.

Percy tilted his head to get a better look at it and blinked. The thing didn’t have numbers or hands. Instead, it showed little floating planets, glowing stars, and what might have been a dancing dandelion. He was pretty sure it wasn’t telling her the time in any normal way, but Molly seemed to get the message loud and clear, because she swore under her breath.

“Ginny and Ron – go with Fred,” she barked. “Hermione and Harry – you can go with George. I can take two as well – Thalia and Nico, dears, you grab my hand. Arthur, please be a dear and take Annabeth and Perseus with you.”

Percy flinched. He swore every adult on this side of the Atlantic had agreed to call him “Perseus” just to mess with him. He almost corrected her. Almost. But she was already moving on to yelling at Ron and Harry, who were loudly protesting.

“We can apparate!” Ron insisted. “We passed the test!”

“I nearly died the first time,” Harry added helpfully.

It only took one sharp glare from Molly to end that discussion.

Percy trudged over to Arthur Weasley, who was already rolling up his sleeves with a cheerful expression. Percy hesitated just a second before reaching out and gripping Arthur’s arm.

He hadn’t been sure about Mr. Weasley at first – something about his overly enthusiastic obsession with muggles had thrown him for a loop – but Percy had to admit the guy had grown on him. At least Arthur never asked questions with that edge of judgment. He was just curious, in a harmless, wide-eyed kind of way.

Arthur gave his wand a practiced flick.

And then Percy’s entire world snapped out from under him.

There was no warning. No countdown. One second, he was standing in the cluttered, chaotic living room of the Burrow, and the next –

Nothing.

Total blackness.

It wasn’t like Nico’s shadow travel, which was creepy but familiar – like slipping under water slowly and letting the darkness swallow you bit by bit. This was more like someone ripped the air out of his lungs and shoved him through a straw. Cold exploded across his skin. His stomach tried to leap up his throat. His body was being squished, stretched, and spun all at once.

By the time the world snapped back into place, Percy felt like a wet towel someone had wrung out and left in the sun.

He cracked one eye open.

They were at a train station.

King’s Cross, if he remembered correctly from the briefings. A large clock ticked somewhere overhead, and the crowd at King’s Cross Station buzzed with energy – loudspeaker announcements, suitcases clattering, and the general rush of people too busy to look up.

“Hurry, hurry!” Molly urged, weaving them through the mess of travellers. “We’ve already lost too much time!”

Thalia, dragging her duffle with one hand, raised a brow. “Uh, which platform are we even heading to?”

“Platform nine and three-quarters, dear,” Molly answered breezily, as if that made perfect sense.

Annabeth’s brows pulled together. “There’s no such thing as platform nine and three-quarters.”

Percy smirked. He couldn’t help himself. “Let me guess,” he said, nudging her lightly, “they want us to run full speed into a brick wall and bam, magic portal.”

He was joking. But the moment he saw the completely serious nods from Harry, Hermione, and Ron, his smirk faded.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “That’s exactly what you need to do.”

“Oh,” Percy muttered. “That’s … not reassuring.”

Molly clapped her hands. “We’ll go in pairs. Too many at once will draw the muggles’ attention.”

Fred and George were already stepping up like this was their time to shine. With identical grins, they gave exaggerated waves, leaned casually against the barrier between platforms nine and ten – and vanished straight through the wall.

Percy blinked. “Well … alright then.”

Before he could stop himself – or think long enough to let panic kick in – he reached over and grabbed Annabeth’s hand. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t pull away. That made it easier.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And then they ran.

The brick wall rushed toward them. At the last second, Percy squeezed his eyes shut. Instead of smashing into stone, though, there was a strange tugging sensation, like being pulled through a wind tunnel, and then they were through.

Percy stumbled slightly, eyes snapping open, and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Whoa.

It was still King’s Cross, technically, but not really. The platform was transformed – magical in a way that even Camp Half-Blood wasn’t. There were students everywhere in black robes, steam puffing from the scarlet train on the tracks, owls hooting from cages, and parents hugging their kids goodbye. The air buzzed with excitement and a bit of nervous energy.

Percy took it in with wide eyes. “Okay. This is cool.”

Annabeth stood beside him, equally wide-eyed, her fingers still wrapped around his. She let go a second later, but Percy pretended not to notice.

Within moments, the others spilled through the barrier behind them. Molly appeared last, panting a little but immediately shifting into full command mode.

“Alright, all of you – onto the train. Quickly now, or you’ll miss an open compartment!”

As everyone scrambled toward the train, Percy glanced back at the swirling mass of students, then grinned to himself.

“Well, Toto,” he muttered under his breath, “we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The wizards stopped and looked at him.

Harry tilted his head. “What’s Kansas?”

Percy blinked. “You know … The Wizard of Oz?”

Blank stares. Ron shrugged.

“I assume that’s a muggle thing?” Hermione offered politely, but with the same bewildered look.

Percy sighed and dragged his bag after them. “Man, I’m surrounded by heathens.”

But even as he boarded the train, still grumbling about how they were all “culturally bankrupt,” he couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Just like the adrenaline rush before a quest, or the camaraderie before the battle – he may not have wanted to go on this quest, but he had to admit to himself … he was a little excited.

*

The Hogwarts Express was kind of a letdown.

Sure, it looked cool – shiny, old-fashioned, very “choo-choo, here comes the magic.” But the moment the seven of them crammed into a single compartment, Percy realised something: he was about to spend multiple hours in a moving metal tube with no ocean breeze, no sword practice, and no idea how wizard trains even worked.

Ginny waved from the doorway, calling out that she would go find her friends and give them more space. Percy appreciated her for that – though he was pretty sure she appreciated the opportunity to avoid sitting between Nico and Ron, who had been silently arguing with their eyebrows all morning.

He slumped into the corner seat. Thalia and Nico flanked the window like storm clouds, Annabeth was already unpacking her study booklet like this was a mobile classroom, and Hermione was talking to Ron about previous prefect duties. But Percy? He was watching his knee bounce like it had a mind of its own.

“How long is this ride again?” He asked, already regretting everything.

“Six hours,” Hermione said, like it was no big deal.

Six. Hours. Percy swallowed his groan. Six hours of train. Six hours of sitting still. Was this his punishment for slacking on wand theory?

Then – salvation.

The door slid open with a smooth click, revealing an older witch pushing a trolley stacked with gleaming sweets, drinks, and way too much temptation.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?”

“Yes, please,” Percy said before anyone else could speak. “Whatever’s blue.”

The witch blinked but smiled and handed him something that looked like glossy sugar rocks wrapped in foil. Percy didn’t care what it was. It was blue. Good enough.

Annabeth was already frowning. “Too much sugar’s going to slow you down later. You’ll crash hard.”

Percy popped a candy in his mouth. “Yeah, but I’ll crash happy.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her reading. He smirked, proud of his small, sugary victory.

That’s when the door slid open again.

Percy glanced up, expecting another snack cart, but it wasn’t.

The boy standing in the doorway looked like he had smelled something bad. Like, sour milk and swamp water bad. Blond hair slicked back, pale like a vampire, and a frown carved into his face so deeply you would think he was born with it.

It was Draco Malfoy.

Percy’s smile came automatically. “Hey, sunshine. Miss us already?”

Malfoy didn’t respond right away. His frown faltered.

Then –

“Oh, look,” Ron muttered under his breath. “The snake slithered out of his hole.”

Percy opened his mouth, halfway to making a joke about venom or maybe gardening, when Harry’s voice cut in – sharp, biting, and so intense that Percy’s words faltered on his tongue.

“Malfoy.”

Harry’s voice was like ice cracking – cold and about two seconds from shattering into violence. Percy blinked, momentarily thrown off by the pure hatred pouring out of him. His whole posture had shifted, eyes narrowed, jaw set. This wasn’t irritation. It was personal.

Draco stiffened, obviously caught off-guard, but tried to recover. “I must’ve walked into the wrong compart –”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry snapped, interrupting him. “You’re not welcome here. There’s no room for you.”

Draco’s expression darkened, and whatever politeness he had tried to muster crumbled. “Not like I’d sit with your lot, Potter.”

Percy blinked. He wasn’t sure what shocked him more: the venom in Draco’s voice or the fact that even Draco seemed surprised by his outburst. For a second, the guy looked like he had said something by accident. But then his face smoothed over, cold and flat like marble.

Percy finally spoke up, trying to cut through the tension like it wasn’t choking the room.

“This is getting weird, right? I mean, what are the odds we keep bumping into each other, Draco?”

Ron’s head swiveled so fast it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. “You know him?”

“We met in Diagon Alley,” Annabeth answered for Percy, calm and to the point. “It was weird, actually. Every time you three left a shop, Draco seemed to show up.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her scowl deepening. “How convenient.” She turned to Draco, her tone clipped. “Stay away from the transfer students, Malfoy. We don’t need them getting tangled in the Dark Arts because you can’t keep your wand to yourself.”

Percy raised a brow. Even he picked up the spike in her voice.

Draco flushed a sharp red at the accusation, eyes flashing.

“Relax, Granger,” he sneered. “They’re clearly bound for Gryffindor anyway. No need to worry your pretty little head.”

Hermione stiffened, clearly biting back a retort, but Draco didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word, the door sliding shut behind him.

For a few beats, the compartment was silent. Percy glanced between Harry, Hermione, and Ron – each of them looking like they had been personally insulted – and then over to Annabeth, who just looked thoughtful.

“Okay,” Percy finally said. “Someone want to explain why you all look ready to curse him into next week?”

Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “slimy git.”

Hermione folded her arms and said, “Let’s just say Malfoy’s history isn’t exactly squeaky clean.”

“Well, you could have treated him a little nicer –”

“He doesn’t deserve to be treated nicely,” Harry interrupted. “Not after what he did.”

Percy turned, brows drawn together. “What do you mean?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Malfoy claims he’s changed. Says he’s cut ties with the Dark Arts. But that doesn’t undo what he’s already done. His father is still in Azkaban, and he still helped Voldemort.”

It took a second for that to land.

Percy blinked, his brain catching up to what Harry had just said. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Draco’s a … Death Eater?”

Annabeth stiffened beside him.

“Was,” Hermione corrected, her voice clipped. “He was a Death Eater. But now, conveniently, he says he’s not.” She looked away, her eyes hardening. “In sixth year, he was tasked with assassinating Dumbledore. And he bragged about it – to other Slytherins. Thought he was untouchable.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. The pale, sour-faced boy from Diagon Alley? The one who had looked more like a sulking ghost than a killer?

Nico snorted. “Didn’t seem too successful, did he? Dumbledore’s still alive and Voldemort’s gone.”

Percy turned that over in his head.

“But … you said he’s changed,” he said, almost more to himself than anyone else. “He doesn’t seem evil.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look. “He says he’s changed,” she emphasised. “But his word doesn’t count for a knut.”

Percy frowned. “So, you’re telling me he doesn’t deserve a second chance?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Ron went red in the face.

“Second chance?!” He sputtered. “Do you even hear what you’re saying? Some people don’t deserve second chances – especially Death Eaters!”

Percy sat back, stunned by the heat in Ron’s voice.

But then – his thoughts weren’t in the train compartment anymore.

They were in a throne room at the heart of Mount Olympus.

Luke.

Luke, with the scar on his face and the betrayal heavy in his voice. Luke, who had once believed he could fix the gods by burning the world down. Luke, who had died trying to undo what he had set in motion.

If Percy could go back to the day Luke died, if there was some other way to save him while still stopping Kronos, he would take it. Luke deserved a second chance. Why not Draco?

Percy’s fists curled around the edge of his seat.

He looked up at Ron, his jaw tight.

“You’re a little thick-headed, aren’t you?” Ron’s face twisted in anger, but Percy cut him off before he could speak. “You don’t have to be friends with him. I’m not saying you should forgive him. But saying he doesn’t deserve any chance to change – that’s cruel.”

“We’re not being cruel,” Harry snapped. “We’re being realistic. This isn’t about schoolyard bullies. The Death Eaters murdered people. They tortured them.”

Percy met Harry’s glare.

“Draco didn’t kill hundreds,” Percy said. “And if he had, wouldn’t he be rotting in Azkaban like his dad?”

Ron wasn’t convinced. “Even if he didn’t kill anyone, he still stood by and watched it happen. That’s just as bad.”

Harry’s voice was razor-sharp. “Why are you even defending him? Malfoy is evil.”

“No,” Percy said, shaking his head. “I don’t think he is.”

He stood slowly, feeling the air in the compartment pull tighter around him. “I’m not saying what he did was okay. I’m not pretending to understand what you all went through because of him. But you don’t get to decide whether someone can change.”

Hermione crossed her arms but didn’t speak. Ron looked like he wanted to argue again, but Harry’s silence said more than anything.

“I’m going to take a walk,” Percy said, his voice tired now. “Get some air.”

He didn’t look back as he slid open the compartment door and stepped out into the corridor, letting it close behind him with a soft click. The hallway was quiet. Distant voices and footsteps echoed from farther down the train, but for a moment, Percy just stood there – trying to shake off the weight of the conversation.

He didn’t know why he had defended Draco so staunchly. He didn’t even know the blond that well. But something about the way the wizarding trio’s hatred oozed from their words sat wrong with him.

Maybe Draco had done horrible things.

But so had Luke.

And if Luke could find redemption in the end … maybe Draco deserved the chance to try again.

With that thought in mind, Percy wandered.

The halls of the Hogwarts Express were tight and oddly warm, humming with the sound of wheels on tracks and the buzz of chattering students. He didn’t have a destination—he just needed space. Space to breathe, to shake off the tension clinging to him.

Every compartment he passed offered a different slice of the magical world he was still trying to understand. A group of third years invited him in for a game of Exploding Snap (which he politely declined after seeing a card literally burst into flames). Another compartment had a pair of Ravenclaws who asked if he was really a transfer student from America – like he was some kind of cryptid or rumour. A few younger Hufflepuffs gave him candy and asked if he knew any monsters. He might have told one of them that he once fought a snake the size of a school bus, just to mess with them. That earned him wide eyes and a second candy.

It was nice, honestly. The curiosity, the friendliness. No one asked hard questions. No one sneered.

But eventually, the smiles and polite conversation started to blur together. Percy found himself drifting again, until he stumbled upon a quiet part of the train.

And that’s when he saw him.

Draco Malfoy sat alone in a small, empty compartment, already dressed in black Hogwarts robes that looked too crisp, too formal. His blond hair was neat and gelled back. His head was tilted slightly, resting against the glass, but when he saw Percy in the doorway, he blinked and straightened up.

“You,” Draco said flatly. Not much of a greeting.

“Hey,” Percy said. “Uh … I wanted to say sorry. For earlier. For the whole thing with Harry and the others.”

Draco scoffed. “Forget about it.”

“No, really,” Percy said, stepping into the compartment and closing the door behind him. “Harry was being stupid. I didn’t like his attitude, so I left.”

That actually got a reaction.

The corners of Draco’s lips twitched – almost a smile.

“You told Potter off?” He asked, amused, like it was the best thing he had heard all day.

Percy nodded. “I didn’t take kindly to him talking like that. And I don’t like people being mean to my friends.”

Draco blinked. “Oh, so we’re friends now?” He asked, that ever-present sarcasm lacing his voice. “Funny. I don’t even know your full name.”

Percy stuck out his hand, defiant. “Perseus Jackson,” he said, making a face. “But everyone calls me Percy.”

Draco looked down at the offered hand like it was a trick. His gaze flicked back up to Percy’s face.

“You don’t know who you’re trying to befriend.”

Percy frowned. “I can make my own judgment about who I befriend, thank you very much.”

Draco gave a quiet snort. “You’re a fool.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

There was a silence after that – long and oddly weighted. Draco stared at Percy, something unreadable in his pale eyes. It wasn’t annoyance, not quite. More like suspicion – or confusion. Like he was trying to figure out if Percy was mocking him; as if wary that this was a joke or a setup.

It wasn’t.

So, Percy just waited, hand still outstretched.

Finally, Draco stood. His movement was slow, cautious. He reached forward and took Percy’s hand.

The handshake was firm. Brief.

“You’re an interesting one,” Draco said, his tone hard to place. Then, with a faint smirk: “Perseus.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Only my mom calls me that when I’m in trouble.”

He didn’t mention that monsters and gods also called him Perseus – often right before they tried to kill him.

Draco sat back down, and after a beat, Percy dropped into the seat across from him.

The train ride after that was long.

Percy stayed with Draco for a while – longer than he had planned, really. Somehow, they had ended up talking about Hogwarts and its four houses, especially Slytherin.

In contrast to how the Weasley family spoke of the house, Draco spoke fondly of Slytherin. The way he described it, Slytherin wasn’t some pit full of backstabbing snakes like the others had warned. Instead, it was about ambition, resourcefulness, and determination. It was about finding your true friends among the crowd.

Draco did drop small, snide remarks about Gryffindor here and there – most of them directed at Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Percy didn’t jump to defend them. Not because he agreed, but because he wanted to listen. And what he heard surprised him. There was bitterness in Draco’s voice, but also something else – a kind of longing, maybe even regret. Percy wasn’t totally sure, but the guy didn’t sound like someone proud of every choice he had made. He sounded like someone trying to justify them.

It was weird, hearing a totally different version of Hogwarts than what the demigods had been told back at the Burrow. Molly had made Slytherin sound like the enemy. Draco painted it like a misunderstood underdog. Percy didn’t know who to believe, but maybe that was the point – maybe there wasn’t just one version of the truth.

The rest of the ride went by without much excitement. Eventually, Percy glanced at the time and realised they were probably getting close. He stood and stretched, feeling the dull ache in his legs from sitting too long, and told Draco he was heading back to change into his robes. Draco didn’t say much – just nodded, arms folded, back to staring out the window with that unreadable expression of his.

Percy didn’t mention the visit when he slipped back into his original compartment. He could feel the tension the second he opened the door – Ron still looked grumpy, and Harry barely glanced up. Hermione gave him a polite look, but none of them asked where he had been.

That was fine.

Percy wasn’t in the mood to argue again.

So, he stayed quiet, pulled his robes over his jeans, and sat near the window, watching the countryside roll by.

Eventually, the train gave a lurch and began to slow, its screeching brakes cutting through the soft murmur of the compartment. Percy blinked out the window. The sun had long since disappeared, replaced by a dark, velvety sky dusted with stars. In the distance, perched against the night like something out of a storybook, was the vague outline of a massive, towering castle. Lights twinkled in a few of the windows, reflected in the rippling water below.

Hogwarts.

The group filed off the train, yawning and stretching their legs, their breath misting in the cooling night. A group of strange little creatures scurried up to meet them – house elves, Percy vaguely remembered someone calling them earlier. They looked like they had stepped out of a Halloween party: large bat ears, tennis-ball eyes, and skinny limbs. Still, they took their bags without a word, and Percy let them.

Annabeth, of course, was already gazing up at the castle like she had found the lost city of Atlantis.

“Do you see those flying buttresses?” She muttered, eyes gleaming. “Gothic architecture. Easily twelfth or thirteenth century. The sheer weight of that roof, all on those stone ribs – it’s amazing. Even with magic, this would have taken serious planning. I wonder if it has a dungeon … maybe hidden passages –”

“What the hell are those?”

Percy pointed across the station yard to where carriages stood waiting. But they weren’t pulled by horses. Oh, no. These creatures looked like they belonged in a Hades-themed horror movie.

At first glance, Percy thought they were skeletons – but a second look revealed that they had thin, black flesh stretched tight over bony frames. Their skulls looked more like dragon heads than horse faces. Their eyes were completely white, blank and pupil-less, and leathery wings arched from their backs like they had flown out of Tartarus itself.

For a half second, he thought maybe they had.

They weren’t moving much. Just standing there in the gloom, dead silent. Watching.

“You can see them?” Harry asked. The anger in his tone from earlier was gone, replaced with something quieter.

Percy turned toward him, frowning. “Yeah. Should I not be able to?”

Hermione gave him a look – soft and careful, like she was stepping around something delicate. “They’re called thestrals,” she said gently. “Most people can’t see them. You can only see them if you’ve … witnessed death. And understood it.”

There was a silence. Not awkward, exactly. It was heavier.

Percy’s heart gave a quiet thump. “Oh,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. He glanced back at the creatures – thestrals – who still watched the students with eerie stillness. “That … makes sense.”

No one asked who. Thank the gods for that. Percy didn’t want to go into the laundry list of people he had watched die – Silena, Beckendorf, Ethan, Luke. The countless others from the wars. Some friends, some enemies. All gone.

The wizarding trio moved on without a word, climbing into one of the carriages.

A booming voice cut through the night. “First years an’ transfer students – over ‘ere!”

Percy turned, and for once in his life, looked up. That was rare. But the man who had spoken was massive – easily twice Percy’s size, with a wild mane of shaggy dark hair and a beard that looked like it could hide a badger or two. The guy grinned at them through all that hair, eyes twinkling.

“You must be the transfer students!” The giant said cheerfully.

Percy nodded. “That obvious, huh?”

“I’m Hagrid. Good ol’ Professor Dumbledore told me ‘bout you – your lot’s from Ilvermorny! Must be excitin’ to come all the way to Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” Percy replied. “Something like that.”

Hagrid clapped his hands together with a noise like a thunderclap. “We’ll be goin’ over the lake to get to Hogwarts,” he said, voice full of excitement, like he hadn’t done this a thousand times before. “Come on.”

Percy followed him along with the other wide-eyed first years, who looked like they were torn between awe and terror. They reached the lake, which stretched wide and still under the stars. It was huge – at least a mile across, maybe more—and shimmered silver beneath the moonlight. Percy could just make out the docks on the far end. And above it all loomed the castle.

“Everyone, get in a boat!” Hagrid bellowed.

The small boats rocked gently in the shallows – ancient wooden things that looked like they belonged in a shipwreck museum. The first years started clustering together like baby ducklings, shuffling into groups before clambering into the boats.

Without hesitation, Percy led the demigods toward one of the sturdier-looking ones. Not that “sturdy” meant much. The boards creaked under their weight, and Percy was half convinced a few nails were held in place by magic and wishful thinking.

Thalia raised an eyebrow. “You sure this isn’t a test of faith?”

“You won’t let us drown, will you?” Nico added dryly, eying the black water.

Percy snorted. “You’d have to be pretty unlucky to drown with a son of Poseidon nearby.”

Neither looked comforted.

Once everyone had settled, the boats lurched forward as if yanked by invisible ropes. The lake was still. No paddles. No sound. Just silent, eerie movement toward the far shore.

Annabeth gave Percy a sharp look. “Percy –”

“It’s not me,” he said quickly.

He could feel the magic under the hull, humming gently against his senses – but it wasn’t his kind of magic. The water wasn’t obeying some forceful command or responding to emotion, like it did with children of Poseidon. It was being guided. It was being nudged, like some gentle hand just beneath the surface was coaxing it forward.

Percy sat back and tried to enjoy the ride. Moonlight sparkled on the water. A chill breeze blew across the lake. It could’ve been peaceful, if Nico didn’t look like he was going to be sick. Nico was hunched forward, his face almost green in the moonlight, hands gripping the sides of the boat.

Out of pity, Percy reached into the water with his powers – just a whisper of intent – and urged the boats to move faster.

Mercifully, they reached the far docks not long after. As soon as the boats bumped gently against the wood, the first years scrambled out. Thalia all but leapt out of the boat like it had tried to bite her, while Nico dragged himself ashore with the grace of a damp cat.

The docks led up to a path, which wound toward the looming castle. Percy barely had time to get his bearings before they stopped at the foot of two enormous oak doors, so tall they made Hagrid look average sized.

Standing before them was a woman – severe and dignified, with greying brown hair pulled into a tight bun and sharp grey eyes that made Percy stand up straighter instinctively.

She did not smile.

“I am Professor McGonagall,” she said crisply. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

Professor McGonagall then went on to explain that they would all be sorted into houses, and briefly mentioned something about each house having unique values and traditions. But she didn’t go into exact detail. Percy wasn’t the only one confused – half the first years were shifting anxiously from foot to foot, whispering to each other and looking increasingly panicked.

McGonagall either didn’t notice or didn’t care. With stern efficiency, she turned on her heel and led them through the wide, echoing hallways of the castle. They passed enormous paintings – many of which moved – and decorative suits of armour that creaked when they walked past them. Everything about the place screamed ancient, magical, and slightly haunted.

Eventually, they stopped in front of another pair of gigantic wooden doors, each over ten feet tall and banded in dark iron. McGonagall turned back toward them, her expression sharp but not unkind.

“This leads to the Great Hall,” she announced. “You will eat your daily meals here with your Hogwarts house. It is also used for studying, completing homework, and finding a professor, should you require one.”

She gave a flick of her wand. The heavy doors groaned and swung inward.

A collective gasp went up from the first years.

The room was massive – high ceilings, four long tables stretching almost wall to wall – but what really threw Percy off guard was the sky. At first glance, it looked like the ceiling wasn’t there. Stars twinkled overhead in a deep, dark sky, the kind you would see out on the ocean, away from any cities. For a second, Percy forgot he was inside a building at all.

McGonagall didn’t wait for their awe to subside. She was already directing the first years to the front of the hall. Before Percy and his friends could follow, she blocked their path with a raised hand.

“You four will stand at the back of the room and wait until the first years are sorted,” she said. “It is a tradition for Hogwarts. Afterward, you will be introduced and sorted yourselves.”

Then, without another word, she turned on her heel again and walked to the front.

Percy, Annabeth, Nico, and Thalia filed in behind the first years, making their way to the back wall. A few older students gave them curious glances – probably because they were clearly too old to be first years, but not familiar enough to belong. Percy caught some whispering, and Thalia muttered something not school appropriate under her breath.

Percy ignored them and looked around again. The place was amazing – lit by floating candles that drifted lazily over the long tables, casting golden light on everything below. The enchanted ceiling still stole the show, but the whole vibe of the room was strange, in a good way. Grand but cozy. Magical, but lived in.

Their attention shifted as the first years reached the front. There, placed on a small wooden stool, was a hat.

An old, ratty-looking thing that probably hadn’t been fashionable in a few centuries. It had patches and frays and honestly looked like something someone had forgotten in a dusty attic. The first years were clearly expecting something more impressive.

Then the room went quiet. Eerily quiet. Even the older students stopped whispering.

The hat twitched.

And then – it started to sing.

“Oh, you may think I’m just a hat,
But trust me – I’m much more than that!
With folds and seams and ancient thread,
I see the thoughts inside your head.

So, place me gently on your crown,
And I shall never let you down.
I'll find the house where you’ll belong –
But first, a tale, in rhyme and song:

In Gryffindor, the brave reside,
With daring hearts and fearless pride.
They charge ahead when others flee,
Their courage roars for all to see.
They value honour, truth, and nerve –
And always fight to guard and serve.

Now Hufflepuff, so oft dismissed,
Is home to those who can’t resist.
A life of toil, of loyal deeds,
Of helping hands and planting seeds.
They’re just and kind, with spirits true –
No task too small for them to do.

In Ravenclaw, the wise convene,
With minds both sharp and thoughts pristine.
They chase the truth, they seek the stars,
They ponder life and love bizarre.
Their wit is keen, their thirst unquenched –
By books and scrolls, their minds entrenched.

Then Slytherin, with cunning grace,
Who always seek the topmost place.
They strategise, they plan ahead,
With silver tongues and dreams widespread.
Ambitious hearts and prideful aims –
They’ll rise through trials, stoke their flames.

So, do not fear where you’ll be placed –
Each house is noble, none disgraced.
I’ll read your soul, your hopes and fears,
Your hidden strengths, your untold years.

Just try me on, don’t hesitate –
The Sorting Hat will decide your fate!”

Percy’s jaw dropped. The hat had literally burst into song – like full-on musical-theatre style – and nobody batted an eye. Not the first years, not the older students, not even the professors. Everyone acted like a talking, singing hat was just another Tuesday at Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall, for her part, didn’t seem remotely fazed. With a wave of her wand, she pulled a long parchment scroll from thin air – no sleight of hand, no wand flash, just a weird shimmer in the air like light bending around nothing. She unrolled it briskly and began reading names off the list, her voice clear and clipped.

“Jacob Aaron,” she called.

A tiny boy with oversized robes hesitantly stepped forward. Percy knew the first years were supposed to be around eleven or twelve, but seeing them in person … they looked so small. Like actual children. It hit him all at once – he had been that young when he had first fought monsters, when he had nearly died on his first quest. He hadn’t realized how young that really was until now.

Jacob climbed onto the stool and Professor McGonagall gently placed the Sorting Hat on his head. It was way too big for him – it slipped down past his eyebrows and nearly swallowed his entire face. A few giggles erupted from the crowd of first years. Jacob’s face turned beet red.

The Great Hall fell into an anticipating silence. The hat twitched and hummed softly, like it was thinking. Percy wasn’t sure how it worked – did it read minds? Did it talk to them up there? But after about a minute, the hat’s mouth split wide and bellowed:

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

The silence broke into applause and cheers. At the far end of the hall, the Hufflepuff table exploded with energy. Percy’s eyes drifted to them. The students were decked out in yellow and black, and the whole area had a warm, cozy vibe. Some kids had blankets over their laps, others leaned back on thick, squishy pillows. The laughter from that table was soft, friendly – not raucous or chaotic. It looked comfortable. Welcoming.

Percy suddenly hoped he would end up there. He remembered the Weasley twins speaking kindly about Hufflepuff – calling them the only house that didn’t care about being better than everyone else. That sounded alright.

Still, he knew how this would probably go. He would end up in Gryffindor, right alongside the wizarding trio. It made the most sense, logistically. Plus, fate had a way of dragging him into the middle of trouble, and Gryffindor looked like exactly the place for that kind of energy.

He glanced over. The Gryffindor table was next to Hufflepuff, and it reminded him instantly of cabin five back at Camp Half-Blood – the Ares kids. The energy was loud, wild, competitive. They looked like they were having a blast, shouting and cheering every time someone got sorted into their house. The benches were packed, and no one had blankets or pillows – just big grins and louder voices.

Next on the list was, “Katherine Abraham.”

Percy blinked as a young girl marched confidently to the stool. With her curly brown hair and steely expression, she looked like a miniature Annabeth. She sat down, back straight, chin high. The Sorting Hat was dropped onto her head –

“RAVENCLAW!”

More applause, this time from the table decorated in blue and bronze. The students there clapped politely – less rowdy, more reserved. Percy squinted. Books and parchment littered parts of the table already. A few older students were even reading through the ceremony.

The Sorting continued, one kid after another. Percy tuned it out after a while, only half-listening. The hall filled with the rhythm of names being called, hat decisions being made, and cheers echoing through the stone. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, glancing at the others – Thalia looked bored, Nico was expressionless, and Annabeth was watching everything like she was taking notes.

When the first year students were done being sorted, McGonagall called up the demigods.

“Wizards and witches alike, this year, Hogwarts is pleased to welcome four students from our sister school, Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. These four remarkable students will be spending their final year at Hogwarts, as part of a transfer program to expand communications with America. They will have the honour of participating in our Sorting. I trust that everyone will welcome them and make them feel at home.”

“First up, Annabeth Chase.”

Annabeth’s eyes lit up with anticipation.

She walked up to the wooden stool and her eyes met Percy’s right before the ratty hat was placed upon her head and her eyes were covered. Percy held his breath as the Sorting Hat shifted and began to mumble. He watched Annabeth grip the edge of the stool, knuckles white.

Percy stared at his feet, listening and waiting, and was beginning to worry when the hat’s voice finally rang out.

“RAVENCLAW!”

Percy’s head shot up, confusion staining his shock. He immediately looked over at Nico to see him mirroring his expression.

That wasn’t right.

He thought they were supposed to be placed in Gryffindor.

Annabeth slowly took the hat off her head, movement unsure, but the Ravenclaw table burst out in applause, wiping away any time to be hesitant about what just happened. Annabeth was quick to hurry to the blue and bronze table, welcomed warmly by her new peers.

“Nico di Angelo.”

Percy felt lost, and Nico was starting to look a lot more panicked than before. When he sat down on the stool, his face was greener than the lake they had rowed across earlier. The hat was placed upon his head, and within a few seconds, his complexion went white. Percy was on the edge of his seat. The hat began to bob up and down, and within short time, the hat decided.

“HUFFLEPUFF.”

Percy tilted his head, whispering to himself. “What the –”

“Thalia Grace.”

When Thalia sat on the stool, the hat had barely touched her head before it yelled out.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Percy froze. Thalia got up and looked over her shoulder, throwing one last look at Percy, before she went to sit down with the wizard trio at the Gryffindor table. The Gryffindor students cheered like they were fans at the Super Bowl.

“Perseus Jackson.”

Percy couldn’t feel his legs as he walked up to the stool. He told himself that he had faced much scarier prospects before – hell, he had gone one-on-one with Tartarus incarnate – but somehow the Sorting Hat gave him an impending sense of doom. When the hat settled upon his head, an outside pressure blanketed his mind, and memories flooded through. Percy almost fell off the stool in shock.

His whole life flashed before his eyes.

One of Percy’s earliest demigod memories surfaced above the others – fighting the Minotaur. He could feel the phantom sensation of rain, of his breathing becoming irregular as his vision faded out, of the rage and pure fear he felt when he realised his mother was gone. Percy gasped as all the terror and adrenaline came back.

A voice spoke.

“Hmm, interesting. Another one.”

Percy was still catching his breath.

“No need to be upset, Perseus,” the Sorting Hat chided. “I’m only sifting through the memories that define your character; seeing where you best fit in life.”

“Could it be in Hufflepuff? No, that would be too obvious. Loyalty as a fatal flaw – yes, fatal indeed. But you’re selective with that loyalty, aren’t you? And those lot are rule followers, and you, my good sir … no, you do not follow rules, it seems. You are willing to cross lines to for your benefit.”

Percy couldn’t keep up with the hat. He was supposed to be in Gryffindor, wasn’t he?

“Gryffindor, perhaps? You are brave in the face of danger, but you’re also willing to admit fear and defeat. Stubborn, too, and –” The hat paused in thought. “Oh … but Slytherin.”

No.

“Yes. Slytherins are cunning and loyal to those they love. You have the strong mind, albeit underestimated, and you’ve used this to conquer hundreds of foes.”

Suffocation. Anger. Akhlys in Tartarus, crying and choking on her own poison. Percy could still remember every detail vividly, could still feel the power coursing through his veins and the satisfaction of finally being able to hurt the monster back, of getting revenge. The memory soon faded from his eyes, and the Sorting Hat clicked its nonexistent tongue.

“You are a tough one, Perseus Jackson. So, tell me, which house do you think you belong in?”

“Gryffindor,” Percy mumbled under his breath. “I need to be in Gryffindor for the quest.”

The Sorting Hat laughed. “You remind me of another individual; a prophecy child, too.”

Then, out loud, it said: “SLYTHERIN!”

Percy’s breath caught in his throat, and for several seconds he didn’t move, even after Professor McGonagall took the hat off his head. Finally, the noise filtered back in, and Percy snapped back into the moment.

His heart sank. McGonagall, unperturbed, raised the hat. Across the hall, Percy could have sworn that he saw Albus frowning at the head table, silver eyes narrowed. Percy turned to face all the stares directed at him. It was only a hair of a second, but there was a delayed reaction, almost as if everyone was expecting a different result. Percy walked over to the green and silver table, and they quickly took up applause for him.

Percy singled-out Draco, the only wizard he recognised, and sat beside him. The banners with snakes hung proudly over their able. Suddenly, Percy felt a tingle run up his spine, and he turned around to look for the source, only to see Harry narrowing his eyes at him from across the room.

Silence fell over the Great Hall. Albus finally took a stand and brought his hands together, his long white beard reaching far past his waist. “Let the feast begin!”

Cheers rang throughout the hall and food magically appeared on the tables.

Not long after they dug into the amazing spread before them, the feast ended. Albus stood once again and began to speak in a clear, loud voice. He spoke about the rules, like not going out to a place called the Forbidden Forest, lest they wanted a most painful death – which, honestly, was messed up and didn’t sound legal. Then again, Camp Half-Blood had a literal lava wall, so Percy wasn’t sure he was qualified to talk on that subject. Albus told them not to go into the dormitories and common rooms of other houses without consent. He told them not to be out past curfew.

He told them not to do a lot of things.

And in that moment, Percy knew what this entire quest would comprise of.

The speech ended and the prefects – leaders in each house, two for each year fifth and above, chosen by the staff – led them to their dormitories. The head boy and girl took the lead.

The Slytherin group moved like a small, hushed army through the twisting hallways of the castle. Percy stuck near the back, trying to memorise the turns, though it was quickly becoming hopeless. The moving staircases didn’t help. He had crossed entire labyrinths back at Camp Half-Blood, but this place gave him a headache. Every corridor looked the same: ancient stone, torches flickering, and portraits that whispered things when they thought you weren’t listening.

Eventually, they reached a stairwell that led down—deep down. Percy followed the others into the shadows, half-expecting something to jump out at them. The further they descended, the colder it got. The dungeon walls were medieval in style: dark grey stone bricks, dripping moisture in places, and lined with iron sconces holding flickering torchlight. It gave the hallway a kind of haunted-house vibe, like they were walking into a castle horror movie set.

Whoever picked the location for the Slytherin dorms, Percy thought, clearly had a flair for the dramatic.

When they reached a blank stone wall, the prefects stopped and turned to face the group. They explained the rules: how to enter and exit the common room, the importance of remembering the weekly password, and the fact that you’d be locked out if you forgot it. The only way back in, then, was to find the head of house or wait for another Slytherin to open it from the inside.

What caught Percy off guard was that not even the headmaster knew the password. That seemed… wrong. Actually, a lot of things about Hogwarts seemed wrong when you thought about them too hard. No emergency override, no magical failsafe? Who ran this place?

He started to question if Death Eaters were the biggest threat here.

“This week’s password is pit anguis,” one of the prefects announced. Percy knew just enough Latin to pick up on the meaning: snake pit. That actually made him crack a smile. So, Slytherins had a sense of humour, even if it was a little ominous.

The prefect said the password, and the wall melted away like water, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

Despite its location in a dungeon, the inside felt surprisingly homely. Percy had expected a kind of cold, stone-lined crypt, but this was kind of nice.

The ceiling was high and arched. On one end of the room, a grand fireplace roared quietly, the flames casting green-tinted shadows across the floor from the stained-glass windows above it. On the opposite end stood floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a few huge, overstuffed armchairs that looked like they could swallow a person whole. A glossy black piano stood tucked into one corner like a fancy afterthought.

Plush emerald and silver couches were arranged in a circle around the fireplace, their cushions worn just enough to feel inviting. The lighting in the room was strange but warm – softly glowing green, like being underwater. Percy looked up, then to the window.

And froze.

The windows didn’t show the castle grounds – they showed water. Murky, deep, shifting water. Ripples moved across the surface. Percy could feel it, too. The pressure of the lake pressing in around them. They were underneath the massive body of water they had crossed by boat. That … was kind of awesome. Unsettling, but awesome.

Two staircases led up from the common room, each with a different sign hanging above. One was a warped slab of wood with the words “SLYTHERIN SUPERBIA” burned across it in uneven letters. Dozens of initials had been carved into its surface over the years, gouged deep by generations of students.

The other was prettier, with a painted silver snake coiled around a wand on a deep green background. Neater, newer, like someone had taken the time to actually care for it.

“The wooden sign marks the boys’ dormitory. The other one’s for girls,” a prefect explained, then added, “Though there’s flexibility if you identify differently or are trans. The signs are old, enchanted projects from past students – protection charms, mostly. Meant to keep out anyone who doesn’t belong.”

Then the female sixth-year prefect, and head girl, Keira Gullscream, stood front and centre. She took a breath, like one would before making a big speech.

“Welcome to Slytherin. Our emblem is the serpent, the wisest of creatures; our house colours are emerald green and silver. Our common room is in the dungeons – lovely, isn’t it?” The male prefect, Randall Rein, elbowed her. She snorted. “Now, there are a few things that you should know about Slytherin – and a few that you should forget.”

“Firstly, let’s dispel a few myths. You might have heard some rumours about Slytherin house – that we’re all into the Dark Arts and will only talk to you if your great-grandfather was a famous wizard, and other rubbish like that. Well, you don’t want to believe everything you hear from competing houses. And I’m not denying that we’ve produced our share of dark wizards, but so have the other three houses – they just don’t like admitting it.”

“And Slytherin isn’t dirty. Get that thought out of your head. Others say that we cheat and lie. We don’t – we play to win, because we care about the honour and traditions of Slytherin. But we’re not bad people because of it.”

“For instance, we Slytherins look after our own – which is more than you can say for Ravenclaw. Apart from being the biggest bunch of swots you ever met, Ravenclaws are famous for clambering over each other to get good marks, whereas we Slytherins are family. The corridors of Hogwarts can throw surprises for the unwary, and you’ll be glad you’ve got the serpents on your side as you move around the school. As far as we’re concerned, once you’ve become a snake, you’re one of ours – one of the elites. We will not be shamed. Because you know what Salazar Slytherin really looked for in his chosen students? Greatness and potential. He looked for the powerful and ambitious.”

She sounded passionate, and her voice was getting louder. The older students, who had previously been silent, were now shifting and mumbling. She gave them a sharp look. “We Slytherins are proud. We earn our greatness, we work hard, and we will be proud for our traits!”

The Slytherins began to get hyped-up.

“Yeah!” One Slytherin boy yelled out.

“We’re not evil!” Another girl said.

“We’re ambitious! We’re strong!”

Keira called out above everyone else. “Who are we?”

“SLYTHERINS!”

“And don’t forget it!” She said. “We stand proud, as one.”

“Now, off to bed!” Randall barked. “Slytherins are never late to class!”

Percy joined the rest of the boys who were heading up to their dormitories. He found Draco among them, and gratefully stuck to his side, glad to at least see a familiar face.

Despite the hype from before, Draco was unusually silent, his lips pursed.

They were led up a narrow staircase that was dimly lit by more sconces. When they reached the top, there was another long hallway with several numbered doors. The first year boy wizards – which was a staggeringly small group of only five students – gravitated toward the few wooden doors at the start of the hallway. They had brass numbers hanging on them.

The hallway curved and split several times, and it was no longer narrow like the stairway. The walls were bare except for a few house banners and lights. A rug ran along the floor, and there were a few couches and armchairs hugging the walls, with matching bookcases. It felt posh, even for a magical private school. The hallway seemed to go on for a while, probably housing over forty rooms.

Percy peeked into a couple rooms at the beginning of the hallway but was quickly redirected further down the hall. A passing boy told him the younger students took the rooms closer to the stairway, and older students got dibs on the ones further down the hallway, where the noise was less likely to travel into the common room or outside the Slytherin pit.

Each room was generous with space and held two four poster beds and a bathroom.

As far as Percy could tell, you were free to take whichever room you wanted. The only rule was that you were to room with those in your year, and not older or younger.

There was an uneven amount of seventh year Slytherin boys, and an argument broke out over who got to have their own room. Percy filed off to the very end – because he was in the eighth year, with the rest of the wizards that had to retake their seventh year – and was surprised to find such a small group. There was only three of them. Draco, Percy, and some boy he didn’t recognise.

He was tall, dark skinned, and had high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes.

“You’ll be rooming with Jackson, Malfoy,” he sneered. His brown eyes were cold. “I won’t risk my reputation by being seen associating with you – at least my family knew how to be smart.”

Percy gave the boy a wide berth, unsure why he was so harsh toward Draco – someone in his own house, and seemingly the only other boy his age in Slytherin – and followed Draco to the next room. To his credit, Draco hardly reacted, simply sneering back, and yanking the door open.

Percy followed Draco.

Inside the room were two four poster beds with canopies atop, the curtains a soft emerald green with silver lining. The comforters were a complimentary green with white sheets and silver pillows. The room itself was spacious, with a high vaulted ceiling. The floor was a deep mahogany wood, with a soft carpet laid underneath each bed. Several empty bookshelves and closets lined the walls in built-in nooks and crannies, along with a giant chest at the end of each bed, which Percy assumed were for storage.

The walls were stone with sconces lining the walls, and there were windows at the end of the room that showed a view of the lake. The room looked comfortable. Clean.

Percy felt at-home, like he was back at his cabin in Camp Half-Blood.

Considering how many rooms there were for the boys alone – and assuming the girls had the same in their dormitories – it was almost as if Slytherin used to have more students; many more.

It felt empty.

“Why are there so few Slytherins?” Percy asked Draco.

Draco was silent for several long moments, so long that Percy almost thought he wouldn’t answer, before he sighed. “We used to have many more,” Draco said. “We used to rival the Gryffindors in numbers.” He shrugged lamely. “But with the war … well, some died. Some left to other schools, pulled from Hogwarts by their parents. Those with parents who were …” Draco glanced over at Percy, like what he was about to say was taboo, then decided to still say it “… who were Death Eaters … well, when they fought in the war, and it wasn’t on the side of their parents … they’re no longer with us. Zabini is the only one who stayed – besides me. I didn’t have a choice about that, though.”

Percy swallowed thickly. “Oh,” he said. He had almost forgotten that a bunch of kids had fought in a war against Voldemort, and that some of those kids had parents that were Death Eaters.

Draco snorted dryly. “Yeah,” he said. “‘Oh.’”

Perhaps Percy should have felt wary about rooming with a former Death Eater – the very thing he was supposedly here to fight at Hogwarts – but he couldn’t even begin to imagine Draco like that.

He looked tired. He was pale and thin. He didn’t even want to be here, if his former words were any proof.

Percy could sympathise with him; life after war wasn’t easy. It wasn’t that far of a stretch to say that he really did want to become better and change. Anyone could do it.

Percy walked to the bed closer to the bathroom and found his suitcase and bookbag near the foot. He didn’t bother with unpacking just yet. Instead, he quickly threw on some sweatpants and an old camp t-shirt, tossing his dirty clothes in the hamper by the foot of his bed.

He jumped onto the bed, mattress beyond soft, and stretched.

The beds were opposite each other, nightstands on either side of the bed, and there was what looked like a reading spot over by the window. The bathroom door was beside Percy’s bed, closer to the hallway door, and the bathroom itself was small; the essentials, a sink with cupboards, toilet, and a shower-tub. There was a cute little bathmat with a green snake on it in front of the shower.

Draco didn’t say anything else to Percy, and Percy didn’t try to start a new conversation. Draco didn’t look very happy about what happened with the other boy, Zabini. But Percy sent a smile to Draco in hopes of showing him that he wanted to be friends.

Steeling himself for a long night, Percy let Hypnos’ realm take him.

*

Chapter 8: trying to not blow up the school

*

Chapter 8: Trying to Not Blow-Up the School

A breeze ghosted across Percy’s face – soft and warm at first, then cold. It seeped into his skin, down to his bones, until his stomach dropped out from under him.

The wind turned sharp. It howled and lashed at him like invisible claws, and suddenly he was falling. Down, endlessly down, into a chasm carved from shadow. Darkness swallowed him whole. It clung to him.

Whispers began to swarm, darting between his ears like flies. They weren’t words at first, just static chaos. But the noise grew – voices shrieked and howled, circling, chasing. Heat burned up his throat, and something threw him violently across the void.

Red bled into the edges of his vision.

Then, abruptly, the sky.

Clear blue stretched out above him, impossibly bright. Percy found himself standing at a crossroads – four endless paths spiraling out into the horizon. The quiet was so jarring, it rang in his ears. The sky flickered. Red crept back into the corners. For a second, the road turned to fire.

He blinked. Gone.

Footsteps approached.

A man emerged from the flickering horizon. At a glance, he looked ordinary – short sandy blond hair, a sharp nose, broad shoulders. But when he raised his head, Percy froze. The man’s eyes were wrong. Bottomless. Black as the Pit. And then there was the scar – a thick, pale line that slashed from beneath his eye down to his chin.

Percy’s breath caught. Luke.

His mouth moved, but there was no sound. Only silence and the dull, rhythmic throb building in Percy’s temple.

The sky above began to darken.

The pounding became more than a headache – it was a rhythm. It carried a sound. A chant.

Luke’s lips moved in time with it. Words, endless, echoing, growing louder.

“Choose … choose … choose …”

The crossroads crept inward. The paths twisted. The air felt heavy. Hands shot from the ground – skeletal and cold – clawing at Percy’s arms, his legs. Nails scraped skin. He stumbled, shaking them off.

“Choose … choose … choose …”

He clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. The chant bored into his skull.

He was yanked by the collar.

Percy gasped, breath caught in his throat.

The chant grew clearer.

“Choose … choose … choose …”

He met Luke’s eyes again – and stumbled backward in shock.

Luke now had two faces – one smiling, one blank – and both sets of eyes gleamed gold like the titan Kronos.

“Perseus,” Luke said, his voice layered and unnatural. “You must make a choice. You must choose. You must.”

“Choose … choose … choose …”

Percy tried to speak, to ask what it meant – but no sound came. His voice had vanished.

The red flooded back into the sky. The blue was gone. Fire danced on the roads. The trees curled inwards, black and crooked, like they were watching.

He ran.

Not in any particular direction, just away. Away from the fire, away from the two-faced Luke, and away from the choice he was being told to make. His legs moved on instinct, but the roads stretched and twisted and folded in on themselves. The flames grew higher. Shadows crawled from cracks in the ground. Claws swept across his jawline, grazing his cheek. Blood welled below his eye.

“Son of the sea,” said a voice – too smooth to be human. “You must choose.”

“Choose … choose … choose …”

“What is the right way?”

“Choose … choose … choose …”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

His scream echoed like a thunderclap – and then he was awake.

Percy bolted upright in bed.

It was just a dream.

For a few seconds, Percy didn’t move. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, and his vision swam like the dream still clung to the corners of his mind. Disoriented, he blinked hard, trying to focus. The dorm room was dark and still. Across the room, Draco lay tangled in his sheets, tossing lightly in sleep but not waking.

Percy hadn’t made a sound, but his own eyes stung.

He reached up to wipe them and felt wetness on his fingertips. Tears.

With a shaky breath, he pulled his hand back and squinted. For a heartbeat, he thought the wetness looked red. Blood. But when he blinked, it was gone.

Just like the dream. Just like the fire. Just like Luke.

It wasn’t real, he reminded himself. He wasn’t in the Pit. He wasn’t trapped.

Swallowing thickly, Percy wiped his face on the edge of his comforter and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He already knew there was no chance of falling back asleep – not after that. Not after whatever that was.

The dorm was quiet, and cold. The windows showed the depths of the Great Lake beyond the glass, murky and unmoving. No moonlight, no fish, not even kelp stirred. Just still, heavy darkness.

Percy grabbed a clean set of dress clothes from his suitcase at the foot of his bed – stiff black slacks and a freshly pressed white shirt, courtesy of Madam Malkin – and headed for the bathroom. He missed his Camp Half-Blood gear already. The Hogwarts robes were fine and all, but they weren’t him.

The bathroom was small but spotless, tiled in the same greens and muted silvers that defined the Slytherin common room. Everything was just a little too clean. Too pristine. There was soap, a couple of essentials, and not much else.

The water helped. It always did.

The warmth soaked into his skin and slowed his heart. With a quick thought, Percy dried himself off and pulled on his uniform. He left the shirt slightly unbuttoned, untucked.

As he reached for his brush to try and tame his bedhead, something caught his eye.

The mirror was fogged from the shower, but something about his reflection looked off. Percy leaned in and wiped the glass with his palm.

That’s when he saw it.

A thin, pale line beneath his right eye – just under the cheekbone. A scratch, faint but unmistakable. It wasn’t fresh, but it hadn’t been there yesterday. Percy stared. His reflection stared back, the scratch a cruel echo of the dream’s final moments.

His stomach turned.

He gripped the edge of the sink, trying to ground himself. His knuckles went white.

This wasn’t normal.

Nightmares, sure – those were part of the job. Every demigod had them, especially the ones who had been to war. But this? This was something else. A wound, carried out of a dream like a souvenir.

It had never happened before.

His thoughts turned to Annabeth. If she were here, he would have told her. Even if she didn’t have answers, she always listened. She always understood. But she wasn’t in Slytherin with him. None of the others were. They had all been sorted into different houses.

Of course, they had.

With a hollow sigh, Percy shuffled back into the dorm. Draco hadn’t moved – just a blond tuft of hair poking out from under a cocoon of blankets. The room was too still, too quiet. Percy’s fingers twitched with the need to do something.

At the foot of his bed was his suitcase and bookbag he hadn’t unpacked last night. A dresser waited nearby, its drawers empty. Several neatly spaced shelves lined the walls. Might as well be productive.

Percy knelt and unzipped his suitcase, digging through clothes, toiletries, and more clothes. As he shifted through his things, something on his bedside table caught his eye.

A scroll.

It was tied with a dark green ribbon, the wax seal untouched. Across the room, he saw a matching one on Draco’s nightstand.

Curious, Percy picked it up and carefully unravelled the ribbon. The scroll unfurled with a stiff rustle. The parchment was thick and textured, almost uncomfortably so, like it had been pressed from something ancient and dried in the sun. The ink was dark green, elegant and meticulous.

It was his class schedule.

*

Perseus Jackson – Slytherin – Eighth Year

Sunday

• 7:00am to 10:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 12:00pm to 3:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 5:00pm to 8:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

Monday

• 7:00am to 8:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 8:00am to 9:45am – potions (dungeons, room 0206)
• 10:00am to 11:45am – herbology (practicum: greenhouses, theory: room 1104)
• 12:00pm to 1:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 1:00pm to 2:45pm – defence against the dark arts (room 1125)
• 3:00pm to 4:45pm – flight (practicum: quidditch fields, theory: room 3405)
• 5:00pm to 7:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

Tuesday

• 7:00am to 8:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 8:00am to 9:45am – charms (room 4502)
• 10:00am to 11:45am – ancient runes (room 2354)
• 12:00pm to 1:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 1:00pm to 2:45pm – transfiguration (room 3477)
• 3:00pm to 4:45pm – world magical history (room 3417)
• 5:00pm to 7:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

Wednesday

• 7:00am to 8:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 8:00am to 9:45am – spare
• 10:00am to 11:45am – charms (room 4502)
• 12:00pm to 1:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 1:00pm to 2:45pm – ancient runes (room 2354)
• 3:00pm to 4:45pm – care of magical creatures (practicum: field by edge of Forbidden Forest, theory: room 1313)
• 5:00pm to 7:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

Thursday

• 7:00am to 8:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 8:00am to 9:45am – defence against the dark arts (room 1125)
• 10:00am to 11:45am – herbology (practicum: greenhouses, theory: room 1104)
• 12:00pm to 1:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 1:00pm to 2:45pm – potions (dungeons, room 0206)
• 3:00pm to 4:45pm – flight (practicum: quidditch fields, theory: room 3405)
• 5:00pm to 7:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

Friday

• 7:00am to 8:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 8:00am to 9:45am – spare
• 10:00am to 11:45am – transfiguration (room 3477)
• 12:00pm to 1:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 1:00pm to 2:45pm – world magical history (room 3417)
• 3:00pm to 4:45pm – care of magical creatures (practicum: field by edge of Forbidden Forest, theory: room 1313)
• 5:00pm to 7:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

Saturday

• 7:00am to 10:00am – breakfast (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 12:00pm to 3:00pm – lunch (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 5:00pm to 8:00pm – dinner (Great Hall, room 1303)
• 11:00pm – curfew for eighth years

*

Percy ran a finger down the schedule, eyes scanning the tidy columns of dates, subjects, and house pairings. Alongside each time slot, the parchment listed which house he would be sharing the class with. As luck would have it, most of his classes – nearly three-quarters – were with Gryffindor.

He blew out a breath. That would make keeping an eye on Harry, Ron, and Hermione a lot easier, at least. Not that he was babysitting them, but still.

The upside? He would get to see Thalia often. She had landed herself in Gryffindor, of course. Something about that felt painfully perfect. But the downside was clearer: he would barely see Annabeth – in Ravenclaw – or Nico, who had been sorted into Hufflepuff, much to his own quiet confusion.

Still, it was something else that made Percy pause.

His finger stopped dead over a name printed in crisp script under defence against the Dark Arts.

Chiron Brunner.

Percy’s heart skipped.

Chiron.

The same Chiron who had trained generations of Greek heroes, who had fought beside the Olympians, and who had watched over Camp Half-Blood for centuries. His old mentor. His Latin teacher back at Yancy Academy, who had first opened Percy’s eyes to the world of gods and monsters – who had only posed as “Mr. Brunner” because Percy was a child of the Big Three.

And now he was here at Hogwarts.

Why?

Chiron only left camp when the stakes were high. So, what was so important that it had brought him across the ocean and into the middle of a wizarding school on the tail end of a war Percy didn’t even fully understand?

His thoughts were interrupted by a muffled sound.

“Mmmphff!”

Percy spun around, clutching the class schedule to his chest like it might shield him. Instinctively, his hand drifted toward his hip, fingers itching for Riptide, though he didn’t draw it.

The sound had come from across the room – from the only other occupied bed.

Draco.

Draco was writhing beneath his sheets, his body tense and jerking in erratic bursts. His face was half-buried in the pillow, but Percy could see the furrow in his brow, the way his lips moved without sound.

Percy’s breath caught. His stomach clenched.

He knew that look.

The silent struggle. The trapped panic. The body caught in a storm it couldn’t escape.

It was a nightmare. A bad one.

Percy sat back down slowly, the scroll falling forgotten to the side of the bed. He didn’t move toward Draco. Didn’t call out. He knew better.

You couldn’t just wake someone up from a nightmare and expect that to make it better. It didn’t work like that. Sometimes it made it worse – way worse. Sometimes, if you touched someone mid-flashback, they lashed out. They would hurt others – and hurt themselves. Camp Half-Blood had taught them that, over and over again.

And Percy had always hated when people watched him during nightmares.

The pity in their eyes. The careful questions. The concerned tone. He hated it most when it came from people who didn’t understand but acted like they did.

He figured Draco was the same.

Percy flinched as Draco’s hand hit the wooden headboard with a loud thud. It sounded painful, enough to rouse anyone else, but Draco didn’t stir. His face contorted, his body twisted in the blankets like he was trying to fight something off.

Percy’s eyes lingered on him, unsure.

What had he gone through?

Percy didn’t know much about Draco Malfoy, aside from what the wizarding trio had shared. “Death Eater,” “coward,” “murderer” – heavy words, spat like venom. But the boy he had met on the train hadn’t seemed cruel. Cold, sure. Guarded. Maybe even bitter. But not evil.

And nightmares like that didn’t come from nothing.

Percy looked away, unsettled. He hated this feeling – this helplessness. This waiting around while someone else suffered just out of reach. But there really wasn’t much he could do.

So, he did the only thing he could do: gave Draco space and kept quiet.

He turned back to his trunk, hands moving slower now, mind half-elsewhere. Even as he pulled out the last of his clothes and tucked them into the dresser drawers, he kept glancing over his shoulder at the sleeping boy tangled in silver and green sheets.

There wasn’t much Percy could do.

Trying to shake off the lingering heaviness of his dream – and the solemness of watching Draco have his own nightmare – Percy threw himself into distraction.

He needed to do something. Anything.

According to the class schedule still sitting by his bed, breakfast wasn’t until seven, and lessons wouldn’t start until eight sharp. But when Percy glanced over at the small digital clock he had set up on his bedside table – a little slice of modern tech in a very non-digital castle – it read 6:32am.

He groaned quietly.

With a deep sigh, Percy shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and wandered out of the dormitory.

He meandered through the common room, noting how the green-tinted light shimmered through the windows from the lake outside. The whole place still looked like an underwater palace, eerie and too polished.

To pass the time, he poked around like a bored camper between activities. He ran his hands along the carved edges of the dark furniture, tested the fire in the fireplace, and pulled open a few wall panels and bookcases just for fun.

He found three alternate exits from the common room – two behind thick tapestries and one cleverly hidden inside a section of stone wall that didn’t quite echo right when tapped.

Percy smirked to himself. He bet even most seventh years didn’t know about that one.

Still, time dragged.

Finally, when Percy was seriously considering counting the number of snakes in the wallpaper, footsteps sounded from the stairs leading down from the girls’ dormitories.

It was one of the seventh-year prefects. Percy wracked his head for her name – oh, that’s right, she was Tracey Davis. She looked like she had been dragged out of bed by force. Her frizzy brown hair was thrown into a lopsided ponytail that was losing its battle with gravity, and her oversized Slytherin sweater hung loosely around her shoulders.

She gave the common room a bleary once-over, yawning as she did – then froze.

Her eyes locked on Percy.

He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking very much like he didn’t belong there.

Tracey blinked once. Then again. Her whole face screwed up like she had tasted something sour.

“What’re you – goddammit,” she muttered. “Why are you out here so early? Aren’t you one of the transfer students?”

Percy straightened up and gave her his most harmless smile.

“Yeah. I’m Percy.” He kept his tone polite, careful. No use irritating the local prefects – Annabeth would definitely disapprove if he picked a fight with his own house less than a week in. “I couldn’t sleep, and I figured I’d check the place out a little. Did you know one of the portraits over there –”

“Oh, never mind,” she snapped, cutting him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I didn’t actually want to know.”

Okay, then.

She squinted at him, tone sharp. “You didn’t leave the common room, did you?”

Percy shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

The “ma’am” wasn’t meant to be sarcastic, but Tracey didn’t look like she appreciated it either way.

Tracey tugged her sweater tighter around herself, clearly regretting her life choices and the dungeon-level chill. “Good. You shouldn’t be wandering around before breakfast. That’s against the rules. If Filch sees you, he’ll dock points faster than you can blink.”

She shivered and muttered, “Friggin’ old bastard …” under her breath as she turned and shuffled back toward the girls’ dorms.

Percy watched her go, blinking once. Then he sighed and sank into one of the leather-backed chairs by the fireplace.

After that, it didn’t take long for the Slytherin common space to come to life.

Within five minutes of Tracey’s exit, students started trickling out of their rooms, rubbing their eyes and yawning, the quiet hush of morning broken by low chatter and the rustling of parchment. The common room slowly filled with students moving on autopilot – checking their leather satchels for books, quills, and parchment with varying degrees of panic and exhaustion. No one really looked like a morning person.

Percy ducked back into his dorm to grab his textbooks for the day, pulling them from the pile he hadn’t yet shelved. Thankfully, his bag – a bottomless leather bookbag he had picked up at Flourish and Blotts – made it easy to stash everything without worrying about weight.

Back in the common room, Percy weaved through the crowd of Slytherins and spotted Draco off to the side. Draco had tucked himself into a shadowy alcove, half-concealed by the curve of the stone wall.

With a casual grin, Percy made a beeline for him.

“Morning,” he said, sliding into the space beside Draco like they had been sharing it every day of the year. Before Draco could react, Percy plucked the parchment out of his hands.

“Hey – what the –”

Draco’s indignant sputtering was ignored as Percy scanned the class schedule with interest. His own was already committed to memory, but he wanted to see how much they overlapped. When he saw the list, Percy’s grin widened.

“Oh, nice! We’ve got all the same classes this semester.”

That meant four classes a day with at least one friendly face. No Annabeth, unfortunately – her being in Ravenclaw meant their timetables were nearly opposite – but at least he wouldn’t be completely on his own.

Draco snatched the parchment back and glared at him.

“What – what are you doing?” He snapped.

Percy shrugged. “Checking if we share classes. And we do! Lucky me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“You’re far too happy about sharing classes with me.”

“Well, duh,” Percy said with a grin. “I like having a familiar face around. Makes it easier to make friends.”

Draco stared at him, clearly waiting for the punchline. When none came, just Percy’s usual casual warmth, something flickered in his expression – confusion, maybe. Or disbelief.

Finally, he muttered under his breath, “Good luck trying to make friends with me around,” and stalked off to another corner of the common room.

Percy watched him go, amused.

Draco was like a hissing kitten.

Once everyone was finally ready to get a head-start on the day, the Slytherin head boy and girl – Randall Rein and Keira Gullscream – gathered the house and led them down the twisting dungeon corridors toward the Great Hall. The procession of students was anything but neat – yet somehow, it still remained perfectly segregated. When they entered the vast chamber, Percy was amused to see how the houses kept to themselves. Even in chaos, no one strayed from their group. Like oil and water.

The four long tables stretched the length of the hall – Slytherin on the far left, followed by Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor on the far right. Floating candles flickered above, and plates already gleamed with breakfast. Percy’s eyes scanned the crowd immediately.

It didn’t take long to spot Thalia. Her spiky black hair and sharp gait cut through the sea of red and gold as she crossed toward the Slytherin table. Percy stood to meet her halfway.

“We need to talk to Dumbledore,” she said in a low voice, no greeting. “The house sorting – it’s not going to work for the quest. We can’t be separated like this –”

She cut off abruptly, her eyes locking on something behind Percy. He turned just in time to see the familiar wizarding trio heading straight toward them.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron.

Trailing behind them were Annabeth and Nico, their steps uncertain.

“Hey, guys,” Percy greeted.

Then something strange happened. Harry’s expression twitched – barely perceptible, but definitely there. His nose wrinkled, brows furrowed for a split second, and his lips pressed together in a line. The smile he gave afterward was forced, like it had to be dragged onto his face. Ron and Hermione didn’t look much better – both wore the kind of expressions Percy had seen people wear at Camp when they found out Percy was on the opposite capture the flag team: tight, like they were trying to hold back their true feelings.

They weren’t hostile, exactly. But something had shifted. They looked at him like he was a threat now. Like he had picked a side – and it wasn’t theirs.

“So,” Harry said, tone a little too casual. “How long did it take until Malfoy decided you were beneath him?”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Before Harry could elaborate, a voice cut through the conversation.

“What’s going on here?”

Percy turned to see a sixth-year boy with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly pressed uniform approaching. Felix Rosier, one of the Slytherin prefects. He stopped a few feet from the group, arms folded, his eyes raking over Harry, Hermione, Ron, and the others standing by the Slytherin table – four of them clearly not from this house.

He did not look impressed.

Harry gave Felix a glare sharp enough to cut stone. Subtle.

Percy could practically feel the tension spike in the air. He resisted the urge to groan.

“Just talking,” Percy said quickly, stepping slightly between Felix and the others. “I’ll be at the table in a second.”

He felt a tightness in his throat and swallowed it back. They couldn’t afford this. Not now. If they wanted to complete the quest, if they wanted to succeed here at all, the last thing they needed was for everyone around them to be primed for a house-fueled war.

“Anyway,” Percy tried to redirect, “my first class is potions with – oh – Severus Snape. Uh. Weird name, really.”

“And Perseus isn’t?” Nico muttered just loud enough for Percy to hear.

Percy shot him a glare. “Shuddup.”

Harry looked uncomfortable now, his brow knitting in sympathy. Ron grimaced.

“I’d wish you good luck,” Ron said, “But it probably wouldn’t help. Snape’s horrible. Though … maybe he’ll be easier on you, seeing as you’re in his house. Guy’s got a serious problem with Gryffindors.”

“He plays favourites,” Harry added flatly, still watching Percy like he was trying to figure him out.

Hermione gave both boys a look. “We also have potions, remember?” She pulled out their timetable and handed it to Ron, who squinted at it like it had betrayed him.

“Oh no,” Ron said dramatically. “We’re going to die.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Snape’s not that bad. He just … doesn’t believe in balanced point distribution.”

Percy shrugged, shifting the strap of his bookbag more securely over his shoulder. “Eh. I give it till second period before I manage to land Slytherin in the negative. I’m naturally gifted when it comes to failing school.”

Annabeth laughed beside him, smirking. “He’s not lying. He got kicked out of six schools in six years.”

Percy groaned as the trio’s eyes widened.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, looking at Percy like he had just grown horns. “Did you burn one down or something?”

Percy winced. “Um …”

Ron’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t –”

“Only once!” Percy defended quickly.

“Get to your house tables,” a sharp voice rang out.

Professor McGonagall had risen from the staff table, holding a fork in one hand and a plate of perfectly stacked pancakes in the other. Her expression was stern, but Percy’s eyes were fixed more on the syrup glistening on her plate than her words.

His stomach growled.

“Class begins soon. You would be wise to eat while you can.”

Figuring the conversation could pick back up during class, the group split with a few quick goodbyes. Thalia and the wizarding trio returned to the Gryffindor table, while Annabeth and Nico drifted back to their own houses, both glancing over their shoulders as they went.

Percy made his way to the Slytherin table, only to be met with a few pointed looks – less than welcoming. A couple students didn’t bother to hide their irritation, likely because he had just been seen chatting with Gryffindors like they were old pals.

He was about to scan the table for Draco when he realised the wizard was already there – sitting directly across from him, hunched low over his plate. Draco didn’t look up, and his fork simply pushed a lone piece of bacon around his plate. Percy blinked, slightly thrown off. The guy looked downright gloomy.

The table around them was thinning out as more students left early for class. Percy, however, had priorities – namely, food.

Spotting an untouched plate nearby, he snagged it and began loading it with waffles, fruit, and what could only be described as liquid gold – maple syrup. A pitcher of fruit juice called to him next, and he poured himself a tall glass.

With his breakfast in place, Percy tuned into the nearby conversation. Felix Rosier – still lounging with that slightly smug air – cracked a joke that was just dark enough to make Percy question if he should be laughing. But he laughed anyway, caught in the moment with the others. The laughter tapered off quickly, though, as the ceiling of the Great Hall darkened.

A swarm of owls burst through the enchanted ceiling, blotting out part of the morning sky. It was less a charming scene and more a full-on feathered invasion. They weren’t gliding – they were diving, a flurry of flapping wings and sharp talons.

Percy froze, eyeing the aerial assault with a level of suspicion born from experience.

“Is this normal?” He asked Draco nervously, instinctively shifting his arm to shield his waffles. “They won’t … hurt us, right?”

Draco looked up with an arched brow, like Percy had just asked whether the ceiling was real. “Yes, this is normal. The worst they’ll do is steal your toast. What do they do at Ilvermorny? Deliver mail by enchanted cow?”

Percy didn’t answer. He was too busy tracking a particularly large owl that was circling like it had locked onto him as a target. He remembered vividly the times he had been pooped on by various birds during Athena’s many acts of passive-aggressive revenge. He kept one hand near his plate, ready to go full shield-mode if needed.

“No,” he muttered under his breath. “Not really.”

To his immense relief, the owls weren’t actually interested in waging war. One by one, they swooped down gracefully, delivering letters and packages to students across all four house tables. Percy caught glimpses of parchment and twine landing in waiting hands. Some students barely even looked up – it was just another Tuesday to them.

“How do they know who to deliver to?” Percy asked, watching an owl swoop between two kids and drop a small box with pinpoint accuracy. “I mean, there are like a hundred birds up there.”

Draco finally looked away from his sad slice of bacon. His tone was clipped, but he answered. “Isn’t it obvious, Perseus? Most families purchase owls in Diagon Alley. The birds are trained messengers – they know who they belong to. If you don’t have one, you use a school owl. Even the school ones are trained to find the right recipient.”

It wasn’t a question. Draco had clearly concluded that Percy didn’t have an owl of his own. And, well, he was right.

So. Owl mail. Neat. Totally not concerning at all that dozens of birds were flying with zero concept of personal space or hygiene. Percy did his best not to imagine feathers – or worse – landing in his syrup.

He didn’t voice any of those thoughts, though. No need to ruin everyone else’s appetite.

But just as Percy was about to cut into a syrup-drenched waffle, an envelope dropped from the air and landed right in the centre of his plate.

“Seriously?” He muttered. As Percy picked at the edge of the envelope, sticky syrup clung to the parchment like it had merged with it. He wiped the worst of it off on a napkin and opened the letter, already dreading what it might say.

His eyes scanned the familiar handwriting. It was from Chiron.

*

Percy,

I hope this reaches you in good time. Be careful who you trust at Hogwarts. Magic here runs old and deep – any imbalance could ripple far beyond this castle’s walls.

Stay alert. Blend in.

Something big is coming. I don’t yet know what, but brace yourself.

– Chiron

*

Percy read the letter twice. Then a third time. The words didn’t change, but their weight settled like stones in his chest. He exhaled sharply and leaned back on the bench, letting the letter hang loosely in his fingers.

Chiron’s last line gnawed at him.

“Something big is coming.”

His dream floated back to him – the voices pressing him to choose, the sense of being surrounded, closed in on from all sides. It had felt real. Too real. Could it be connected?

Maybe this whole quest had been a mistake. Maybe dropping four demigods into a magical castle full of unaware witches and wizards hadn’t been such a genius idea after all.

But then he reminded himself – someone had to do it. Magic was being pulled into something dark, and the people here didn’t even know they were part of the game board. Someone had to protect them.

He folded the sticky letter and tucked it into his bookbag.

“Come on,” Draco’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We need to leave for class, or we’ll be late to potions.”

Percy blinked up at him, surprised the boy hadn’t already left without him. But then he looked a little closer.

Draco stood beside the table, arms slightly tense, glancing sideways toward the Gryffindor table where several students were casting less-than-friendly glances their way. The other Slytherins had cleared out long ago. The hall was mostly empty now, save for stragglers and the teachers finishing their breakfast at the staff table.

That’s when Percy realised: Draco didn’t want to go to class alone. Whether it was for safety in numbers or some awkward attempt at friendliness, Percy wasn’t about to question it.

He stood, tugging at his slightly crooked robes and throwing the strap of his satchel over his shoulder.

“Let’s go then,” Percy said, voice light despite the letter burning a hole in his bag.

Draco hesitated for only a second before grabbing Percy’s hand and tugging him forward.

Percy felt his stomach lurch – and not in the bad way.

“We have all the same classes,” Draco said briskly, as if trying to mask the gesture in practicality. “And I’m not going to be late because of you. We’ll get points deducted from Slytherin if we’re the last ones there.”

Percy let himself be dragged, biting back a grin he didn’t fully understand. For all his stiffness, Draco’s grip was steady.

*

As it turned out, Hogwarts was even more confusing than Percy had imagined. He had dealt with literal labyrinths before – actual shifting magical mazes designed to trap and kill – but Hogwarts still somehow managed to disorient him more. Staircases moved. Portraits talked. Suits of armor occasionally heckled them. And he was pretty sure a tapestry tried to trip him at one point.

If it weren’t for Draco, Percy would have ended up somewhere between a broom cupboard and the third-floor corridor with no idea how to get out.

They did make it to the dungeon classroom in time – barely – but only after sprinting through several cold, echoing hallways. Percy’s heart was pounding by the time they pushed open the door. He and Draco slipped inside just as a tall figure swept into the room behind them.

The man wore black robes that billowed like smoke, and his long hair – just as black – hung past his shoulders. His skin was pale enough to look nearly translucent, and his expression carried the kind of disdain that made Percy instinctively want to sit up straighter and shut his mouth.

The man didn’t speak right away. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes scanning the room like he already hated everyone in it.

Then, he started walking straight toward Percy’s table.

For a brief second, Percy froze. Did he do something wrong already? But then he noticed the man’s eyes weren’t locked on him – they were locked on someone behind Percy.

He and Draco had sat down opposite Harry and Ron.

Well, crap.

Harry was giving Percy a withering look, as if Percy had personally planned this seating arrangement to offend him. Ron, for his part, just looked like he had swallowed something sour.

Snape’s gaze flickered over Percy for the briefest of moments – cold, assessing, uninterested – and then shifted to Harry again, mouth curling into a familiar-looking sneer.

The class was dead silent.

Then, in a voice that could curdle milk, Snape said, “Quit staring like a bunch of fools drugged on an awestruck potion.”

No one moved.

“Well?” Snape snapped. “Get out your copy of Magical Drafts and Potions.” Snape walked to the front of the class with his robes sweeping behind him. “Today is the only allotted day for review and free preparation. You will each select a potion – one that can be prepared and brewed in under an hour. I expect nothing less than perfection.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the class snapped into motion, scrambling for cauldrons and textbooks like their lives depended on it.

Percy pulled his own copy from his bag and cast a sideways glance at Draco.

“Does he always look like he wants to kill someone?” Percy muttered.

Draco didn’t answer. He was already flipping through the book, jaw tight with focus. Across the table, Harry still looked annoyed.

Percy sighed and flipped through his potions textbook, not so much reading as skimming the illustrations. Dense text, overly complicated instructions, and the occasional smudged diagram made it a less than thrilling read. He was about to give up when a diagram of a potion caught his eye – Willow’s Truth Serum.

Beginner level.

He leaned closer, squinting to make out the small, cramped handwriting beneath the title. The description was straightforward enough: a potion that forced the drinker to tell the truth – at least, as they understood it. The results weren’t always objective, but the concept was cool, and more importantly, it seemed doable.

Percy grabbed his quill and jotted down the ingredients list. After sliding out of his seat, Percy made his way to a nearby, unclaimed cauldron. He moved quickly, gathering ingredients from the supply cabinets at the back – aconite, valerian root, jobberknoll feathers, powdered quartz, and a few other things that looked either dangerously magical or questionably organic. He read through the instructions completely before doing anything – years of experience taught him that skipping ahead often meant disaster.

Sure enough, the instructions were meticulous. The leaves had to be sliced lengthwise, not across. The jobberknoll feathers needed to be split – half added early, half added toward the end. A few steps nearly tripped him up, but Percy took his time and followed everything to the letter.

Gradually, he found a rhythm. The bubbling liquid changed from murky to clearer with every correct addition and stir. And by the end of class, Percy stared into a cauldron of perfectly clear potion.

Which, actually, worried him.

Had he messed up? Shouldn’t it be coloured or cloudier?

He glanced around. Harry’s potion was an unappealing grayish goop. Draco’s looked like pond water gone wrong – murky and green. Ron’s was actively boiling over.

Percy, sighing, flicked his fingers subtly toward Ron’s cauldron and calmed the liquid with a ripple of magic. It was water based and easy enough to subdue.

Snape had been stalking around the room, inspecting potions with the grace of a predator hunting prey. His comments were merciless – biting, curt, and occasionally scathing. Most of the Gryffindors flinched as he passed, and only a few Slytherins got so much as a nod of approval.

When Snape reached Percy’s table, he stopped.

He gave Percy’s potion a long, unreadable look. Percy held his breath.

“The Willow’s Truth Serum,” Snape said, voice like cool stone. “Such an easy potion, Jackson – but you perfected it, nonetheless. Ten points to Slytherin.”

Percy blinked. That almost sounded like praise.

Across the table, Harry groaned audibly.

Snape’s eyes cut to him like daggers. “What is this, Potter? You have no right to complain about another’s success just because you don’t have your own.”

Harry grimaced and muttered, “It’s supposed to be the same potion – truth serum. I didn’t realise we were only supposed to stir it three times clockwise, not every –”

“To screw up such a simple potion this badly would have taken more than a few extra stirs, Potter,” Snape interrupted coldly. He leaned down and peered into Harry’s cauldron, sneering. “This is horrible. I couldn’t even tell what you were attempting to brew.”

Then, with a swish of his robes, Snape stalked off, resuming his tour of disappointment and disdain.

Harry sighed and rubbed his temples, glaring down at his ruined potion. “I’m not particularly good with potions, and with Snape, it’s even worse. At least Slughorn liked me. Snape just – he’s never going to give me a fair shot.”

“Slughorn still played favourites,” Ron reminded him half-heartedly.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “but I was one of those favourites.”

Percy turned back to his own station as Snape called the class to attention.

“For those of you with unsuccessful potions, dump them down the drain in the back. If you managed to complete yours, take a small vial. Return all unused ingredients, clean your workstation. Class dismissed.”

Roughly three-quarters of the class – mostly Gryffindors – stood up and trudged to the back sinks with their ruined concoctions.

Percy, feeling oddly proud, bottled a small sample of his crystal-clear serum and tucked it into his bag with care. No way was he wasting something that might actually be useful down the line.

He was just reaching for his textbook when the sleeve of his robe snagged on a glass jar on the edge of the table. Percy tugged it and – oops.

The jar toppled.

And landed directly into Harry’s cauldron.

Percy froze.

The mixture hissed and began to bubble violently. Percy didn’t stick around to see what happened next. He dove behind the nearest table just as Harry’s potion exploded.

Grey goop blasted into the air like an angry geyser. Harry, who had been walking toward it with a rag, took the full hit.

Snape spun around, livid.

“Potter!” He snapped. “Stay behind and clean up your mess. Granger, inform your next professor where Potter is.”

Harry stood there, dripping, arms limp at his sides, his entire front coated in gunk.

Draco let out a laugh he didn’t even try to hide. The look on his face was pure amusement – as if the explosion had made his whole day.

Percy winced sympathetically. It was kind of funny … but also, kind of awful.

“Sorry, Harry,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry didn’t answer. He just looked like he wanted to melt into the stone floor.

*

Chapter 9: surely nothing will go wrong

*

Chapter 9: Surely Nothing Will Go Wrong

If Percy was being honest with himself, his first day at Hogwarts wasn’t going quite as planned.

It was only second period, and he had already managed to cause a mini explosion in potions class, soak the famous Harry Potter in grey sludge, and earn himself a few too many suspicious glances from Gryffindors.

Not exactly a smooth start.

Second period was herbology with the Hufflepuffs, which sounded, in theory, like a nice reprieve – no cauldrons, no explosions. Just plants.

To Percy’s mild relief, it turned out today was a theory day rather than hands-on work, which meant no venomous weeds or screaming roots to accidentally set off. The class was held indoors, on the first floor of the castle, just down the corridor from the greenhouses. The room was warm and smelled faintly of soil and mint, which was already an improvement over the musty dungeon air from earlier.

Professor Pomona Sprout was waiting for them when they arrived. Percy eyed her with mild curiosity. She didn’t look much like a traditional professor – she was dressed more like she was about to spend a day elbow-deep in flower beds. Her wild, curly grey hair framed a kind, ruddy face, and she wore an apron, sturdy boots, and a mud-streaked jacket instead of standard wizarding robes.

Percy couldn’t help but wonder: did she choose Herbology because her last name was Sprout, or did her name just sort of lead her there?

It felt like a classic case of nominative determinism.

Unlike Snape’s dramatic entrance earlier, Professor Sprout started the class with a gentle smile and a thorough review of the syllabus. She walked them through the year’s expectations with all the calmness of a seasoned teacher: assignments, project topics, required readings, and which textbooks they would be using. Percy found himself relaxing as she spoke – there was something grounding about her presence.

Looking around the room, Percy noticed a mix of seventh and eighth years. He hadn’t caught that detail in potions; he had been too busy trying not to mess up his brew. Here, though, it was easier to observe. The classroom buzzed with quiet note-taking and polite curiosity.

Professor Sprout wrapped up the lesson with an assigned chapter from “Magical Medicinal Flora of the Northern Hemisphere” and instructions to meet her in the fifth greenhouse on Thursday for the first practical lesson.

“Bring your gloves and your textbooks,” she said brightly, clapping her hands together. “And please be punctual. Some of the plants bite when startled.”

As the students filed out of the classroom, Percy slung his satchel over his shoulder and followed the crowd to the Great Hall. When Percy entered the hall, the first thing he noticed was how all the students immediately began splitting off toward their respective house tables.

It was automatic, habitual. Everyone just went where they were “supposed” to go.

But Percy had never been good at doing what he was supposed to do.

With his chin held high and a confidence he didn’t quite feel, he walked right past the Slytherin table and sat down beside Harry Potter at the Gryffindor table.

That got attention. Forks paused halfway to mouths. Conversations stumbled into silence.

Harry blinked. “Um … what are you doing?”

“Sitting down to eat lunch,” Percy replied, casually reaching for a plate. “Duh.”

He began piling food onto it – thick slices of turkey on bread, some cucumbers and tomatoes on the side. As he took a bite, he mumbled to himself, “Man, these tomatoes are sweet.” He reached for a bowl of salad, eyes gleaming. After only eating half of breakfast and losing his appetite to the letter he had gotten, he was starving.

Across the table, Thalia waved down Annabeth and Nico, who were entering the hall, gesturing for them to join. Percy barely noticed as he focused on making his sandwich.

“Am I not allowed to eat here?” He asked, quirking a brow when the others kept staring at him like he had sat down in the middle of a duel.

Hermione looked appalled. “This is the Gryffindor table,” she said. Then she pointed toward the table decorated in silver and green. “That’s the Slytherin table. You’re supposed to sit with your house.”

Thalia leaned in. “Is that, like, an actual rule? Or just tradition?”

Hermione faltered. “Well … it’s just sort of how things are done …”

Percy shrugged, unbothered. “Well, we’ll be eating here today.” He grinned as Annabeth slid into the seat across from him and began delicately building her salad. Nico took the spot beside her without a word, forcing Harry and Ron to shuffle down to make space.

“Also,” Percy added between bites, “since we’re all being friendly, maybe you guys could give us a crash course on flight class? I’ve never flown before. Except on a plane. But … well, that’s a story for another day.”

Ron snorted. “Flight class is just broom riding. No one flies on their own.”

Nico chuckled under his breath, and Percy smirked, sharing a glance with Thalia. Yeah, better not go down that road. If any of the Hogwarts students found out what Thalia or Percy could actually do, the conversation would take a sharp left turn into chaos.

Percy looked down at his plate. “Still don’t get why brooms, though, of all things. Feels like we should be riding – I don’t know – literally anything else.”

That launched Harry into a full-blown explanation of quidditch, a flying sport that sounded like a chaotic mix of soccer, rugby, and competitive aerial combat. Percy could barely keep up, though he appreciated the enthusiasm. Apparently, Gryffindor had a pretty impressive track record in the school cup.

To his surprise, the rest of lunch passed without incident. The Gryffindor trio – Harry, Hermione, and Ron – were still a little guarded, but Percy could tell something was shifting. They weren’t exactly friends, but they weren’t enemies either. There was curiosity now, not just skepticism.

As Percy chewed the last bite of his sandwich, he thought about what they had told the demigods on the Hogwarts Express – that Slytherins were untrustworthy, that they weren’t to be mingled with. And now Percy was a Slytherin. He had walked into that common room, met his housemates, and found … not villains, but people. First years who were bright-eyed and nervous. Older students who were clever, sharp, maybe a little proud – but nothing like the backstabbing snakes everyone talked about.

And the stereotypes didn’t stop there.

Ravenclaws, supposedly the geniuses of the school, were under pressure to always be the smartest in the room. Hufflepuffs were seen as soft, cheerful pushovers – yet in herbology, Percy had already seen their determination and quiet leadership. And Gryffindors? They had to be the heroes, the brave ones, the reckless, the bold. They weren’t really allowed to be anything else.

None of it was fair. None of it was true.

So, when lunch ended and it was time for defence against the dark arts, Percy made sure to walk with the Gryffindors. Not just beside them, but with them. He cracked jokes, asked questions, offered smiles to the students who gave him odd looks. If they stared, he started conversations. He wasn’t going to let the houses stay divided – not when the world was bigger, more dangerous, and complicated than that.

The first step of their quest at Hogwarts, he figured, wasn’t slaying monsters or unraveling mysteries.

It was breaking the stereotypes.

*

By the time third period rolled around, Percy was starting to feel the drag of the day. He reached room 1125 – defence against the Dark Arts – located in the first hallway of the first floor. The classroom had wooden booths arranged in rows, each able to seat three students. Percy glanced around, hoping to sit with Harry, Hermione, and Ron, but their booth was already full. No surprise there.

With no other choice, Percy slid into the only open seat left – next to Draco Malfoy.

The reaction was immediate and uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the Gryffindors who took notice. Even some of the Slytherins gave Percy a wide berth, like he was some contagious disease. He could feel their glances – judgmental, uncertain, maybe even a little disgusted. And Draco? He was sitting alone before Percy had joined, shoulders stiff, jaw set. Percy didn’t get it. The guy had been perfectly decent to him so far. Arrogant, sure – but no worse than plenty of demigods back at Camp Half-Blood.

It was really starting to irritate Percy. What was with the silent treatment? Could they seriously not suck it up and just be tolerable for once?

Before he could dwell on it, movement at the front of the classroom caught his eye.

There, beside the blackboard, was a closed wooden door – probably the professor’s office, like in potions.

A moment later, the door swung open, and a centaur stepped into the room.

From the waist up, the figure looked like a middle-aged man – thick brown hair, bushy eyebrows, sharp eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. But from the waist down, he was pure stallion – white fur dappled with grey spots, sturdy hooves thudding softly against the floorboards.

What stood out most wasn’t the centaur’s presence, but the thin shimmer of Mist that clung to him. It blurred his features just enough that Percy knew: this wasn’t just any centaur.

It was Chiron.

The centaur – his mentor, his old Latin teacher, the camp trainer of heroes – trotted to the front of the classroom. The wooden floor creaked beneath his weight. Gasps and whispers rippled through the students.

Percy scanned the room. Most of the witches and wizards seemed stunned, but not terrified. Which meant they at least knew what centaurs were. If they didn’t, Percy imagined the reaction would have been quite different.

“He’s just like Firenze!” Ron whisper-shouted to his friends. Percy had no clue who Firenze was, but he figured he would find out eventually.

Then Chiron’s voice boomed, cutting through the noise with ease.

“Greetings, students,” he said. “You may call me Professor Brunner, and I will be teaching this year’s defence against the Dark Arts course.”

Percy suppressed a smirk. Professor Brunner. Chiron’s old alias from Yancy Academy. It felt surreal hearing it here, in a room full of wizards.

“I was made aware that this school has had … difficulties with instructors in this position,” Chiron continued.

At that, Hermione snorted quietly. Percy shot her a confused look. What was that about?

But Chiron didn’t pause. “This year, we will be doing things a bit differently.”

The class shifted in their seats, a wave of curiosity and tension rising.

“This course will be divided into three sectors: textbook work, spells and magic, and physical safety.”

That got their attention. The whispering returned, more animated this time.

“I was informed – very thoroughly – of the deficiencies in this subject’s past instruction,” Chiron said, his tone tightening ever so slightly. “But make no mistake: self-protection is more than a wand flick or a counter-curse. It's more than memorising ingredients for a potion. It’s about being informed. Prepared. Adaptable.”

Percy watched as Chiron’s voice began to reshape the energy in the room.

“Many witches and wizards are injured – or worse – because they can’t get to their wand in time,” Chiron went on. “This class will teach you how to handle yourself when that happens. You’ll learn how to react when disarmed. How to dodge. How to disarm your opponent without relying on magic. You will study the roots of magical combat so that you may understand – not just repeat – what you’re taught.”

The class fell quiet. Even the skeptics were listening now.

Hermione’s arms were crossed, her brow furrowed – but the respect in her eyes was clear.

Once the syllabus had been handed out, it became clear that this class wasn’t going to be one of those sit-back-and-take-notes kind of deals. Chiron – Professor Brunner now – made it clear from the start: they would be learning by doing.

His first assignment? A review of simple retaliation spells from previous years.

“I want to start simple,” Chiron said. “We’ll build from there, but I need to know where you all stand.”

It wasn’t just flipping through a textbook or reciting incantations from memory. They were expected to cast them – on each other.

Percy found himself still partnered with Draco, which he didn’t mind. At least the guy took it seriously.

Draco stepped back a pace, lifted his wand with practiced flair, and pronounced: “Expelliarmus!”

The red bolt of light blasted from Draco’s wand, fast and bright.

Percy’s instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up. He almost ducked, almost rolled to the side like he would facing a drakon or empousa – but this wasn’t a monster, and it wasn’t a war. It was class. Magic class.

He straightened up, lifted his wand, and let the word come without hesitation. “Protego!”

Energy surged up his arm like water hitting a dam. The air shimmered around him – and then, like a flash of sunlight on a blade, the shield flared to life. Draco’s spell ricocheted off with a snap, arcing right back toward him.

Draco’s eyes went wide. He barely raised his own shield in time. The force of the rebound knocked him backward a step. His wand hand faltered. He recovered quickly, but his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“That was … pretty good,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere near Percy’s shoes. “Let’s move on.”

The rest of the lesson followed the same format: pick a spell, test it, and study its roots. There was a rhythm to it – search, cast, reflect. And surprisingly, Draco turned out to be sharp when it came to spell work. He disarmed Percy more than once, swift and precise, clearly experienced with magical duelling.

But Percy held his own. His strength came from movement – quick dodges, solid shield charms, and improvising when things didn’t go to plan. The real challenge was memorising spells long enough to speak them with intent.

The more they worked, the more Percy noticed something shifting. Draco looked at him with a mix of respect and resentment, like he couldn’t decide whether he admired Percy’s skill or wanted to hex him for it.

Chiron called time near the end of the period, his voice rising over the low hum of duelling students.

“Next class,” he said, “we’ll begin integrating physical defense. No magic.”

There were groans and cheers scattered across the room. Percy smirked. Now that’s more my speed.

As they packed up, Draco didn’t hesitate to join him, walking side by side toward their final class of the day. Percy offered him a small smile. No words were exchanged, but the gesture seemed to settle something unspoken between them.

*

By the time Percy reached the open field for flight class, he was already feeling queasy.

It wasn’t just nerves – it was broom-related dread. After defence against the Dark Arts, Draco had kindly explained to him, in detail, what to expect. Flying, obviously. Lots of it. More than Percy was comfortable with. And not in a chariot pulled by pegasi or on a huge floating battleship – no, this was broomstick flying. Like balancing on a glorified twig dozens of feet above the ground.

Percy had enough trouble with stable land transportation.

He stared out at the practice field, which stretched wide in front of the quidditch arena near the north tower. A flat, grassy field ran all the way to the glimmering lake. It was the perfect place to crash and burn.

The students had already lined up – Gryffindors on one side, Slytherins on the other, facing off like it was a battlefield instead of a flying lesson. Percy stood awkwardly beside Draco, trying not to look as stiff as he felt. Most of the others looked relaxed – excited, even.

Their instructor, Madam Hooch, paced between the two lines like a stern referee. She had short, spiky grey hair, light yellow-brown eyes that scanned the students with unsettling focus, and a posture that made her look like she would sooner shout orders than offer praise.

Percy watched her carefully. She was definitely the kind of teacher who expected results – not fluff or hand-holding.

She moved down the line, giving clipped commentary as she passed each student. “Thomas, shoulders straight. Davis, elbows in.” Then, to Harry: “Potter, I expect to see you on the pitch this year.”

Harry didn’t even blink. He just nodded, but Percy could see the flicker of pride behind his expression.

When Madam Hooch reached Thalia and Percy, who were standing directly across from each other, she paused. Her sharp eyes narrowed slightly.

“Ah. The transfer students,” she said, then hummed. “One in each house … yes, interesting. But you both seem just fine. Good build for balance. Let’s see if that holds.”

Percy shot a look toward Draco, raising a brow. Draco simply shrugged, as if to say: you get used to it.

Madam Hooch stopped pacing and turned to address the group. “All right. Most of you have flown before – I know this. Normally, this class is reserved for first years, but it’s been made compulsory for all grades this year. If you want to know why, read the ministry bulletin. I’m not here to argue policy.”

A few students shifted uncomfortably.

“But we’re not starting with flying,” she said. “We’re starting with levitation only. You’ll focus on keeping your broom steady and balanced at hover-height. That means static control, vertical movement, and posture. Now – place your dominant hand over your broom and say, Up!”

The command was echoed immediately across the field.

“Up!” Came dozens of voices – some confident, some desperate.

Draco’s broom jumped into his hand without hesitation, because of course it did. Percy glanced around – Harry had his, too, as did Ron, Hermione, and most of the rest. A few stragglers were still coaxing their brooms to obey.

Then he heard Thalia from across the way.

“Come on, Percy,” she called with a wicked grin. “You won’t die.” She paused, then added, still grinning, “Probably.”

Percy gave her a flat look. “Gee, thanks. So, reassuring.”

Still, he placed his hand over the broom like she had said. He swallowed.

“Up!” He commanded.

To his complete shock, the broom snapped into his hand like it had been waiting for him.

He barely caught it in time.

It felt solid. Familiar, even – like a sword hilt. Natural. That wasn’t what he had expected. Not at all.

With the broom in her hand, Thalia suddenly looked a little paler than usual.

The mischievous glint she usually carried had dimmed, replaced by a white-knuckled grip on her broomstick and frequent, uneasy glances at the open sky. Percy, standing just across from her, tilted his head slightly. That was odd. She was the daughter of Zeus, king of the sky. Flying should have been her thing.

And then it clicked.

She was scared of heights.

It didn’t matter who her father was. That fear still clung to her. Percy felt a pang of sympathy. He had his own fears, too – not of flying, exactly, but of divine consequences. After all, if Zeus still held a grudge – and he probably did – then Percy had no business soaring around in his domain.

Madam Hooch’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

“Alright!” She barked. “Get onto your brooms and squeeze the wood between your thighs to get a good grip on it. No, boys, do not laugh – those of you who do will be the first to fall.”

A few Gryffindors immediately shut up.

“Hands on the end of the broom, bristles behind you. Sit tall and centred!”

Percy followed the instructions, awkwardly mimicking the others. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t the only one getting into position with zero confidence. Thalia looked just as tense, shoulders tight and jaw clenched.

Madam Hooch paced once more between the rows. “You are all going to levitate. I repeat: LEV-IH-TATE. No games. No racing. And I swear, if any of you think you’re auditioning for the Quidditch World Cup today …” She threw a pointed look at both Harry and Draco, who tried to look innocent. “… you’ll be benched.”

Then, just like that, she shouted, “Begin!”

Percy blinked. Wait. That’s it?

No wand-waving, no spells?

Around him, brooms began to rise – smoothly and confidently. Gryffindors were already floating a few feet off the ground. The Slytherins followed, less showy but just as skilled.

Thalia looked at him, eyes wide. Percy shrugged helplessly. Maybe the brooms were enchanted? They had to be.

Still, standing around wasn’t doing him any favours, so he took a breath, tightened his grip on the broom, and concentrated. He tried to think of it like bending water – directing it with intent. Maybe the same kind of internal force would work here.

He imagined himself lifting off the ground and told the broom to rise.

And then it did.

Without warning, he shot up about five feet into the air. Percy barely suppressed a yelp as the ground fell away, and then –

He grinned.

It felt good. Balanced. Free. No lightning bolts came from the clouds, no divine smiting. Just the wind in his hair and the thrill of floating. The broom was sensitive to his movements, wobbling slightly when he shifted, but he quickly found that crossing his ankles under the stick gave him better control.

Below, Thalia still hovered only a foot or two off the ground. She was talking quietly to a Gryffindor boy – Neville, Percy thought. They were practicing turns together, clearly avoiding anything resembling actual flight.

Percy got it. He respected it.

He, on the other hand, was enjoying himself far more than he expected.

Madam Hooch eventually rose up into the air with them, her broom stable. “Now – try flying in a straight line. No chasing. No spinning. No collisions. Keep a safe distance and stay aware of your surroundings!”

Her eyes swept over the group and locked briefly on Draco and Harry, clearly issuing a silent warning.

Percy adjusted his grip and leaned forward slightly. The broom responded, lifting him a bit higher.

Beside him, Draco was already gliding through the air with practiced ease. He looked down at Percy with a smirk and arched an eyebrow, then circled around him smoothly.

Show-off.

Percy tried to follow, but he jerked too far to the left, overcorrected, and dipped. Not graceful. Draco chuckled and looped away.

Most of the other students had clearly done this a hundred times. They zipped back and forth, sharpening their turns, adjusting their speed. Percy could tell this wasn’t new to any of them – this was just a tune-up.

For Percy and Thalia, though, it was new. This was their first real taste of broom flight. And despite the nerves, it was kind of … fun.

“Come on, Thalia!” He called out, rising higher. “It’s not that bad!”

Thalia sent him a withering look, clearly annoyed – and clearly not going higher than five feet off the ground.

Fair enough.

Still, Percy continued rising, ignoring the slight tension in his stomach as the field shrank below. He didn’t feel like he was going to die. In fact, for once, he felt pretty good about a new experience in the wizarding world.

But, of course, he was Percy Jackson. And good luck never lasted long.

And sure enough – just when he hit his stride – something shifted in the air.

At first, it was harmless.

Percy and Draco had started a game of tag, totally unofficial, completely pointless, and surprisingly fun. Madam Hooch hadn’t stopped them – in fact, she was giving the occasional pointer while keeping a watchful eye on the class. As long as no one was crashing into castle walls or divebombing classmates, she seemed content to let the students explore at their own pace.

Draco had just smacked Percy lightly on the shoulder and shot off with a smug “You’re it!” before speeding away.

Percy groaned and gave chase, pushing his broom into a higher gear. Unfortunately, Draco had darted into the more congested part of the field, where students hovered lazily in clumps, chatting about quidditch teams and which first years had made what house. It was an aerial hallway of casual flyers, and now Percy had to thread the needle.

“Figures,” he muttered, swerving slightly to avoid a Slytherin who wasn’t watching where they floated.

He had to slow down quite a bit – his broom wobbled under the effort of all the maneuvering – but his patience was rewarded. There, near the edge of the group, was Draco. Percy narrowed his eyes and grinned.

Got you now.

He angled his broom to close the gap, weaving between two floating Gryffindors. He stayed low, letting the other students act like cover.

But then he noticed the tension.

Something was wrong.

Draco wasn’t just hovering – he was surrounded. A group of Gryffindors had boxed him in mid-air, voices rising, faces flushed with anger. Percy couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t take a genius to see they weren’t friendly. The Slytherins nearby just watched, saying nothing.

Draco looked cornered. He glanced around, scowled, then tried to slip away.

Percy leaned forward reflexively to see what was happening – and that was his mistake. His broom surged ahead, and by the time he realised he was barreling toward the group, it was too late.

“Oh, shit –”

He tried to pull back, hands scrambling like he was pedaling a bike, but gravity and momentum didn’t care. The group gasped and shifted as he burst through their airspace like a human cannonball.

Something flickered at the edge of Percy’s vision. Instinct took over.

He let go of the broom with one hand and reached out. His stomach lurched. He had no idea what was flying at him, but it was fast – and it was aimed at his head.

His fingers closed around something solid. His broom jerked as he fought to steady himself, grabbing the handle again with his left hand.

He looked down. It was a rock. A fist-sized rock.

Someone had thrown it at him.

“Mr. Jackson!” Madam Hooch’s shrill voice sliced through the stunned silence. Percy winced. “Are you all right?”

“Uh …” He blinked. “I think so? Just … went a little too fast.”

Everyone was staring. A few mutters rippled through the Gryffindors.

Madam Hooch shot forward like a hawk, robes billowing as she hovered in the centre of the group. Her expression had gone from mildly annoyed to absolutely livid.

“Who threw it?” She barked. “Who threw the rock?”

No one answered.

“I gave explicit instructions. No games, no chasing, and no throwing projectiles. Someone could have been seriously injured!”

Still, no one spoke up. Percy scanned the faces in the air. He couldn’t tell who it had been. No one looked especially guilty – but a few Gryffindors weren’t making eye contact.

Madam Hooch let the silence drag before clapping her hands once, sharp and final. “Everyone, down! Now! Brooms in the shed, and not a word until they’re stored properly.”

The class drifted back toward the ground. The groups split naturally – Slytherins muttering among themselves in small, tight-knit circles, while Gryffindors laughed and buzzed with quiet commentary. Percy overheard enough to catch the gist: the rock had been meant for Draco.

He tightened his grip on the rock. Anger prickled just under his skin.

Who throws a rock at someone? What kind of coward …

By the time he locked his broom into the storage racks, Percy barely had time to breathe before Madam Hooch called out, “Jackson. Malfoy. Stay behind.”

A chorus of chuckles followed from the Gryffindor crowd as they trudged off toward the Great Hall for dinner.

Percy and Draco stood awkwardly near the shed while Madam Hooch approached, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable.

“I suppose neither of you know who threw the stone?” She asked.

“No,” Percy said. He glanced at Draco, who stayed quiet, eyes fixed on a patch of grass.

Madam Hooch exhaled sharply. “Pity.” Her voice softened slightly as she turned back to Percy. “Regardless, I did see what happened out there. That flying display – reckless, yes – but the way you handled your broom? Impressive. That catch, in particular – absolutely brilliant.”

Percy blinked. “Oh. Uh … thanks?”

She turned her gaze on Draco. “And you, Mr. Malfoy – you’ve got precision, control. You’ve clearly flown for years.”

Draco gave a half-hearted shrug. “So? Why does it matter?”

Madam Hooch raised a brow. “Because it means I expect the both of you to apply yourselves. There’s raw talent between you – and talent like that shouldn’t be wasted.”

She let the silence settle before adding, “Slytherin is looking for a new keeper.”

Both boys looked up.

“I expect to see you both at tryouts,” she said firmly. “Dismissed.”

*

Chapter 10: where's percy?

*

Chapter 10: Where’s Percy?

The Hogwarts Library was huge.

Like, Daedalus’ Labyrinth huge, but with less minotaurs and more shelves.

Books towered in massive mahogany stacks that stretched toward the enchanted ceiling, where golden light filtered down through high, arched windows. Floating candles bobbed lazily above reading tables, shedding a soft amber glow over parchment, ink, and yawning students. Somewhere in the distance, a quill scratched furiously, and a large, winged book flapped angrily at a first year who had tried to open it too fast.

Percy sat at a long oak table beside Annabeth, Nico, and Thalia. Books were stacked high like castle ramparts between them. Thalia had already built a little paper-ball catapult out of a broken quill and two rubber bands.

“I’m going to die,” Percy said dramatically, scribbling something that vaguely resembled a potion diagram. “This is how it ends. Exploded in potions class because I forgot the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane.”

“They’re the same plant, Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth replied without looking up. “And you already wrote that yesterday.”

“Oh. So, I’m doing better than I thought.”

Annabeth snorted. She looked up from her book. “Based on your track record, you’re actually doing fine. You haven’t blown up the school yet, and I bet most wizards can’t explain the twenty-one magical properties of sea kelp.”

“That’s only because of my parentage,” Percy mumbled.

Across the table, Nico was hunched over his herbology notes, absently doodling skeletal trees in the margins of his parchment. Thalia was pretending to study but mostly trying to balance her chair on two legs.

The atmosphere was warm. The fire crackled in the hearth nearby. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunbeams. Even the Restricted Section – sealed off with iron gates and ominous runes – felt less threatening today.

Percy glanced down at his to-do list, scrawled in Annabeth’s precise handwriting:

• Ancient Runes: directly translate the given text from Latin into English, with explanations for certain words choices and translations.
• Care of Magical Creatures: write two paragraphs about one of the three presented creatures in class, describing their physical features and evolution.
• DADA: write three paragraphs on magical wards and shielding spells used during duels.
• Herbology: draw diagrams and label five magical plants native to the Forbidden Forest.
• Magical History: write four paragraphs of how magical folk immigrated to the Americas in the nineteenth century, and the reason behind the immigration.
• Potions: identify properties of wolfsbane in relation to full-moon potion brewing.
• Transfiguration: write three paragraphs about animagus transformations and how the process is started.

He had finished half of the history assignment already. His ancient runes, defence against the Dark Arts, care of magical creatures, herbology, and transfiguration homework was done. And he was almost done his potions homework. But as he wrote about potions and everything that could go wrong with using wolfsbane incorrectly, he frowned down at his paper.

“Why does every class involve something that can poison me, eat me, or light me on fire?” Percy asked.

“Welcome to British education,” Thalia said with a grin.

From a nearby table, Madam Pince shot them all a withering death glare.

“Silence in the library,” she hissed.

Percy held up his hands. “All right, all right. We’ll be good.”

For a moment, everyone returned to quiet – the sound of parchment rustling, quills scratching, the soft clink of ink wells being moved around.

And Percy let himself enjoy it.

Not just the books, or the learning – gods knew he was still getting used to that – but the normalcy of it. The way his friends leaned toward one another, muttering quietly. The comfort of being in a place where no monsters were crashing through the walls. Where nobody was trying to kill him.

Not yet, anyway.

Just for now … it was warm. And safe. And good.

*

When all was said and done, and Percy had packed away the rest of his homework, he grinned.

“Wow,” he breathed. He rubbed at his eyes. “I think that’s the first time I have ever finished my homework on time.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Nico asked.

“Sadly, I don’t think that he’s kidding,” Annabeth said.

“Hey, schoolwork isn’t important when your first goal is just trying not to get kicked out of the school,” Percy defended. He remembered his history with the public – and private – school systems. “Besides, I had a slight disadvantage with the whole ‘I’m a demigod’ thing.”

“Oh, sure,” Nico said. “Excuses, excuses.”

“Whatever …” Percy rolled his eyes at Nico. “I’ll be hitting my bed early.”

“If you’re going to bed, at least take everything with you.” Annabeth put down the textbook she had been reading – her defence against the Dark Arts one – and started to pile all Percy’s papers that she had taken to proof-read. She slipped them into his bag and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodnight.”

Percy smiled and kissed her back. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she said.

*

The corridors of the Slytherin dorms were dim, lit by green-tinged sconces that flickered with enchanted flame.

Percy padded softly down the hall. He passed the first years’ hallway, where the dorm doors were smaller, rounded at the top like tunnels – cozy little caves carved into the stone.

And that’s when he heard it.

Crying.

Small, muffled sobs, the kind that weren’t meant to be heard.

He slowed. His hand hovered near the wall.

Behind one of the half-closed doors, he heard a gentle voice – older, confident, kind in a clipped sort of way.

“You’re not evil, James. You’re just in Slytherin.”

James Zachary. Percy remembered the kid from the Sorting Ceremony – wide brown eyes, soft brown hair, nervous as anything on the first day, but eager. He had asked a million and one questions as the first years were escorted to the castle by Hagrid. He had laughed with a large group of friends before the Sorting.

Apparently not anymore.

“But they were my friends,” James sniffled. “They said I’d turn out bad. That I’d hex them in their sleep. I wouldn’t! I don’t want to be like … like him …”

A pause. Percy didn’t need to ask who “him” was.

“Then they were never your real friends,” said the other voice: Keira Gullscream, the Slytherin Head Girl. Her tone wasn’t cold, exactly – just … resigned. Like someone who’d had this same conversation too many times before. “People judge us before they know us. They think ambition is evil. That being cunning means you’ll betray them. But they don’t know what we really are.”

“What are we?”

“Survivors,” Keira said softly. “We look out for our own. That’s what matters.”

James sobbed again, quieter this time.

Percy’s heart twisted.

He didn’t know Keira well. She was elegant, distant, the kind of girl who always seemed to glide rather than walk. But she wasn’t wrong – not entirely. People did fear Slytherin. Some of them had good reasons. Others just followed the rumours.

Percy stepped back from the doorway, his footsteps silent against the stone floor.

He didn’t want to intrude.

He didn’t want James to know he had been overheard.

But he couldn’t un-hear it. The quiet hurt of a kid who just wanted to belong. The way Keira’s words wrapped around him like armour – necessary, maybe, but heavy all the same.

Back in his dorm, Percy sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the faint glow of the underwater lake that shimmered through the large window.

Percy hadn’t thought about what it really meant to be Sorted.

When he had taken on this quest and learned about school houses, he had thought it was not dissimilar to the cabins at Camp Half-Blood – but instead of being determined by family, it was determined by your values. Except, Percy was learning, they really were similar – in the way others would cast you out if you were in the wrong cabin (Hades, Poseidon), or in the wrong house (Slytherin).

He remembered what Harry, Hermione, and Ron had told him about Slytherin. He recalled the warnings given.

It was all wrong.

Slytherins weren’t evil. Little boys crying because their friends were abandoning them weren’t evil. And Head Girls who had to comfort more than one first year about the morality of being in Slytherin weren’t evil.

Percy didn’t mean to be sorted into Slytherin. He had been prepared to be put in Gryffindor with Harry. But now, more than ever, he realised how much being here meant. How much it could hurt. And how much the world still didn’t understand what it was really like inside the green and silver walls.

He lay back against his pillow, staring up at the stone ceiling.

The silence was deeper now.

And a little colder.

He closed his eyes.

*

Draco Malfoy did not care for chaos.

He liked order. Precision. Neatly tied shoelaces, alphabetised potion ingredients, essays turned in on time and above standard. He liked knowing what to expect. Who to avoid. Where not to be seen.

Which was precisely why Perseus Jackson annoyed him so much.

Perseus was unpredictable. He wore his robes improperly and his hair looked like it had never had a brush pulled through it. He smiled too easily. He talked to ghosts like they were old friends. He partnered with Draco in potions class without being told to – and without sneering or sighing or acting like it was a punishment. He truly acted like he had no idea what the Malfoy name had done.

And then he did the worst possible thing a person could do.

He was kind to Draco.

Perseus saved him a seat at lunch.

He offered him half a chocolate frog once in the Great Hall like they were in the third year, not in the aftershocks of a world-wide wizarding war.

He grinned when Draco entered the common room some days. Not with mockery. Not with smugness. Just … with warmth.

Draco didn’t know what to do with warmth.

And now, that warmth was gone.

The dormitory was quiet when Draco returned – too quiet. Perseus’ bed looked made half-heartedly, like the covers had been thrown over without a care. His trunk was there. His wand rested on the nightstand. But no Perseus.

That was … strange.

He had left the library early. Draco had seen him packing up, the way he waved lazily over his shoulder to his real friends, balancing his books in one hand, muttering something about finally finishing the potions homework.

But he hadn’t come back.

It was almost curfew.

Which was fine. Draco didn’t care. He didn’t need to care.

And yet, he was already halfway down the hallway before he could talk himself out of it.

His robe flared behind him as he moved through the quiet dungeon halls. He didn’t bother with a Lumos Spell – his eyes were sharp enough. Besides, he knew where she would be.

When he found Annabeth Chase, she was still in the library, alone, quill in hand, parchment spread out like she was drafting blueprints. She barely looked up when he stepped inside.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

Her voice was cold, like ice behind glass.

Draco hated the way it sliced. Not because it hurt – but because he knew Perseus would never talk to someone like that, especially not her. They were together in a way that mattered.

He swallowed whatever pride wanted to rise in his throat.

“Do you know where he is?” He asked.

“Who?”

“Perseus.”

The name landed like a coin on stone.

Annabeth finally looked at him – her grey eyes unreadable, calculating.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Draco lied quickly. “But he’s not in the dorms. He left the library hours ago. It’s nearly curfew.”

Annabeth’s brow furrowed slightly, but it passed too quickly. She returned to her parchment.

“He probably went for a walk,” she said flatly. “He does that. Not my responsibility.”

“He doesn’t miss curfew,” Draco said, more sharply than he intended. “He’s too – too annoyingly decent for that. He says goodnight to the house ghosts. He folds his socks. He –”

He stopped himself.

Annabeth set her quill down slowly.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she said. “If you’re so concerned, check the astronomy tower.”

But she didn’t rise. Didn’t panic. Didn’t even pretend to care.

Draco took a step back, his jaw tight.

“Right,” he muttered. “My mistake. Sorry for interrupting your … sketching.”

He turned, the door creaking slightly as he left her behind in that cold, stone room.

*

The Gryffindor common room was unusually quiet for a place known for late-night chaos. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows over well-worn chairs and old house banners. Harry, Hermione, and Ron sat huddled at their usual corner table. Ron had just finished a game of Wizard’s Chess against himself, and Hermione was buried in a stack of books – again.

Harry was mid-sentence, talking about quidditch tactics, when the portrait hole slammed open so hard that it knocked the Fat Lady’s picture frame sideways.

Thalia Grace stood in the doorway, eyes like a brewing thunderstorm.

“We need to talk,” she said. Not asked; it was declared.

The room stilled.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, frowning but already closing her book.

Thalia stepped inside.

“You three,” she said, pointing directly at them. “You’re the ones who always show up when something weird happens, right? Back in your first year – troll in the dungeon. Second year – basilisk. Third – dementors. You’ve got a bit of a reputation.”

“Er, yeah, I guess?” Harry said slowly, confused. “Why?”

“Then you’re going to help me,” Thalia said, arms crossed. “Percy’s gone missing.”

That got them all standing.

“Wait – Percy?” Harry blinked. “Jackson?”

“No, Percy Blofis – yes, that Percy!” Thalia snapped. “He didn’t come back to the Slytherin dorms tonight. He left the library hours ago. No one’s seen him since.”

“Maybe he got lost?” Ron offered. “The castle does move around a bit, especially on Thursdays –”

“You think he’d get lost?” Thalia said sharply, stepping closer. “Percy Jackson? He doesn’t get lost. Not unless something’s wrong.”

Hermione frowned, concern now dawning on her face.

“Are you sure he’s not just … with someone? Exploring? Maybe the astronomy tower –”

“If he was, I wouldn’t be here.” Thalia’s eyes narrowed and her voice lowered. “Annabeth told me. Someone from his dorm noticed he was missing. He’s just – gone.”

Harry looked at Ron. Then at Hermione. The shift between them was nearly imperceptible – years of unspoken communication.

Percy may have been a Slytherin, but it was clear that he mattered to Thalia.

“Okay,” Harry said. “We’ll help.”

Thalia blinked, like she wasn’t expecting them to agree so quickly.

“Seriously?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Ron shrugged. “I mean, we’ve gone out after curfew for worse reasons.”

“And it’s not like the professors ever tell us anything until it’s too late,” Hermione added, already pulling her wand from her sleeve.

“Where should we start?” Harry asked, walking around the couch and grabbing his invisibility cloak.

“We’re going to meet with the others in the dungeons,” Thaila said. “Come on. Time to go find my idiot cousin.”

*

As Harry and the others hurried to follow Thalia down the stairs, Harry started to think. From the beginning, he had been suspicious of the four transfer students. To tell the truth, they were just a little too strange for his taste – and that was saying something. And now one of them had gone missing – and he was a Slytherin.

It felt like they weren’t being told the whole story. There were too many unknowns.

Harry glanced at his watch and was slightly worried to see that it was almost nine o’clock. Eleven was their curfew since they were in eighth year. If they didn’t find Percy by curfew, they would need to wait until the next day to avoid being caught or getting house points deducted. It had never stopped them before, but this year needed to be different. Harry doubted that Thalia would be very happy.

After a few minutes, they entered the dungeons.

The sconces lining the dungeon corridor hissed softly, their flames casting long shadows along the damp stone walls. The deeper they went, the more the castle seemed to hold its breath. Thalia led the group at a brisk pace, her boots echoing in steady rhythm.

Behind her, Harry quickened his stride to keep up, brushing past a suit of armour that groaned slightly as it settled. He leaned closer to Ron as they followed the curve of the hallway.

“Hey,” Harry whispered. “That tattoo Percy has – on his arm. Did you ever get a good look at it?”

Ron blinked. “What? The one with the trident and the Roman numbers?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “He said he got it at some camp. But … I don’t know. It didn’t look like a normal camp thing.” He paused. “You think it could be from some kind of … I don’t know, cult?”

Ron nearly tripped over a loose stone.

“A cult, Harry?”

“Well, you said it yourself – this year’s been quiet. A little too quiet. Then these transfer students show up, and Percy’s suddenly vanishing in the middle of the night. That tattoo – it almost looked like a brand.”

Ron shook his head. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” Ron said, more firmly now. “Look – Percy’s a bit odd, sure, but not in a ‘worships-the-moon-and-sacrifices-goats’ kind of way. He’s just American. They all have weird camp stories.”

Harry frowned but didn’t argue further.

“Look,” Ron continued, lowering his voice as Thalia took a corner ahead of them, “we already have enough to deal with this year – NEWTs, McGonagall cracking down on late assignments, and Merlin knows Hermione will drag us into SPEW again.”

“I heard that,” Hermione muttered from behind them.

Ron sighed. “All I’m saying is, Percy’s probably just off having a moody walk. Maybe he got stuck in a trick stair. He’ll be back by breakfast.”

“Unless he doesn’t make it back at all,” Harry murmured under his breath.

Before Ron could respond, Thalia stopped.

They had reached a spot in the dungeon corridors where there was nothing but enchanted sconces lining the walls. Thalia looked around. “She said she would be waiting for us.” She knocked on the stone wall a couple times. She kicked the wall. “Hey, Annie, let us in!”

Further down the hall, Annabeth and Nico appeared. Nico was wearing a yellow and black necktie, his white shirt untucked, with jeans. Annabeth wore a similar get-up, but instead of a necktie she had a blue and bronze pin on her shirt. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, and almost as curly as Hermione’s. Harry bristled at the sharp look in Annabeth’s eyes, and the way both had their wands out like unsheathed weapons.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “I can see why you were a Gryffindor.”

“Whatever,” Thalia said. “What’s our plan of action?”

“First, we need to get into Slytherin house.”

“None of us are in Slytherin,” Thalia hissed, “How do we get into the Slytherin house?”

“Like this,” said a smooth voice.

All six of them whirled around to face the newcomer.

Where there was previously a bare stone wall, was now an opening, leading into a large room lit up with green light. And standing in that opening was a tall, thin Slytherin boy, with hair so blond it was almost white. His clothes were immaculate, with no wrinkles, a green and silver necktie, and billowing robes.

It was Draco Malfoy.

“Well?” He said, when no one made a move. “What are you waiting for? We need to find Perseus.”

“And why do you care?” Harry sneered.

Malfoy sneered right back. “Because he’s my dormmate, Potter. And I’d rather not need to find a new potions partner.”

*

The greenish torchlight flickered against the stone walls as the secret door to the Slytherin common room creaked open.

Draco led them inside, arms crossed, his face guarded. He didn’t say anything as Annabeth led the others through the threshold. Behind her came Nico, Thalia, Harry, Ron, and Hermione – all wide-eyed and slightly uneasy beneath the low, arched ceilings.

The Slytherin common room was colder than the others, dimmer too, like it had always kept secrets. The lake cast eerie ripples of green light through the tall windows. The room, usually buzzing with quiet murmurs and late-night chatter, was still as a tomb.

The silence stretched.

Then Harry spoke.

“Does anyone actually know where Percy is?”

His voice wasn’t accusatory – just honest. But the moment the words left his mouth, Thalia rounded on him.

“Do you think I’d drag you all the way down here if we knew?”

Her voice cracked like lightning. Harry stiffened.

Annabeth immediately stepped in, placing a steadying hand on Thalia’s arm.

“Thalia – don’t.”

Thalia clenched her jaw, but backed down with a sharp exhale, retreating to a darkened corner beside Nico, who looked as if he would rather disappear into the shadows than stay in this room a second longer.

Annabeth turned to the others, speaking with a calm clarity that reminded Harry strangely of Hermione when she took charge of study groups.

“Percy’s … gone missing before,” she said carefully, choosing her words with practiced caution. “It’s not common, but it happens. And when it does, it’s never good.” Her eyes flicked to Harry. “That’s why we’re worried. We’ve seen him vanish like this before. It’s not like him to just … walk away without telling someone.”

Hermione frowned. “Do you think something took him?”

Annabeth hesitated. “I don’t know. But I do know we won’t get anywhere if we’re at each other’s throats.” She turned, leveling a look at Thalia. “Starting fights won’t bring him back.”

Thalia scowled but said nothing.

“We need a plan,” Annabeth continued. “We cover ground, search the castle and the grounds, and regroup before sunrise.”

Draco shifted, his arms uncrossing.

“We should check the Forbidden Forest.”

Everyone turned to him.

Before Annabeth could respond, Harry scoffed.

“Of course you’d say that. Trying to get us detention, Malfoy? Or are you hoping we’ll get eaten by something while you wait in here?”

Draco’s eyes flashed. “I’m not the one who let the Dark Lord possess me in fifth year, Potter.”

“What did you just –”

“Enough!” Annabeth snapped, silencing both with one sharp look. “We’re wasting time.”

Draco folded his arms again, jaw tight, clearly swallowing whatever insult was burning on his tongue.

“We’ll split up,” Annabeth said, stepping into the centre of the group. “Harry, Ron – you take the north tower and surrounding corridors. Hermione and I will check the upper classrooms and charms wing. Thalia, you and Nico take the dungeons.” She paused, then turned to Draco, her expression unreadable. “Malfoy, stay here. If Percy comes back, someone needs to be here to see it.”

Her tone left no room for argument. But the way she said his name – not “Draco,” not “you,” but “Malfoy” – was cold, dismissive, and deliberate.

Draco swallowed thickly but didn’t flinch.

“Fine,” he muttered, turning away from them all. “Whatever.”

Annabeth looked around once more.

“Meet back here a quarter before curfew. If anyone finds anything – anything at all – come straight back.”

The group nodded, tension still thick in the air.

They started filing out, the silence between them louder than any storm. Draco stood by the fireplace, eyes locked on the green flames, jaw tight, alone again.

*

Boots echoed against stone steps as Harry and Ron ascended the narrow staircase of the north tower.

“You think Percy just wandered off?” Ron muttered, using a Lumos Spell to light the way.

“No. And neither do Annabeth, Nico, or Thalia,” Harry replied grimly. “They said that he’s gone missing before. And Annabeth looked like she wanted to scream.”

They reached the top landing, and the heavy door creaked open into Professor Trelawney’s tower chamber, thick with incense and the scent of over-steeped tea. Harry was startled to see Professor Trelawney still in her classroom; most teachers would have retired to their rooms by now.

She sat alone, eyes closed, a teacup between her hands, untouched.

“Professor?” Harry stepped forward.

She didn’t stir.

“Er … Professor Trelawney? We’re looking for someone –”

Her eyes flew open.

They glowed a luminous, unnatural green.

The teacup dropped from her hands, shattering against the floor, tea spilling over her shawl like blood.

Smoke poured from the fireplace behind her – but not normal smoke. It slithered in spirals of emerald mist, rising around her like a living thing.

Then her voice – not truly her voice – rang out, eerie and echoing as though layered with centuries of speech:

“When balance breaks and twilight falls,
The light shall shift within the halls.
A silver tongue with heart turned black,
Will walk the line, but not turn back.”

Harry and Ron froze. The air turned heavy.

“The son of sea, with tempest bound,
Shall rise when stars crash to the ground.
His heart must choose, though hearts may break,
For what he gives, the world shall take.”

The green smoke coiled tighter, whirling faster.

“Allies lost and allies new,
Shall stand as one 'neath flame and dew.
Yet one shall fall, and not return,
When sacred fire meets water’s spurn.”

She took a breath:

“Only then shall balance mend,
When storm and shadow make their end.”

The final word echoed through the tower like a tolling bell. The smoke vanished. Professor Trelawney’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, her head lulled, and she fell from her seat. She hit her head on the desk on the way down.

Harry swore.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Harry turned to the portrait hanging down the hall. He never thought that he would need his help, but Harry asked the wizard in the picture – the insanely brave and mental Sir Cadogan – to travel to the infirmary and get help for Professor Trelawney.

Once they got Madam Pomfrey to the scene, and she had taken Professor Trelawney to the infirmary, Ron and Harry quickly left the north tower.

“Did you hear that?” Ron whispered.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “And we need to tell the others. Now.”

They turned and bolted down the stairs.

*

Chapter 11: curfew consequences

*

Chapter 11: Curfew Consequences

The dark, narrow corridors of the dungeon stretched behind them like veins through stone as Harry and Ron followed Annabeth up the winding stairs. She walked quickly, silent, cutting through the chill of the castle with an intensity that reminded Harry more of McGonagall than any student.

Ron glanced sideways at Harry. “Glad we’re out of the dungeon, mate,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to spend another minute breathing the same air as Malfoy.”

“Agreed,” Harry said, glancing behind them. “Let’s just hope this gets us somewhere.”

Annabeth led them toward the library. The doors creaked as they entered, and the scent of parchment, old wood, and burning candles welcomed them. The atmosphere was warm, even cozy – the fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across shelves stacked ceiling-high with tomes.

At least Madam Pince wasn’t there.

Harry had been half convinced that she slept in the shelves.

Thalia and Nico were already there, standing near a long table at the back. Hermione sat with a book half-open in front of her, but her eyes snapped up when the trio entered.

“You’re late,” Thalia said, arms crossed.

“We were stopped by Professor Trelawney,” Harry said. “She … said something.”

Nico straightened. “Another prophecy?”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “She kind of … went green-eyed and smoky again. You know, the usual.”

The three transfer students exchanged strange looks.

Hermione cocked a brow. “Well? What did she say?”

Harry frowned.

“Well … it goes something like … balance breaks, lighting will shift … the son of the sea must choose … allies will stand together and someone will fall. Something, something … balance will mend.” Harry scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “And, er … we didn’t get the rest of it.”

Thalia’s expression darkened. “You forgot it?”

“It was long!” Ron defended. “And she said it all at once – like a riddle. We didn’t have quills on us!”

Thalia stepped forward, sparks of static literally hissing at her fingertips. “You mean to tell me a prophecy – one that could mean life or death – was given to you, and you couldn’t be bothered to remember it?”

Harry’s temper flared. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was supposed to memorise several paragraphs of cryptic rhyming on the spot!”

“Oh, clearly, you’ve never had your life dictated by a prophecy before!”

Harry’s breath caught.

The air changed.

Sparks crackled in Thalia’s palms like electricity before a storm. The table between them trembled slightly. Nico stood beside her, eerily still, his eyes gleaming with shadows.

Annabeth stepped in fast. “Enough.”

Thalia froze. The sparks fizzled out.

Annabeth’s voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “We’ve dealt with prophecies before,” she said, looking at the trio. “More than one. And … they’ve never come without a cost.”

Hermione blinked. “You’ve … what do you mean?”

Annabeth hesitated. Then slowly – painfully – she said, “Percy was taken once before. By someone powerful. We didn’t know if he’d come back. He had to fulfill a prophecy … a major one. It almost destroyed him. And the rest of us.”

The room went still. Only the fire cracked in the distance.

Ron cleared his throat, glancing at Harry.

Harry, still watching Annabeth closely, finally spoke. His voice was tentative but edged with growing certainty.

“Is this going somewhere?”

Nico’s head snapped toward him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ve searched the castle. We have no leads. No trail. No anything. And it’s nearly curfew. Maybe we should –”

“– crawl back to bed and leave Percy wherever he is?” Thalia said, her voice low and dangerous.

Harry met her glare. “No. But maybe we tell someone. A teacher? Tomorrow. When we’ve had rest and time to think.”

Thalia looked like she wanted to strangle him.

Annabeth, again, stepped in. “He’s right.”

Everyone turned to her.

“We won’t get anywhere tonight. Not if we don’t even know what we’re dealing with. We need to talk to Dumbledore.”

Hermione looked unsure. “You think he’ll help?”

Annabeth pressed her lips into a line. “I think we don’t have a choice.”

Silence returned, heavy and awkward.

Then Annabeth added, more softly, “I’m sorry we dragged you into this. You didn’t need to come. So, thank you for your help. But we’re done here. I’ll go talk to Draco.” She was already moving toward the door. “He stayed behind in case Percy came back. The rest of you … go get some rest.”

No one argued.

*

The dorm was quiet.

Too quiet.

Percy’s eyes snapped open.

One of the first things he realised was that he wasn’t in his bed anymore. Instead, he was in some sort of forest. It was pitch black. The stars winked out of existence. The trees around him spiralled upward over forty feet, at least, and the ground was covered in a dense layer of fog.

He was laying prone on the ground, the dirt and vines clinging to his form.

Percy stood. The ground was uneven as he moved, gracefully avoiding the trees that reached out to snag his clothes, or the roots in the ground that extended to trip him. The mud sucked in his shoes and the air bit at his cheeks. It felt like a tamer version of Tartarus. He only had one objective, and that was to get out of the woods he found himself in.

Then, behind him, he heard something. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to describe the unholy sound to anyone else, but it definitely didn’t belong in a forest – magical or not.

“Perseus,” a voice whispered. “Perseus, I need your help.”

Percy spun around, then gaped. Standing behind him was the most beautiful person he had seen in his entire life. They weren’t beautiful in a conventional way – they were unearthly. They had a feminine figure, spindly and tall. She had three faces, each like a spectral image projecting over her real face like water rippling. Her hair glowed like strands of fine-spun golden silk. Her eyes were a pure gold, like the sun, and her skin was a sunset and dotted with stars and cosmos as freckles. Perched on her head was a crown, with a jewel-encrusted centre piece shaped like two crescent moons with a full moon in the middle.

She regarded him with her golden eyes, spectral faces twisting into emotion so deep, it made Percy uncomfortable. But her real face – underneath it all – looked serene.

“Do you know who I am?”

With complete and utter certainty, he said: “You’re the Triple Goddess.”

“And you are Perseus Jackson, the Hero of Heroes. Son of the Sea. Vessel of Balance.”

Percy had never heard that last moniker before.

He could feel the Triple Goddess’ power like a weak breeze. It wasn’t strong like the gods he was used to dealing with – but it was still power, all the same.

“You walk in shadow and in storm. Your heart bends toward a path that will tear you. You must hold the centre,” The Triple Goddess warned. Then, she added: “And beware the Light.”

Then she was gone.

*

As the group trickled out of the library, Harry checked his watch and sighed. It was ten past eleven – past curfew. So much for a quick search.

“At least I brought my cloak of invisibility,” he muttered, fishing it out of his bag.

Relief flickered across his face – until he held it up and frowned. The cloak, once easily able to conceal two or even three people, looked woefully insufficient now. Ron seemed to reach the same conclusion.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said, eyeing Hermione and Thalia with a grimace. “But I don’t think that’ll cover all of us.” He hesitated, then added awkwardly, “No offense, girls.”

Thalia gave him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “None taken, ginger.”

They tried, anyway. They bunched together under the shimmering fabric, bending low and shuffling awkwardly across the stone floor. It wasn’t even close to working – Harry could see their feet, shins, and half of Thalia’s hair sticking out. He considered suggesting they go two at a time, but it was already so late, and they were far from the tower.

They had no choice.

The group moved as quietly as they could through the darkened corridors, heading for Gryffindor Tower. Things were going smoothly, all things considered, until they reached the Trophy Hall.

That’s when something slammed into Harry’s back.

He hit the ground hard, his glasses nearly flying off. A startled laugh rang out behind him – Ron’s – but then he, too, toppled with a loud “oof.” Hermione gave a yelp and tripped over Ron’s legs. Thalia swore under her breath, slipping out from beneath the cloak and stumbling upright.

“What the hell was that?” She hissed, scanning the darkened ceiling.

And then came the giggling.

Harry groaned.

Floating above them, barely visible in the dim torchlight, was Peeves. The poltergeist grinned, ears pointy and impish, his eyes lit up with cruel glee.

“Potter snuck out; Potter fell down,” Peeves sang, twirling mid-air. “Peeves gives a shout – Argus Filch, are you around?”

He broke into more giggles, high-pitched and echoing.

“Peeves!” Hermione whispered furiously. “Stop it! We’ll get caught!”

“Oh, but yee wasn’t supposed to be roaming,” Peeves said, doing a somersault mid-air. “But despite the rules, you went out knowing.”

Thalia narrowed her eyes. “Who is this supposed to be? St. Patrick on steroids?”

Peeves cackled at her, gave an exaggerated wink, then vanished down the hallway, his shrill laughter trailing behind him.

Harry swore under his breath and yanked the cloak up. “Come on! We need to go – now!”

Thalia reached for the cloak, but Harry was already breaking into a run. “No use now, Thalia.”

The others followed, the slap of trainers and boots loud in the silent castle. They flew down the corridor, hearts pounding, robes flapping behind them.

They rounded the final corner near Gryffindor Tower – and Harry collided straight into someone. He and the man both hit the ground. Harry’s head cracked against the stone floor, and the cloak tangled around his arms and legs as he scrambled to rise. His heart sank.

Argus Filch.

The caretaker groaned and pushed himself upright, glaring down at Harry with narrowed eyes.

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered.

Behind him, Hermione, Ron, and Thalia skidded to a halt, their faces frozen in horror. Thalia muttered something sharp and colourful under her breath.

Filch dusted off his tattered coat, then fixed his eyes on Harry, who was still sat on the floor, cloak draped awkwardly around him.

“I knew you’d be out tonight,” Filch growled, eyes glinting. “Twenty points from Gryffindor – from each of you.”

*

Chapter 12: prejudice and segregation

*

Chapter 12: Prejudice and Segregation

“And beware the Light.”

And then she was gone.

Percy stood alone in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, barefoot, heart pounding, and breath fogging in the unnatural stillness.

By the time Percy trudged away from the forest, a storm had broken in full. Rain hammered the ground in sheets, and though he didn’t feel cold or wet – thanks to the perks of being a son of Poseidon – the mud was another story. It clung to his legs like wet cement with every squelching step toward the castle.

And of course, it had to be dark now.

Percy didn’t have a watch, but he figured it had to be close to curfew. Eleven o’clock meant trouble if he walked in through the front doors and got caught by Filch, or McGonagall, or Snape. He really didn’t want a lecture about “blatant disregard for school rules” on top of everything else.

He glanced toward the black, rippling expanse of the Great Lake.

Well … it was technically a shortcut.

Without overthinking it, Percy veered off the path and dove straight into the water. The moment he submerged, it was like everything snapped into clarity. The lake welcomed him like an old friend. The water here felt ancient – steeped in magic older than Hogwarts itself. Strange whispers brushed the edge of his awareness: the flicker of fish minds, and something massive shifting in the deep, long-forgotten magic pulsing from the silt.

He moved through the water easily, weaving through kelp beds and craggy stone pillars, searching for the windows to the Slytherin dorms. He wasn’t entirely sure where they were, but he figured if he swam along the right side of the lake, he’d spot them eventually. And if not – well, he would just wake someone up and figure out another way in. Hogwarts was full of secret passages. There had to be a backdoor somewhere.

As he passed a jagged fissure at the bottom of the lake, Percy felt the shift before he saw it. A long, rubbery tentacle snaked out, followed by another. Then eight arms, all writhing out of the shadows like a nightmare with too many limbs.

The giant squid emerged fully, bright red in color, her eyes like gleaming saucers. She moved with eerie grace, effortlessly propelling herself forward before reaching out and snatching Percy gently in one of her feeding arms.

From arm tip to mantle, she had to be at least forty feet long.

“Whoa, hey!” Percy tensed, but before panic could set in, he felt something strange: consciousness.

A mind.

“Not food, not human …” Came the voice in his head, not in words exactly, but in intention. The squid was puzzled, curious. Her grip tightened – not threateningly, just holding him in place.

“Kin,” she decided.

Percy blinked, startled … then grinned. Of course. She wasn’t a magical creature – she was just a giant squid. And somehow, they could understand each other.

“Hey there,” Percy said aloud, water curling around his words but not muffling them. “Nice meeting you. Got a name?”

She blinked again, big eyes unreadable. “Muireann.”

“Cool. I’m Percy.” He tugged against her tentacle, but she didn’t let go. “Mind putting me down? I kind of need to get back to my dorm. I’m on a curfew, and I’m already late.”

“Slytherin?” She asked. “One of the humans who wave to me?”

Percy laughed. “Yeah, that’s us. You’ve seen us from the windows?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Can you take me there?”

Without another word, Muireann turned, dragging Percy along gently as she glided through the water. Percy relaxed in her grip, marveling as stone and glass began to appear ahead. At first, it looked like ruins, but as they neared, he could make out clear panes, stone archways, and glowing light from within.

There it was – the Slytherin common room, built beneath the lake itself. Percy could see couches, a fireplace, and the silhouettes of bookshelves through the haze of water.

Further along were the dormitories, their small windows looking out into the black depths. Hogwarts architecture never failed to be weird and dramatic.

Murieann slowed and wrapped Percy in a few more limbs, then gently deposited him on the lakebed just outside one of the dormitory windows.

“Thanks,” Percy said.

The squid didn’t speak this time. Instead, she hovered a moment, then raised one tentacle and waved it clumsily back and forth.

It took him a second to realise – she was trying to wave.

Percy’s grin widened. He waved back.

Then, with one final pulse of her powerful arms, Muireann turned and vanished into the murky dark, her glowing red form swallowed up by the lake.

Percy turned, swam closer to the nearby windows, and peeked into the room. Sleeping soundly in their beds were what looked like first year students. Percy realised that if his room – for seventh and eighth year students – was at the end of the hallway, it would also be near the end of the windows. He was quick to propel himself further down the line of stone and glass, and finally peered in on the last room.

He pressed his face against the glass.

In their dormitory, Draco was sound asleep in his four poster bed. He was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, so that only his hair was visible; his hair stood out in stark contrast against the deep green comforter.

There was several feet of space between the window and Draco’s bed. Percy knocked on the glass with sharp raps.

Despite being difficult to wake in the morning, Draco proved to be a lighter sleeper than Percy thought.

Draco unravelled from the blanket cocoon, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Slowly, tiredly. His blond hair, which he preferred to style with gel in the mornings, was now fluffy and ruffled from the pillow.

Percy rapped at the glass again.

Draco yawned, then frowned. He looked toward the window – and then he saw Percy.

His eyes bugged.

“Draco!” Percy called. “Help!”

Draco rolled out of bed, stumbling through the blankets wrapped around his ankles. He fumbled for his wand – a shorter, darker piece from Ollivander’s – which was on his bedside. He fretted for several seconds before finally picking a sock off the ground.

Percy raised a brow. What was a sock going to help?

Draco flicked his wand at the sock, and it disappeared. Percy frowned … until suddenly, he was no longer in the water but instead splayed across the ground in their dorm room. A puddle was formed beneath him, soaking both his clothes and the rug. In his peripheral, Percy saw the sock floating in the murky water of the Great Lake.

Percy looked up to Draco from his spot on the ground.

Colour him impressed.

Draco was looking at him with wide eyes.

Percy stood but refrained from drying himself with his powers; wordless and wandless magic was supposedly reserved for only the most powerful of magic folk.

“Thanks, dude,” he said. “I did not want to get caught in the hallways this late.”

Draco eyes, if possible, widened even more.

“What in the bloody hell was that?” He whisper-yelled. “You were missing for hours, and then you – you’re in the lake?! How? What? Why?”

Belatedly, Percy became aware of how late it was. Draco had bags beneath his eyes. There were boys sleeping in the rooms down the hall. Percy lowered his voice. “It’s … a long story. I got trapped outside and … wait a second – how did you do that? I thought apparition didn’t work on Hogwarts’ grounds?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s not apparition. I bypassed the barriers by using a switching-places charm – so, both items stay on Hogwarts grounds, and aren’t crossing any technical barriers and … that’s not the point!” He appeared flustered. His cheeks turned rosy. Percy decided he liked the look on Draco. “Why were you at the bottom of the Great Lake? How did you not drown? What? I don’t …”

“Aww, you care about me!” Percy said, genuinely touched.

Draco scowled. He crossed his arms. “Keep dreaming, Jackson.”

“Ouch,” Percy said, “Demoted to my last name?”

Then he paused – just a moment – and had a funny idea.

Percy grinned and shook himself like a wet dog. Water droplets flew from his hair and landed on Draco’s silk pyjamas. He tried to contain his laughter at Draco’s expression and failed. Draco’s face looked like he had just stepped in something particularly unpleasant.

“Hey, it’s just a joke,” Percy said, when Draco made a noise of disgust. “I’m just trying to have fun.”

Draco looked at Percy like he was crazy.

Percy conceded: “… at the bottom of the lake. Yeah, I see your point.”

“I don’t even know what to do with you.”

This time, Percy laughed for real. “Well, how about we keep this between ourselves, huh? How about we do that?”

Draco gave one last glance to the window, and the sock that had now disappeared into the murky depths. He looked back over at Percy. His pale face almost glowed in the scant lighting. His lips were pursed, his brows narrowed, like he was trying to figure out a Percy-shaped puzzle.

“You … why? What could you have possibly been doing at the bottom of the lake?”

Percy shrugged casually. “Eh, you know – conversing with the giant squid and whatnot … she’s pretty nice, actually. She even waved at me.”

Draco scowled and turned away. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

Percy softened. “Hey, Draco … I’m sorry for waking you, but thanks for getting me back in. I really appreciate it.”

“Uh … you’re welcome.” Draco fidgeted, then put his wand away and got back in his bed.

Percy watched as Draco cocooned himself again. He headed for the bathroom to take a quick shower, to wash away the lake muck, and then got dressed and crawled into bed.

He had just gotten the covers over himself when Draco spoke again. “Goodnight, Perseus.”

Percy smiled. “Night, Draco.”

*

Morning came way too fast.

Percy groaned as his alarm blared beside the bed. He slapped it into silence, stretching with a yawn that cracked his spine. Across the room, Draco stirred and sat up, bleary-eyed and already scowling.

“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered. “I told you to fuck off with that stupid machine.”

Percy smirked. Draco had opinions about muggle technology, especially Percy’s alarm clock. He had called it a “stupid machine made by muggles,” more than once – but to his credit, he still agreed to let Percy use it. Even if he complained about it every morning.

“I told you it works,” Percy said, dragging himself out of bed.

Draco grumbled something under his breath and started getting dressed. He checked the time, smoothed his collar, and casually greeted Percy – then froze mid-motion.

“You never told me what happened last night!” He snapped belatedly. “Again – what the hell?”

Percy shrugged. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Draco gave him a long, scrutinising look like he was trying to read something in Percy’s face. He opened his mouth, then stopped himself. “You know what? I’m not even going to ask.”

“Good choice.”

They grabbed their bags and books, and headed down to the Great Hall. Percy wasn’t exactly excited. He could already imagine Annabeth’s reaction. If it was anything like their reunion in Rome after he was kidnapped by Hera for several months, he would be lucky to survive breakfast without bruises.

As the Slytherins flooded into the Great Hall, Percy split off from Draco, scanning for her. He spotted her near the Ravenclaw table, deep in conversation with another girl – a sixth year, he guessed.

“You have a class with the Gryffindors on Tuesdays and Wednesdays? Man, I wouldn’t want to be you,” the girl said.

“Yeah, they’re all a bunch of pricks. They think they’re so great –”

Annabeth was leaning on the table, eyes drifting around the room – until they locked on Percy. Her entire posture changed in an instant.

“Kelly, I’m sorry – just a moment,” she said quickly.

Percy didn’t even have time to react. Annabeth was already marching toward him, weaving through the crowded hall. When she got close enough, her hands gripped the straps of her leather bag like it was a weapon.

“Okay, hold up,” Percy said, hands raised defensively. “There’s a better way –”

WHACK.

The bag hit him square in the chest, and it wasn’t empty. A loud THUD hit the wood as she dropped it at his feet, her expression murderous. Some boys nearby whistled, snickering like this was peak entertainment.

Percy winced. “Ow – seriously?”

Annabeth jabbed a finger into his chest, eyes blazing.

“Where were you?” She demanded. “Malfoy looked all over the dorms for you. Do you have any idea how much trouble we went through trying to find you? You just disappeared, Percy!”

“In my defense,” Percy said, “it wasn’t exactly my choice. A goddess kidnapped me. Which was – y’know – rude.”

Annabeth’s rage faltered. She blinked. “Wait. What?”

“The Triple Goddess,” Percy said, rubbing his chest. “She kidnapped me. Teleported me out of Hogwarts.”

Her expression went from disbelief to annoyance in record time. “Percy, that’s not possible. Chiron said she’s nearly faded. There’s no way she could’ve pulled you out of Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, well, tell her that,” Percy grumbled.

Just then, the other Ravenclaw girl – Kelly – approached them. She was short, with pale skin, dark braided hair, and a curious, amused look in her eyes.

“Who died?” She asked. “Annabeth, you look sick. Are you good?”

Annabeth forced a smile and nodded quickly. “Yeah, just some family troubles.”

Kelly looked at Percy. Her brows lifted. “He’s your brother? Merlin, I need to ask what gene pool you guys came from.”

There was a beat of silence – then Percy and Annabeth burst out laughing.

“Oh, no,” Annabeth said, still chuckling. “Gods, Percy’s not my brother. He’s my boyfriend. Who, apparently, cannot catch a break from his family. I feel bad for him, that’s all.”

Kelly blushed. “My bad. I didn’t mean it like that.”

She bent down and picked up Annabeth’s bag, handing it back with an apologetic shrug. “I get it, though. My family is super picky about who I date. They want me to find a nice pure-blood boy – but I already have my eye on someone else.”

Percy gave her a lopsided smile. “Well, good luck. Because even the gods couldn’t break Annabeth and me apart.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but Percy caught the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

*

The morning started rough.

Harry had almost forgotten about the night before – how Filch had caught him, Hermione, Ron, and Thalia wandering the halls after curfew – until the moment he stepped into the Great Hall.

The Gryffindor table was in chaos.

Confused yelling, bursts of outrage, and rapid-fire questions filled the air. People were standing, others waving their arms, trying to make sense of what had happened. At the center of it all stood Wesley Jotter, one of the seventh-year prefects. The former Gryffindor beater was massive – taller and broader than anyone else at the table – and when he climbed up onto it to get everyone’s attention, the entire table fell quiet.

“Hey, hey! Keep it down!” He barked. “I’m going to go talk to Dumbledore about this – there must be a mistake!”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the students. Then, from the staff table, McGonagall’s sharp voice rang out, scolding Wesley for standing on school furniture. He climbed down reluctantly, brushing off his robes, but his scowl didn’t fade.

Harry turned to the closest student. “What’s going on?” He asked.

A girl overheard and spun toward him, incredulous. “What’s going on? Gryffindor is in the negatives! We lost, like, all our points overnight!”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

He whipped his head toward the house cup hourglasses along the wall. Gryffindor’s had barely any gems in it – no, actually, it had negative gems glowing red in the base. Negative ten.

He did the math in his head. They had lost seventy points, plus ten in the negative.

Eighty points taken away.

And it was their fault.

Sudden guilt crashed down on him like a wave. Every good thing their house had earned this week – answering questions, perfect essays, volunteer rounds – wiped out overnight. Because of them.

He spotted Wesley making his way to the staff table, presumably to confront Dumbledore. That couldn’t happen – not like this, not if he didn’t know what had really happened. Embarrassment twisted in Harry’s gut. He rushed after him.

“Wesley – wait!” Harry called, catching up and pulling on his sleeve. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

Wesley barely looked at him. “No, Harry, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Dumbledore. We’re down eighty points – that’s not normal. Someone must’ve miscounted.”

“Wesley, no, seriously –” Harry glanced around and lowered his voice, now practically whispering. He couldn’t bring himself to look the older boy in the eye. “It wasn’t a mistake. We lost them. Me, Hermione, Ron, and Thalia. Last night.”

Wesley blinked, like he hadn’t heard him properly. “You what?”

Harry braced himself. “We were caught by Filch. Twenty points each.”

For a moment, Wesley stared at him like he was waiting for the punchline. Then, his expression darkened.

“You lost eighty points,” Wesley said flatly. “Eighty.”

Harry winced. “We were just out past curfew – it wasn’t anything bad. We weren’t messing around. We were helping someone –”

Before he could finish, Wesley smacked him lightly upside the head. Not hard, but hard enough to sting.

“Ow!” Harry rubbed his temple, startled.

“Dang it, Harry. You’re the worst for this,” Wesley muttered. “You know our house is going to rip you apart for this, right?”

Harry’s ears burned with shame. “Just … don’t tell anyone else, okay?”

Wesley shook his head. “I’m not going to run around yelling it, but if someone asks me directly? I’m not going to lie. This is getting ridiculous, Harry. You do so much good, but you lose us so many points. Why don’t you just stop breaking the rules for once?”

With that, he turned and walked off, still shaking his head.

Harry bit his tongue. He hadn’t even wanted to leave the common room last night. Thalia had practically dragged him out, and if he had refused, she would have hexed him – or worse, gone alone. And the real reason they were out late wasn’t even their fault – it was that Slytherin transfer student, and Malfoy, who insisted they come to the Slytherin common room. They were just trying to help.

They could’ve done it anywhere else.

He trudged back to the Gryffindor table and dropped into the seat next to Ron. The food smelled good – sausages, pancakes, scrambled eggs – but Harry’s appetite had shrivelled.

He piled food onto his plate anyway, poking at it with his fork.

“Not only did we lose points for trying to help someone,” he muttered, “but now we’re going to get chewed out by our entire house.”

Ron glanced up from his cereal, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyebrows raised. “Huh?”

Harry huffed. “Wesley isn’t happy. Said he won’t cover for us if people ask.”

Across the table, Hermione looked up from her oatmeal and berries. Her satchel was propped neatly by her side, as usual. She scoffed.

“Oh, please,” she said. “He wouldn’t actually tell people. That’s beyond rude. That’s like putting blood in shark-infested water.”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve done a lot of shit. He might just be sick of it.”

Harry shrugged, already resigned to the fact that word was going to spread, whether they liked it or not. Gryffindors were a loyal house, but once their pride was wounded, the gossip came fast.

The rustle of wings filled the Great Hall as the morning owls swooped in overhead. Harry tilted his head back, watching them circle and glide above the tables, letters and packages dangling from their talons. He scanned the flurry of feathers, wondering vaguely if one carried something for him.

He speared a piece of sausage with his fork and turned toward Ron, only to frown when he noticed something was off. Someone was missing from their group.

It took a second before it hit him.

“Hey,” he said, leaning across the table to get Hermione’s attention. “Where’s Thalia?”

Hermione didn’t look up from her oatmeal. Her reply was laced with irritation. “She went to go talk to her friends about what happened last night.”

The way she said “friends” practically dripped with disdain.

Harry raised a brow at her, confused by the sudden attitude. Hermione caught the look and nodded her chin toward the far side of the Great Hall.

“Notice who’s back?” She said tightly.

Harry followed her gaze across the hall to the Slytherin table and felt a jolt of surprise.

Sitting there, casually eating waffles as if nothing had ever happened, was Percy Jackson.

The supposedly missing Percy Jackson.

The reason they had been out past curfew last night. The reason they had lost eighty points. The reason Filch had nearly dragged them to detention.

And now there he was, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco Malfoy, completely relaxed. Draco, for his part, didn’t seem the least bit surprised or even remotely concerned by Percy’s sudden reappearance. He was just calmly drinking juice while Percy chatted and chewed like he hadn’t vanished for an entire day.

Harry’s eyebrows pulled together. No one at the Slytherin table even reacted.

Near them, Thalia was standing beside Annabeth. Both girls looked thoroughly fed up. Annabeth was glaring at Percy like she wanted to throw her entire breakfast plate at his face. Percy said something to her – Harry couldn’t hear what – but it only made things worse. Thalia flung her hands up in frustration, turned on her heel, and stalked away. Annabeth, shaking her head, broke off and returned to the Ravenclaw table.

Thalia made a beeline for them.

Hermione shifted her bag aside to make room, and Thalia dropped down into the empty seat, still visibly fuming. She grabbed a plate with one hand and stabbed a knife into the wooden table with the other. The blade sank in with a crack.

Harry instinctively moved the other utensils farther away from her.

“I can’t believe him,” she hissed. “And I was literally about to invite him to our table!”

She started piling food onto her plate with jerky, annoyed motions.

“He doesn’t get it,” Thalia continued. “We were out there searching the grounds for him. We lost eighty points trying to find him – and then he just waltzes into the Great Hall like nothing happened. No apology, no explanation. Just waffles.”

She gave the word “waffles” the weight of an insult.

Harry shook his head. “That’s Slytherins for you.”

Thalia huffed, still glaring at her food. But some of the fire left her as she looked down at the knife, still firmly embedded in the table.

“I mean,” she muttered, looking less sure of herself, “I don’t think he did it on purpose …”

Hermione didn’t miss a beat. She folded her arms and tilted her chin upward. “Slytherins are master manipulators. Whether it’s intentional or not doesn’t matter. You remember how stressed the others were last night – Annabeth looked ready to hex someone – but Percy? Percy doesn’t care about that at all.”

She plucked a grape from her bowl and flicked it off to the side.

“He’s a Slytherin now,” she added pointedly. “And Slytherins will use any means to achieve their ends.”

Thalia pulled a face. “Oh, I understand that. Percy will do anything to get what he wants.”

*

Percy hadn’t expected Thalia to be that mad.

When they walked into potions, he made a beeline toward the table where she sat with Hermione, hoping to smooth things over. Maybe talk it out. Maybe explain.

He slid into the seat beside her like it was no big deal.

Thalia looked over at him, eyes cold as frost. Then, without a word, she grabbed her bag, stood up, and walked off.

Percy blinked.

Hermione looked just as startled as he felt. She scrambled to follow, trailing after Thalia. They joined Harry and Ron at the table across the room, leaving Percy sitting alone.

Well, not for long.

Draco slipped into the vacated seat beside him, casting a glance across the classroom toward Thalia, who was now leaning over her desk and furiously scribbling something down.

“She’s being ridiculous,” Draco said, matter-of-factly. “Honestly. I thought she was eager to help last night. Now it’s all icy glares and dramatic exits. If she actually cared, she’d be happy you’re back.”

Percy rubbed the back of his neck, still staring after Thalia.

“She was worried about me,” he murmured.

“Then she has a funny way of showing it,” Draco muttered.

There was an awkward silence before Percy turned slightly toward him. “Okay … but what exactly happened last night?” He asked. “Everyone’s acting like I kicked someone’s owl or something. I don’t get why they’re so mad.”

Draco gave him a sidelong look. “You really don’t know?”

Percy frowned. “No one’s told me anything.”

Draco sighed and leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “Fine. Since you won’t tell me where you vanished to –” his voice dropped with slight accusation “– I’ll tell you what the rest of us dealt with. After you didn’t come back, I told the others you were missing.”

He paused and suddenly flushed, eyes flicking away. “Not that I care or anything,” he added stiffly.

Percy smirked despite himself.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, clearing his throat, “the group split up and started combing through the school. We all went looking for you – Ravenclaw girl, the Hufflepuff boy, even the Gryffindors. The other two were smart enough to avoid Filch, but the Gryffindors got caught. Lost eighty points.”

Percy’s stomach dropped.

Draco raised a brow. “Yeah. So now everyone’s moody because they think they got punished for nothing. You show up perfectly fine, and they’re left with the fallout.”

Percy sat back, stunned. “I didn’t ask them to search for me.”

“Exactly,” Draco said, his voice laced with disdain. “They chose to. No one forced them. So, if they’re real friends, why are they throwing it in your face now? Seems a bit petty to me.”

Percy didn’t answer right away.

Draco’s words hit somewhere uncomfortable. He didn’t like the implication that Thalia and he weren’t true friends. Thalia had been furious when he had gone missing. And now? That anger hadn’t gone away – it had just shifted.

“I don’t think they mean anything bad by it,” Percy said after a pause, still watching Thalia from across the room. “They’re just … frustrated. Hurt, maybe.”

Draco scoffed. “If that’s how they show it, maybe you’re better off without them.”

Soon after that, Professor Snape entered the potions classroom with a flourish that didn’t come from his robes, but from the sheer weight of his presence. He walked straight to the door without addressing anyone, withdrew his wand, and raised it deliberately. The movement was precise, controlled – almost theatrical.

“Last week was the first week, so I was nice,” he said, his voice cool and razor-sharp. “Today, I lock the door. I will not accept late students. Show up to class on time, or don’t show up at all.”

With a subtle flick of his wand, he murmured, “Colloportus.”

The spell didn’t explode into the air like Percy had seen from most wizards so far. There was no dramatic boom, no wand flicks or exaggerated incantations. Snape said it quietly, as if it was barely worth speaking at all. The door closed with a squelching, unnatural sound, sealing shut like a vacuum lock.

Snape turned to face them, his black eyes sweeping across the room like storm clouds preparing to strike. “Take out your Magical Drafts and Potions textbook. Flip to page twenty-one.”

Percy fumbled with his bag and pulled out the book, flipping to the correct page.

“Today,” Snape said, crossing to the board with long strides, “we will be covering healing potions. Their properties, their strength, and their ingredients.”

He began writing in perfectly neat script on the blackboard, the sound of chalk scraping like background noise to his lecture. Then, suddenly, he spun around and levelled a look directly at Harry.

“Potter. What is the difference between a healing potion and a counter-potion?”

Percy glanced at Harry, curious. The other boy straightened in his seat, his expression flat and unimpressed.

“A healing potion heals you,” Harry said, his tone unmistakably edged. “A counter-potion reverses the effect of another potion.”

A few Gryffindors chuckled.

Snape didn’t.

“If you truly believe that simpleton definition of the two,” Snape said, with a sneer like curdled milk, “then I pray that you don’t take a job as a healer or potioneer. You would kill your patients by the dozen.”

He turned back to the board, continuing to write, and launched into a more complex explanation.

Percy tried to keep up, eyes darting from the board to his notes. Next to him, Draco was already scribbling away, quill gliding smoothly across parchment. He looked completely absorbed in the lesson – confident, focused. Percy mirrored him, trying to keep pace.

Snape’s continued.

“A healing potion has the properties to heal natural ailments and illnesses. They can cure physical symptoms and even damage done by another potion or spell, but they will not bring you to peak health. They merely assist the body’s natural healing, enhanced by magic. Healing potions may be applied topically or ingested. Counter-potions, however, are a different matter. While they can also combat the effects of other spells or potions, they are far more specialised. They target specific effects – physical, mental, or psychological – and completely reverse them. And they must be ingested to be effective.”

Percy’s pen scratched across the parchment, and he noticed Snape pacing slowly, eyes scanning for slackers. Sure enough, the professor snapped at a few students who weren’t writing fast enough. Percy stiffened in his seat, thankful he had decided to copy Draco’s note-taking lead.

Across the room, Harry was now whispering something behind his hand to Ron, mimicking Snape’s lecture with an exaggerated sneer. Ron snorted into his elbow.

Percy frowned. Seriously? He didn’t get the hate for Snape. Sure, the guy was intense – and maybe a little unhinged – but he was clear, focused, and had high expectations. Compared to some of the disaster teachers Percy had suffered through at mortal schools, Snape was practically competent.

The rest of class went by surprisingly fast. Snape brewed a potion at the front of the room and involved the class at every step. Instead of just lecturing, he asked questions constantly – “What ingredient should be added next? Why this one before that one? What’s the binding agent?”

Everyone had to answer at least once.

It wasn’t optional.

And if someone gave the wrong answer? Snape didn’t just correct them. He challenged everyone else in the room – why didn’t they speak up? Why didn’t they stop the mistake? Did they want the cauldron to explode? Did they think letting others fail was acceptable?

Hermione, unsurprisingly, answered nearly everything. But when one student fumbled an answer and she stayed quiet, Snape turned on her with a cold smile.

“You knew they were wrong, Miss Granger. And you said nothing. Do not delude yourself into thinking that silence is neutral. By knowingly letting someone fail, you are no better than they are.”

Percy stared down at his notes, feeling the weight of those words. Snape’s teaching style was brutal – but effective. There were no shortcuts here. No hand-holding.

It was a far cry from the chaotic battle training he was used to at Camp Half-Blood, but in a strange way … Percy respected it.

When the class finally ended and students began packing up, Percy stuck close to Draco for the next few classes; he didn’t attempt to talk to Thalia again.

Herbology and defence against the Dark Arts flew by, and by the time fourth period rolled around, Percy had completely forgotten about the whole house point fiasco. Honestly, with how strange and packed his schedule had been so far, he was just glad to get through classes without blowing anything up – or anyone.

When he arrived for flight lessons, the sun was shining, the wind was light, and Percy felt, for the first time in a while, genuinely good.

Madam Hooch greeted them on the grassy field with her usual sharp eyes and whistle hanging around her neck.

“Today,” she announced, “we’re starting our quidditch unit.”

That got the class buzzing. Percy perked up, remembering how badly his first flying lesson had gone – but now that he was no longer terrified of brooms, he was eager to get up into the air. Maybe this would be fun.

Unfortunately, they weren’t allowed to mount their brooms just yet. Madam Hooch made them sit in the grass in neat rows while she launched into a full explanation of how the game worked.

Percy tried. He really did. He leaned forward, nodded along, and did his best not to let his attention drift – but there were a lot of rules. Still, by the end of it, he felt like he understood the basics.

Quidditch was played with seven players per team: three chasers, two beaters, one keeper, and one seeker. The game’s main objective was simple – score more points than the other team. Chasers handled a ball called the quaffle and aimed it through the opposing team’s hoops. The big hoops were worth ten points, and the smaller ones twenty. There were also two enchanted bludgers flying around, which tried to knock players off their brooms – yeah, that part seemed a bit dangerous. Beaters were supposed to handle those with bats, hitting them toward the opposing team or keeping them off their own.

Then there was the seeker. Percy found this role the most interesting – mostly because it reminded him a bit of capture the flag. The seeker’s job was to chase and catch the golden snitch: a small, winged golden ball that zipped through the air at impossible speeds. Catching it ended the game and awarded a massive one hundred and fifty points.

Madam Hooch explained that some games could last for days if the snitch wasn’t caught. One supposedly went for six months – but no one ever actually caught it. Percy had laughed along with the others at that, until he realised she wasn’t joking. Fortunately, she added that school games were called off if they went over three hours.

Once she finished the rundown and repeated the positions again – chasers score, beaters block, keeper guards, seeker snatches – Percy felt ready. He wasn’t sure which role he would like most, but anything involving adrenaline-inducing flying sounded good to him.

Then came the part where she divided the students into teams.

“Slytherin versus Gryffindor,” Madam Hooch said.

Percy wasn’t the least bit surprised.

He glanced around at the groups forming. The other Slytherins were already grinning, stretching, chatting like they had done this a hundred times before. Across the field, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Thalia stood with their arms crossed, glaring daggers at the Slytherin group. Percy shifted uncomfortably.

Yeah … he was glad they were on opposite sides today.

With the way things had been going lately, Percy wasn’t sure he could trust anyone from the Gryffindor side to have his back – not even Thalia. Not after this morning. And based on how Harry and Ron were still eyeing him across the pitch, Percy figured it was better this way.

Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

There were exactly seven Slytherins in their flight class.

Their schedules claimed it was an eighth year course, but that wasn’t always the case. Some of their classes were still shared with seventh years, depending on numbers and availability. As it happened, everyone in the Slytherin group today was in their eighth year – except for one: Dawson Chidator.

And apparently, he was the captain of the Slytherin quidditch team.

Percy grinned when he heard that. He didn’t know much about Dawson yet, but having an actual team captain on their side gave them a bit of an edge.

Across the pitch, the Gryffindors were in a larger group. Ten of them in total – all eighth years. Percy noticed how much bigger their numbers were compared to Slytherin’s. Their year groups had to be double the size, maybe even more.

No wonder they never stop bragging about house points, Percy thought.

Dawson didn’t take long to notice the uneven numbers either. He marched over to Madam Hooch, arms folded and voice sharp. “Ten versus seven is hardly fair,” he complained. “And it’s not very sportsman-like.”

But Madam Hooch held her ground. “This is a class activity, not an official match. No one’s sitting out just for the sake of a neat headcount.” She gave him a firm look. “You’ll manage.”

Dawson didn’t like that answer. He scowled and stomped back to the group, muttering under his breath about “blatant bias” and “ridiculous scheduling.”

Percy was starting to get the feeling Dawson took everything about quidditch personally.

Once back with the Slytherins, Dawson started assigning positions – quickly, decisively, and like he was already managing an official match.

“Tracey, Blaise – chasers.” The two Slytherins grinned and grabbed their brooms without hesitation.

Then he looked toward the other two girls in the group: Michelle Roane, who was slim and quiet, and Millicent Bulstrode, who looked like she could bench-press Percy and his broom. Dawson pointed at both. “Beaters.”

Millicent just cracked her knuckles. Michelle, on the other hand, went visibly pale. She didn’t argue, but her eyes were wide as she reached for a bat.

Dawson claimed the third chaser position for himself.

That left just Percy and Draco standing without assignments.

“I don’t quite know what to do with you two,” Dawson said, eyeing them both.

“Madam Hooch mentioned she’d like to see Percy try out as keeper,” Draco said, not quite looking at Percy as he spoke.

Percy blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected Draco to speak on his behalf.

Dawson looked Percy up and down, then nodded. “Fine by me. I was never one for the keeper role anyway.”

That didn’t exactly make Percy feel better.

Dawson caught the look on his face and chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s not a bad job. Keepers just have more pressure on them than most players. If we lose, everyone looks at you first.” He clapped Percy on the shoulder. “No pressure, though.”

Great, Percy thought. Why did that sound like something Chiron would say right before throwing me into a monster fight?

With Percy now stuck as keeper, that left one final position: seeker.

Dawson turned to Draco and, for the first time, seemed to take things seriously.

“I know you’ve always been seeker,” he said. “But don’t let that make you cocky. You’ve been off the pitch for years now. I’m trusting you to still be as sharp as you used to be.”

Draco’s scowl was instant. “I haven’t lost any skill, Chidator.”

Dawson’s grin returned. “Now that’s what I want to hear.”

He motioned for them to gather in a circle. He had them pump each other up with a quick chant for Slytherin – Percy mumbled his way through it, still getting used to that part – and just as they finished, Madam Hooch blew her whistle and called for team captains.

Percy watched as the Gryffindor group immediately erupted into cheers and wild whooping. Of course, Harry stepped forward, grinning smugly as he made his way to the middle of the pitch.

From Slytherin’s side, the name “Dawson!” was shouted several times before Chidator strolled confidently across the field. He wasn’t smiling. He looked like he was already planning out six different strategies in his head.

Madam Hooch held up a coin between them. “Call it in the air. Winner chooses sides.”

Percy tilted his head, puzzled. Sides? He didn’t really see an advantage either way. The east and west were basically identical. He quietly voiced that to Dawson, thinking it might help the tension.

Big mistake.

Dawson spun on him like he had just suggested giving the Gryffindors a twenty-point lead. “You don’t see the difference? The wind comes in harder from the east – you want to defend from that side, not attack it.”

Michelle, hovering beside Percy, leaned closer and murmured, “He’s got scouts watching him. Major league stuff. Don’t take it personally.”

Percy blinked. Scouts? For quidditch? He didn’t even know there was a professional quidditch league.

Madam Hooch flipped the coin. Harry called it fast. “Heads!”

Automatically, Dawson was left with tails.

The coin landed. Madam Hooch lifted her hand and smiled. “Heads.”

Harry fist-pumped the air, and the Gryffindors cheered louder than before. Ron sprinted up and gave him a hard slap on the back. Dawson, on the other hand, muttered a very colourful curse and earned a sharp reprimand from Madam Hooch.

Harry studied the field, then looked straight at Dawson with a smug smirk. “We’ll take the east side.”

Dawson didn’t even respond. He stalked back toward the Slytherin huddle, expression sour. But as soon as they regrouped, he chuckled darkly. “Potter is as dumb as a flubberworm,” he said. “I wanted the west side.”

Percy raised a brow. Dawson might be uptight, but he wasn’t wrong – he clearly knew his game.

Madam Hooch signalled them into positions, and the Slytherins took to the air.

Percy flew over to the hoops, hands gripping his broom a little tighter than necessary. Draco had warned him these were just practice hoops, not like the real ones on the quidditch pitch, but Percy figured they would work well enough. He hovered in place, trying to get comfortable, heart beating like he was back at Camp Half-Blood and getting ready for a game of capture the flag.

“Remember,” Madam Hooch called, voice firm, “this is a recreational game. No safety equipment means no aggressive play. Any fouls or fouls of conduct lose your house ten points – immediately.”

She kicked the chest at her feet. It sprang open with a clatter.

The bludgers shot out like cannonballs, followed quickly by the snitch, which disappeared in an instant. Madam Hooch kept the quaffle in hand.

“Begin!”

She tossed it high into the air – and almost immediately, a Gryffindor chaser with wild black curls caught it and charged forward, cutting through the Slytherin defence.

Percy froze.

Oh gods.

This was it. He was going to miss, get mocked, ruin everything –

Then Michelle came flying in, bat in both hands, and smashed a bludger at the chaser with everything she had. The bludger hit its mark, knocking the boy sideways. The quaffle slipped from his grip.

Dawson zoomed in, snatched it mid-air, and turned the play around. The Slytherins erupted in cheers – Percy included.

Michelle was nearly knocked off her broom from the force of her own swing, and Millicent clapped her so hard on the back that she swayed in mid-air.

The game settled into a rhythm. The quaffle changed hands constantly, but the Slytherins were pushing harder. A few strong plays gave them shots on goal, but Ron – weirdly good at this – blocked every single one.

Dawson was getting visibly frustrated, and Percy didn’t blame him. The Gryffindor beaters were ganging up on him. Every time he tried to break through, a bludger came flying his way, forcing him to dodge rather than shoot.

Finally, fed up, Dawson flung the quaffle in a wild pass to Tracey, who hadn’t been expecting it at all. She fumbled, but before she could recover, that same black-haired chaser from earlier zipped in and clipped her.

Percy saw her wobble in the air, struggling to keep level. Dawson yelled for a foul, but Madam Hooch shouted, “Fair game!”

Really? Percy thought. That seemed pretty close to illegal.

While Slytherin argued, the chaser swooped toward Percy with the quaffle in hand. He came in close – too close – and overhanded a shot straight for the lower hoop.

Panicked, Percy dropped low and swung out a foot.

His sneaker connected with the ball. It shot away like a bullet.

Gasps rippled across the field – Slytherins and Gryffindors both.

Blaise dove and caught the deflected quaffle, turning the momentum instantly. One of the Gryffindor beaters – Thalia – hesitated. The bludger near her was too high, and she didn’t go after it.

Blaise made it close enough for a shot. He missed – but Tracey was already there behind the net. She caught it cleanly and, without even thinking, passed to Dawson, who was circling high overhead.

Percy looked up just in time to see Dawson arc downward and fire the quaffle straight past Ron’s left ear.

The ball soared into the goal hoop.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle. “Goal!”

Then she raised her hand. “Game over!”

The Gryffindors groaned and protested, but Madam Hooch waved them off. “Class is done,” she said. “I was waiting for someone to score. Thought we were about to have our first goalless game of the year.”

The Slytherins whooped and descended to the pitch in celebration. Percy joined them, grinning despite himself.

Dawson was loudly praising Michelle’s bludger hit, while Millicent made a point of teasing the Gryffindors. Percy nudged her in the arm.

“Hey, tone it down.”

She gave him a glare so cold that Percy immediately questioned every decision in his life.

Still, he stood his ground. “We won. At least be nice about it.”

Millicent rolled her eyes but didn’t push it further.

They packed up, stored the gear in the broom shack, and Madam Hooch dismissed them for the day.

On his way to the Great Hall, Percy spotted Thalia walking ahead and jogged to catch up.

He grinned. “Looks like quidditch isn’t your sport.”

She turned, eyes narrowing. “Shut up,” she snapped. “You already lost us eighty house points, and now you're rubbing in today? Ugh …”

Percy blinked. Wait – had he actually sounded mean?

She stormed off before he could say anything else.

When he got to the Slytherin table, he didn’t even consider going near the Gryffindors. Nico was caught up in a conversation with some other housemates, but Annabeth slid in beside Percy with a tray, nodding in greeting.

He poked at his salad, chewing more out of obligation than hunger.

Annabeth gave him a sideways look. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

“Thalia’s just being difficult,” Percy muttered. “I tried to be friendly, and she basically bit my head off. I swear, I don’t even know what’s up with her anymore.”

Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe try apologising?”

Percy groaned, tossing his fork down. “I didn’t have a choice in disappearing, remember?”

“Not for disappearing,” Annabeth said calmly, “but for causing her trouble. And lying about the Triple Goddess. Besides, she’s been hanging out with the trio. I think some of their drama is rubbing off on her. You two don’t exactly have the smoothest track record, either.”

Across the table, Dawson leaned over. “Percy, you were great out there. Slytherin tryouts are this Thursday. Be there – we need a keeper.” He winked before turning back to his team.

Annabeth smirked. “See? You might actually fit in here.”

Percy sighed but managed a small smile.

Annabeth twirled her knife between her fingers, thoughtful. “Honestly, besides you disappearing and the new prophecy, I don’t see why we can’t just enjoy ourselves for once. It’s the first time we’re in school with other kids our age.”

Percy choked on a tomato. “A new what?”

*

Chapter 13: quidditch and conflict

*

Chapter 13: Quidditch and Conflict

“You know,” Annabeth said, setting down her knife, “I knew I was forgetting something.”

Percy grabbed his water and took a swig to clear his throat, still recovering from earlier.

“When we were still searching for you,” she went on, “Harry mentioned he ran into a professor – Trelawney, the divination teacher here. Apparently, she gave a prophecy. Like, a real one. Full-on possessed voice, just like Rachel.”

Percy raised a brow incredulously. “Gods, Annabeth. That’s not exactly something you forget to tell me.”

Annabeth stabbed a broccoli floret with more aggression than it deserved. “Yeah, well, maybe it’d matter more if we actually knew the whole prophecy. Harry doesn’t remember it word for word – just fragments – and Ron was useless trying to help. For all we know, he could’ve gotten it completely wrong.”

Percy frowned, suddenly feeling the weight of it settle into his chest. Another prophecy – great, just what they needed.

Before he could ask more, Nico appeared behind them, leaving his spot at the Hufflepuff table. He looked cheerful, the way he always did lately whenever he came back from hanging out with his new Hufflepuff friends. Percy noticed Jake Varner trailing behind him – a massive fifth year who could probably bench-press a centaur. His build was imposing, but the guy had the softest expression and laughed at just about everything.

“Hey,” Nico said, sliding in beside them. “Jake says he needs help with his potions homework. And he found out you’re the one who impressed Snape on day one.”

Percy stared at him. “Nico, I’ve been expelled from six schools. I’m not tutor material.”

Nico shrugged. “This isn’t a mortal school. It’s magic and shit. You accidentally blow something up, and they applaud. Besides, Jake’s already read all the theory – he just can’t figure out how to mix the stuff without it bubbling over. He needs practical help.”

A burst of laughter erupted from the Hufflepuff table. Someone had clearly cracked a joke. Nico grinned. “Too late, anyway. I told him you’ll help. It’s good for appearances – helps us blend in.”

He gave Percy a playful salute and strolled back to the Hufflepuff table, already joking with Jake before he sat back down.

Percy slumped in his seat. “He’s blending in just fine,” he muttered.

Annabeth gave Percy a sympathetic look. “Hey, remember what I said: let’s enjoy ourselves. Things have calmed down at home. Chiron said everything’s running smoothly. This is our chance to be students. Normal-ish ones, anyway.”

Percy poked at his food, conflicted. “I just feel guilty, you know? If I stop worrying about Camp, it’s like I’m saying it doesn’t matter.”

Annabeth’s expression softened. “We’re not ignoring it, Percy. I still worry about Camp Half-Blood all the time. I’d rather be there too, honestly. But …” She shrugged, her voice light. “Don’t we kind of deserve a break? Just a little one?”

He looked at her.

Truthfully, Percy did want to enjoy it. Hogwarts was weird and chaotic and magical – but in a way that felt more like normal life than anything he’d had in years. He could sit at dinner with friends, complain about classes, and even play a sport without worrying about monsters jumping out of nowhere.

After a moment, Percy pushed his plate away and turned to Annabeth. “Alright. I’m in.”

She raised a brow. “In for what?”

“For the quidditch tryouts. I liked flying in class – most of it, anyway. It was fun. I think I’d enjoy being part of the team, you know? Exercising, a little friendly competition.”

Annabeth smiled. “Then it’s a deal. You go to Slytherin’s tryouts, I’ll go to Ravenclaw’s.”

They grinned at each other.

Nico reappeared beside the table with Jake Varner in tow.

“We’re heading back to the common room,” Nico said casually. “You coming?”

Percy blinked. “Wait – I’m allowed in the Hufflepuff common room?”

Nico gave him a confused look, as if the question didn’t make sense. Jake, however, hesitated for a half second, suddenly a bit uncertain.

“Of course you are,” Jake said, though his tone had a slight edge of caution. “You’re with us.”

Annabeth drained the rest of her water and stood, nudging Percy with her elbow. He followed her lead, and the four of them headed out of the Great Hall together.

They had barely crossed the threshold when Percy accidentally bumped shoulders with someone coming from the opposite direction. He turned in surprise – only to come face-to-face with a younger Gryffindor student.

They were maybe a second or third year, with a messy red-and-gold tie half-untucked and wide eyes that flicked up to meet Percy’s. But they didn’t seem frightened of him, exactly – no, their gaze wasn’t on his face for long. It dropped almost immediately to his tie. Green and silver. Slytherin.

The kid took a step back instinctively, eyes wary.

Percy opened his mouth to apologise, feeling a flash of guilt. He hadn’t meant to bump into them – he wasn’t trying to intimidate anyone. “Sorry,” he said quietly.

But the Gryffindor was already backing off, slipping into the Great Hall without another word. Percy stood there for a second, watching them go, a sour taste settling in his mouth.

It wasn’t him they were afraid of. It was the house.

He turned back to Annabeth, Nico, and Jake, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. As he fell back into step beside them, he thought, these house stereotypes are really starting to get on my nerves.

*

Percy was genuinely surprised by the difference between the Slytherin and Hufflepuff common rooms.

The Slytherin dorms were buried deep in the dungeons, cold and dark, with greenish lighting and the eerie sound of water trickling from the Great Lake outside. But the Hufflepuff common room felt like it belonged to an entirely different school. Nico led him down the corridor near the Hogwarts kitchens, stopping at what looked like an unremarkable pile of barrels stacked in a shadowy recess.

Without hesitation, Nico tapped his wand against one of the barrels – second from the bottom, middle of the second row – in a rhythm that sounded almost like a cheerful little beat. Instantly, the barrel swung open to reveal a tunnel. Percy blinked. That was it? No secret passwords, no maze of stone walls? Way easier than blindly pressing bricks like he had done three times already to find the Slytherin entrance.

They ducked inside, walking up a sloped, earthy passage that opened into a low-ceilinged, circular room. It reminded Percy of a badger’s den, warm and cozy. The air was filled with the scent of plants and wood polish. Yellow and black tapestries lined the walls, accented by honey-coloured wooden furniture that glowed in the sunlight.

Wait – sunlight?

“Charmed windows,” Nico explained, noticing Percy’s reaction. “They mimic natural light all day. Sunrise, sunset, whatever makes the room look best.”

Percy glanced around. He could see why Nico liked it here. The hanging plants above their heads brushed his hair as they passed – cascading ivies and flowering vines, copper-bottomed pots swinging gently from the ceiling. Potted cacti lined low circular shelves, and a mantel carved with dancing badgers held a portrait of a kindly-looking woman.

“Helga Hufflepuff,” Nico said quietly. “Founder of the house.”

Compared to Slytherin’s cold stone aesthetic, this place felt like stepping into a sunbeam. It even made Nico look different – less pale, less shadowed. Percy could see the subtle change in his friend’s posture. Hufflepuff suited him.

Eventually, they made their way to Jake’s dorm, a round wooden door nestled into the wall like a hobbit hole. Jake’s cauldron was already set up on a sturdy bench. Percy offered what help he could, guiding Jake through two potion recipes. He emphasised reading all the instructions first – an often-overlooked detail – and pointed out the technique section in the back of the book. Stirring methods, dicing sizes, temperature control – it reminded Percy of a cross between cooking and spell craft.

Jake picked it up quickly, though he clearly lacked confidence. When they finished the practical side, they collapsed into a couple of cushy chairs near the window.

“I actually want to be a magizoologist,” Jake admitted.

Percy raised an eyebrow. “A what now?”

“Magical creature expert,” Jake said. “Kind of like a wizarding naturalist. But I need at least an A on my OWL potions exam to get there.”

Percy was about to ask what an OWL was when Jake added, “It stands for Ordinary Wizarding Level. All fifth years need to take them.”

Percy laughed. “That’s a weird name for a big scary exam.”

They kept chatting, their conversation slowly drifting into shared jokes about potion mishaps and hypothetical pranks. Percy admitted that most of his “skill” was dumb luck and instinct. Jake found that hilarious.

Eventually, their talk turned to quidditch.

“No kidding?” Percy said when Jake mentioned playing back home. “I was thinking of trying out this year.”

Jake hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Eh … I don’t think Slytherin’s even going to have a team.”

Percy frowned. “Why not?”

Jake leaned in, voice lowered. “You really don’t know?”

Percy shook his head.

“Well … last year kind of wrecked things. The war. You-Know-Who.” He glanced around. “The thing is, Slytherin house didn’t come out looking great. A lot of people still think they all supported him.”

Percy’s expression darkened. “I know about the war.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “I had a sister in Slytherin.”

“Had?” Percy asked.

Jake swallowed thickly. “Her name was Veronica. She died protecting first-years from Death Eaters. But nobody remembers that. All they remember is that Slytherin had ties to the Dark Lord. It split the house apart.”

There was a long pause.

Jake looked down at his shoes. “Now people are saying Slytherins might lose privileges. No Hogsmeade visits. No clubs. No quidditch.”

Percy shook his head. “That’s messed up. Dawson seems pretty set on having a team. He even asked me to try out.”

Jake looked genuinely surprised. “Dawson Chidator? Huh. That guy’s obsessed, yeah, but … Headmaster Dumbledore would need to approve. Maybe McGonagall – because she handles that kind of stuff for him. But if she’s letting it happen, maybe they’re just humouring him. Most people think nobody’s going to show up anyway.”

“Why?” Percy asked. “Is there that little house pride?”

Jake hesitated. “It’s Malfoy.”

Percy blinked. “Draco?”

“Yeah,” Jake said quietly. “He’s the only Slytherin seeker left. Everyone else dropped or graduated. No one wants to play on a team with him.”

Percy frowned. “But he’s just – he’s a student. Like us.”

“Maybe now,” Jake said. “But he was the one pushing Death Eater ideas in Slytherin. Rumours say he was even supposed to kill Dumbledore. His family’s ruined. His dad’s in Azkaban. His mum disappeared. He’s all alone.”

That made Percy pause.

He remembered Draco sitting by the window in their common room, half-turned from everyone, scribbling in silence. Always alone. Never invited to a conversation or group activity. It was clear nobody in Slytherin wanted anything to do with him.

“Doesn’t feel fair,” Percy said at last. “He was nice to me. That’s not what I expected, but … I’ve known people who made bad choices and tried to do better. That matters.”

Jake considered this, slowly nodding. “You’ve got a point. That’s kind of Slytherin in a nutshell.”

Percy smiled faintly. “Yeah, people don’t need to be best friends with him, but maybe they should stop treating him like a disease.”

He began packing his things. “Either way, I’m still trying out for the team. It’ll be fun. I’m not going to let everyone else’s fear decide that for me.”

Jake grinned. “You know what? You’re not so bad …” He smirked as he added, “… for a Slytherin.”

*

Later that night, Percy climbed the spiral stairs to the Ravenclaw tower, still not entirely used to being allowed in other house common rooms.

The Ravenclaw common room felt different from the others. It was circular and wide, with tall arched windows that let in the cool night air, and soft blue and bronze silks hanging between the pillars. Through the glass, Percy could see the surrounding mountains under starlight. The ceiling was domed and painted with constellations that glimmered faintly in the dark, mirrored by a midnight-blue carpet underfoot. In the far corner, a tall marble statue of an eagle loomed gracefully over the room.

It was airy, elegant, and – Percy noted with a wry smile – almost offensively perfect for Annabeth. It looked like Athena herself had designed it.

When the room finally cleared out, and the last couple of Ravenclaws retreated to their dorms, Percy joined Annabeth at a table near the fire. She had already taken off her house robes and was wearing a simple camp shirt, curled over a scroll of parchment with a determined furrow in her brow.

“So?” Percy asked, settling into the chair beside her. “You mentioned a prophecy earlier?”

Annabeth leaned back with a groan. “Yeah. I meant to bring it up earlier. I forgot, with you coming back and everything. But Professor Trelawney made a prophecy,” Annabeth tossed her quill aside. “A real one. Harry said she had a possessed voice, glazed eyes, the whole thing.”

Percy blinked. “So, what’s the problem with it?” 

“She gave a prophecy,” Annabeth repeated. “But like I said at dinner, Harry doesn’t remember all of it.”

“This still doesn’t seem like something you should forget to tell me, though.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “I know. But it didn’t seem urgent without the full thing. Harry butchered it when he tried to repeat it.” She cleared her throat dramatically, putting on a posh British accent. “‘Balance breaks, lightning will shift … the son of the sea must choose … allies will stand together and someone will fall … something-something … balance will mend.’”

Percy stared. “That’s it?”

Annabeth gave an irritated shrug. “That’s all he remembers. And honestly, who knows if he even got that much right.”

Percy slumped deeper into his chair, staring at the fire. “This was supposed to be an easy quest. A little magical babysitting. Not more prophecies. Not more cryptic warnings about falling and balance.”

“I know,” Annabeth said quietly. “But we both knew it wouldn’t be simple. A new prophecy mentioning the ‘son of the sea’ doesn’t exactly leave much room for interpretation.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. He felt the weight pressing down again, the familiar heaviness of being chosen. Of fate twisting in his direction, whether he liked it or not.

Annabeth reached across the table and took his hand, her fingers warm against his. He glanced over at her, and she offered a small smile – reassuring, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Look,” she said, “this is just like the old days. We’ll wait for the prophecy to start moving. It always does. Until then, we can enjoy the quiet. Take a breath.”

“A vacation before the war,” Percy muttered.

“Exactly,” Annabeth said, her smile widening just a bit. “A vacation before the war.”

They sat like that for a while – just the two of them, hand in hand, staring into the Ravenclaw fire as starlight spilled through the windows behind them.

*

By the morning of September eighteenth, Percy woke to what could only be described as a full-blown Dawson Chidator meltdown.

The Slytherin common room was in chaos – well, Dawson was in chaos. The quidditch tryouts were scheduled for that evening, and apparently, the team captain had chosen panic over preparation. He was in the middle of trying (and failing) to fasten his belt while pacing in circles, his tie mangled into a knot that resembled something closer to a sailor’s hitch than a uniform accessory. His hair stuck up in jagged spikes, like he had been flying through a windstorm already.

“And then after the laps,” Dawson rambled to a group of half-awake friends, “I’m going to make them run catching drills. No, no – before the catching drills I want to see footwork. Reaction time. Balance checks!”

Percy stood at the stairwell for a moment, watching the scene unfold like someone might watch a train derail in slow motion. It was almost impressive, really, how frenzied one person could be before breakfast.

Dawson only snapped out of it when two of his friends physically redirected him to the door so he didn’t walk straight into the wall on the way out.

Breakfast was the usual bustle, but Percy took care to keep clear of the Gryffindor table. Ever since Harry, Hermione, and Ron lost their house eighty points looking for him past curfew, it seemed like the whole of Gryffindor wanted nothing to do with him. Thalia had tried a few times to get the demigods to sit together, but Percy always declined. The glares he got from the red-and-gold side of the hall were enough to sour his appetite.

It stung more than he liked to admit. Usually, Percy didn’t care what people thought of him – he had been disliked by enough gods, monsters, and mortals in his life to grow some serious armour – but something about the collective disdain from an entire house still got under his skin.

Still, the Slytherin table felt more like home now. Sitting with them reminded him of camp capture the flag days – that same sense of easy camaraderie, where even if you didn’t get along with everyone, you fought for the same goal. Strategy over sentiment. Brutal honesty, dark humour, a little mischief here and there … Percy could get behind that.

He spent the day barely able to focus. His anticipation for tryouts simmered all through his spare time and lunch, where Dawson – still twitchy and high-energy – floated around the Slytherin table practically begging people to show up.

“He’s starting to act like a Hufflepuff,” Percy whispered to Tracey Davis as Dawson enthusiastically tried to rally two disinterested fourth years. But even through the manic energy, Percy could see the drive behind it – the ambition. He respected it.

The mood changed the moment they reached the actual quidditch pitch.

Percy had expected a decent turnout – maybe not Gryffindor’s level, but still respectable. Instead, he counted heads and came up with ten. Including Dawson. Not ideal.

“I heard Gryffindor had at least thirty people show up,” one boy muttered. Percy glanced over to see Rick Nash – a wiry fifth year – talking to a blonde girl.

“You’re lowballing it,” the girl snorted. “It was more like fifty.”

Percy couldn’t help but scan the empty pitch. Ten people looked sad compared to Gryffindor’s turnout.

Rick turned and called out to Dawson. “Hey, are we going to start, or what? We’ve been standing here for approximately …” He looked down at his wrist, where there was obviously no watch. “Too long.”

Dawson looked visibly deflated, but he nodded. “Yeah … we’ll start.”

He grabbed a stack of school brooms and began tossing them out like party favours. Percy caught his and winced at how old and worn it looked.

“Are these Cleansweep Ones?” Rick asked, incredulous. “I’m pretty sure these were manufactured when dinosaurs still roamed the earth.”

Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re dealt shit cards, you play them well. Quidditch is a game of skill, not luck. Your broom doesn’t matter if you know how to fly.”

“Right,” Rick muttered. “Inspirational.”

Tryouts began with timed laps on the Cleansweeps – which Percy quickly realised deserved the name because they flew like actual broomsticks meant for sweeping, not riding. The wood creaked, the bristles drooped, and steering was a nightmare. Still, Dawson barked orders like a drill sergeant, pacing the length of the pitch with a stopwatch and a permanent scowl.

When someone cracked a joke about broom quality, Dawson made him do twenty push-ups.

After laps came catching drills. But they weren’t on brooms. Dawson made them stand in a line while he threw undersized balls – about half the size of a quaffle – and expected perfect catches. He threw short. He threw long. He made them move and dive. Most people dropped more than they caught.

“Don’t blame the balls,” he barked. “Blame your reflexes.”

Then came what Percy considered actual torture.

“Line up,” Dawson ordered. “We’re playing Merlin Says.”

“Seriously?” Percy asked. “Is that like wizard Simon Says?”

“No,” Dawson replied without a hint of irony. “It’s worse.”

And it was.

Marching, flopping, leaping to their feet – all with brooms held between their legs like they were mid-flight. They had to do it all the way across the field. Percy’s legs started cramping halfway through, and his arm ached from bracing his falls. The worst part? It started to sleet. Freezing, miserable sleet that hit like icy needles. Even Percy, who usually didn’t mind rain thanks to his whole sea-god heritage, struggled to keep upright.

And Dawson? He didn’t ease up at all.

“This is the point,” he shouted over the wind. “You think it’s hard? That’s the point. I want you to train your instincts. Don’t flinch. Don’t hesitate. If you’re diving for the quaffle, you throw your whole body. You commit.”

The girl next to Percy – a sixth year he hadn’t caught the name of – actually slipped off her broom halfway through a lap and landed hard. Dawson made sure she was okay, but he didn’t stop the drills.

It was dark, wet, and miserable by the time they were finally done.

Dawson gathered them at the edge of the pitch, soaked to the bone, looking both winded and satisfied.

“I thank all of you for coming out today,” he said earnestly. “I really had a lot of fun, and I hope you did too.”

Percy glanced sideways. Rick elbowed Benjamin Kensley and snorted, unimpressed. Dawson saw it but said nothing. Percy couldn’t blame Rick – the guy had done more push-ups than drills and looked like he might pass out.

Still, Percy had to admit: it felt kind of good to be exhausted from something normal. And brutal as it had been, he had to respect Dawson’s determination.

“Results will be posted in the common room by Monday,” Dawson finished. “You all did really well today.”

Percy was cold, sore, and soaked to the skin – but he was also grinning as he followed the others off the pitch.

*

Gryffindor quidditch tryouts had been on Saturday, and for the first time in ages, Harry had been genuinely excited for something as simple as sport. The sky had stayed clear the whole morning, the pitch was crisp with a light autumn chill, and nearly everyone who could try out, did. It felt good. It felt normal. Penny Pompfrey, the new team captain and Madam Pomfrey’s niece, had proven surprisingly competent. Harry had expected her to be all safety rules and softness, but she had a sharp eye and an even sharper broom arm.

Two days later, Harry had all but forgotten about the results being posted. He only remembered when he clambered through the Fat Lady’s portrait and nearly collided with Ginny. She stood just inside the common room, arms crossed, and didn’t look pleased.

“Quidditch results are up,” she said shortly. “You’re the seeker.”

The words made Harry grin. He stepped forward and swept Ginny into a hug. “That’s great!” He kissed her cheek, expecting to share the moment – but she pulled back, her expression unmoved.

Harry frowned. “What’s wrong? Did you not make the team?”

Ginny blushed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes darted anywhere but at him, and she started rifling through her bag as if something inside would save her from answering. “No. I did. I’m the reserve Seeker.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Well, that’s great too!” He said, trying to keep the mood light, though she clearly didn’t agree.

She glanced around the emptying common room, then tugged him to the side. “I just don’t understand how I went from being captain and seeker last year to only reserve this year. I didn’t even make chaser. Nothing.”

Harry gave a sheepish laugh. “Well, we can’t have two seekers. It had to be one of us.”

Ginny’s frown deepened. “That’s not what this is about. I know we’re both good, Harry. So why did I get benched? Why wasn’t I picked for anything else?”

“Not everyone makes the team,” Harry said, feeling increasingly awkward. “It’s like that sometimes. The best of the best get the spots.”

She shot him a sharp look. “Oh really? So, you’re saying I’m not one of the best? Harry, you’re a talented player, and I’m not denying that you earned your place. But can you honestly say your name didn’t influence Penny’s decision? Because I am just as good as you.”

His stomach dropped, anger bubbling up before he could think. “You’re being irrational. Only one of us could be seeker, Ginny. It’s not a big deal that you’re the reserve.” He stalked over to the list and jabbed a finger at it. “That’s how teams work. Sometimes you don’t make it. Maybe I deserved it more. This is my last year, after all – my last shot.”

Ginny followed him, jaw clenched. “You’re such a jerk sometimes. You need to grow up. You’re not always going to be ‘The Boy Who Lived.’”

She yanked a quill from her bag, her hand trembling as she crossed her name off the list. “You know, you told me you wanted to focus on your future. On us. And yet here you are, throwing yourself into quidditch like it’s fifth year again. You argued with Penny over Oliver Wood’s ancient drills and sulked when you didn’t get your way. Maybe that’s why I’m wondering why I didn’t make the team, and you did. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is also my last year. I won’t get another chance, either – but I don’t want to be on the team if I’m only going to be in your shadow.”

She glanced up at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she might say something else – but then she threw the quill at his chest and stormed off toward the girls’ dormitory.

The common room had gone silent. A few students lingered by the fireplace, watching him with wide eyes. Dean Thomas let out a low whistle.

“Damn, Potter. Your girl is mad.”

Harry sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, hands covering his face. He didn’t fully understand why Ginny was so upset, but something told him he couldn’t leave it like this. Not if he wanted to fix it.

*

On Monday, Percy woke earlier than usual – six o’clock. He lay there for a moment, debating whether to try and steal a bit more sleep. But he felt oddly alert, like something was waiting for him. Rather than toss and turn, he got up and dressed quietly, careful not to wake his roommates.

The common room was empty and quiet when he padded down the stairs, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Or so he thought it was empty. He stopped short when he saw someone already standing near the exit.

Draco.

Of all people, he hadn’t expected to run into Draco at this hour. Draco was staring at a sheet of white parchment pinned to the wall beside the door. When he noticed Percy, he turned slightly, offering a small smile that looked like it cost him some effort.

“Congratulations, Perseus,” he said dryly. “You’re quite the keeper, apparently.”

Percy let out a chuckle despite the lame pun, amused at the attempt. He stepped up beside Draco and read the parchment.

*

SLYTHERIN QUIDDITCH TEAM 2010–2011

CHASER ONE: Dawson Chidator
CHASER TWO: Riley Ethleta
CHASER THREE: Taylor Marlowe
RESERVE CHASER: Emily Addington

BEATER ONE: Rick Nash
BEATER TWO: Benjamin Kensley
RESERVE BEATER: Hannah Garrick

KEEPER: Perseus Jackson

SEEKER: Draco Malfoy

CAPTAIN: Dawson Chidator

*

Percy’s eyes lit up. “Hey, we’re both on the team!” He said, turning to Draco with a wide grin. He held out his fist instinctively. “Nice!”

Draco stared at him, then looked down at Percy’s hand like it was a strange magical object. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Percy laughed and bumped his own fists together as a demonstration. “It’s a no-maj thing – er, muggle thing. It’s a way friends celebrate. We both made the team, so – fist bump. It’s fun. Trust me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at the gesture like it was beneath him, lips pursed in the kind of quiet disapproval Percy was starting to find weirdly entertaining. Then, with a sigh, he raised his fist.

“No one hears a word of this,” he muttered.

Percy bumped his fist and grinned even wider. “Not a soul,” he promised.

It felt like a win in more ways than one.

After breakfast in the Great Hall, the Slytherins made their way down to the dungeons for potions. Percy walked beside Draco, still buzzing slightly from seeing his name on the quidditch list.

Once everyone had settled into their usual seats, Snape swept into the classroom. Without preamble, he announced, “Today, we begin a long-term potions project.”

The class collectively groaned. Snape ignored them.

He explained that each pair of students would draw the name of a healing potion from a hat – Snape’s own, of course – and that their assignment would include brewing the potion and writing an essay detailing its properties, usage, and method of creation. Percy actually didn’t mind the sound of it. Partner work would be a nice change from Snape’s usual solo assessments.

As soon as Snape finished speaking, Percy turned to Draco.

“You want to be partners?”

Draco looked at him with his usual half-bored, half-displeased expression. It wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but after a brief pause, he nodded. “Fine.”

Snape began to move slowly through the rows, holding out the black hat, and one by one, students pulled their potion assignments. When he reached their desk, Percy reached in and pulled out a slip. The parchment felt slightly damp, and he unfolded it to find Snape’s spidery handwriting: MEDELA POTION.

Percy frowned. He had no idea what that was.

“‘Medela’…” He muttered, trying to recall any mention of it. The word sounded familiar. Latin, maybe. Healing or medicine, something along those lines. It didn’t sound too complicated.

Then Draco leaned over and read the name. His face fell.

“Oh, Merlin – you really couldn’t have chosen worse.”

Percy blinked. “What do you mean?”

But Draco didn’t answer. He just rubbed his temples and muttered something about “bloody impossible standards.”

It wasn’t until they cracked open one of the older reference books and started researching that Percy began to understand.

The Medela Potion was meant to be ingested to treat internal wounds – things even basic healing charms couldn’t reach. Internal bleeding, magical organ damage, and hex-induced tissue scarring. It sounded useful enough, but the more Percy read, the more his stomach sank. It didn’t heal anything fully – just dulled the pain and slowed the damage, sort of like putting a sticking charm on a broken bone.

Then came the ingredients.

Pages and pages of them.

Some were rare. Some were temperamental. Some were both. Measurements were written to the tenth of a gram, and any deviation risked rendering the entire potion unusable – or worse, toxic. Stirring motions were described with maddening precision: clockwise for six seconds, counterclockwise for four, then a full figure-eight without touching the edge of the cauldron. And the temperature … well, Percy didn’t even know flames could be measured that specifically.

He closed the book with a sigh and looked at Draco. “Okay … I get it now.”

Draco just frowned.

They both realised there was no way they would get it done in a single class period. Snape didn’t allow half-brewed potions to sit overnight, and the Medela Potion took three hours minimum, assuming they didn’t mess up.

“Want to ask if we can come back after dinner?” Percy suggested.

Draco nodded. “Monday’s better than Thursday. Let’s just get it over with.”

Snape approved their request with a sharp nod and a cryptic, “Don’t waste my time.”

The rest of the class was spent drafting a rough version of their essay. Percy was halfway through writing about the potion’s historical use when Draco groaned and grabbed the parchment.

“What is this? What are you doing to the English language?”

Percy raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“This is … it’s like you’re writing with your eyes closed. You’re banned from writing the final paper. I am officially banning you from ever touching paper or quill again.”

Percy held up his hands in surrender. “Fine by me.”

Draco rolled his eyes and began rewriting Percy’s paragraph from scratch, quill flying across the parchment.

Honestly, Percy didn’t mind. Brewing the potion would be enough of a nightmare – he was happy to let Draco handle the writing if it meant fewer headaches.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of strange and memorable moments.

In herbology, Percy got to witness James Lock – one of the taller, more aloof seventh-year Slytherins – somehow manage to get himself wedged inside an oversized flowerpot while wrestling with a particularly aggressive Snareweed. Professor Sprout looked two seconds away from losing it, and Percy was still laughing about it during defense against the Dark Arts, where they ditched wands for swords and did some old-fashioned dueling drills. Percy had the bruised knuckles to prove it.

Flight class, though – that was where the real entertainment happened.

Dawson Chidator, quidditch captain and certified menace, scored seven goals in a row during drills. By the end of the seventh, he tossed his broom aside, stripped off his robe with a dramatic flair, and broke into a victory dance right on the practice pitch. Madam Hooch docked him ten house points with a sharp glare, but on the walk back to the castle, Dawson leaned over and whispered to Percy, “Totally worth it.”

Percy grinned. He agreed.

Harry had been as red as a strawberry, and that alone made the spectacle unforgettable.

After dinner, Percy and Draco headed down to Snape’s dungeon to finally begin brewing their Medela Potion. The classroom was dark and quiet aside from the occasional bubble or hiss from other student brews left to sit under preservation charms.

“Perseus, stop trying to adhere the eyeball to your forehead,” Draco muttered without looking up from his work. “You don’t have three eyes.”

Percy, who had indeed been trying to stick one of the dried monster eyeballs to his forehead using a bit of potion slime, snorted. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it dangerously on two legs. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

“I’m efficient,” Draco replied, calmly measuring out bone powder. “There’s a difference.”

Undeterred, Percy grabbed a dried cow tongue and held it under his nose like a mustache. He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.

Draco turned just in time to see it. He gagged. “Merlin’s – Perseus, that’s disgusting.”

“I’m fun,” Percy corrected with a grin.

Despite the grim ingredients and complex recipe, their process was going smoothly. They took turns stirring the potion to give each other a break – Draco was frighteningly exact with his motions, while Percy had a looser style that somehow still managed not to mess things up. When it was Percy’s turn to stir counterclockwise, Draco handed him a pouch of sliced special herbs, and Percy dumped them in with dramatic flair.

An hour and a half later, their potion was complete. The thick, pale green liquid shimmered faintly in the light, and Percy could hardly believe it – they had actually managed to brew the Medela Potion on their first go.

Snape swept in from the back of the room to inspect their cauldron. He leaned over, peered inside, then stood up with his usual unreadable expression.

“Well done, Draco and Percy.”

Percy blinked. Praise? From Snape?

He turned toward Draco and was genuinely surprised to see a smile – an actual smile – spread across Draco’s face. It was small and brief, but real. He looked genuinely proud. Percy hadn’t seen that expression on him before. He hadn’t realised how much Snape’s approval meant to Draco until now.

They carefully bottled several vials of the potion, corking each one tightly. Cleaning up took longer. Snape barked at them several times for putting ingredients away in the “wrong order,” and Draco snapped back once under his breath. Percy caught it and smirked.

By the time they left the dungeon, the air between them was noticeably more relaxed. Draco’s usual stiffness had eased a little. It wasn’t quite friendly, but it was something close.

Back in the Slytherin common room, Percy plopped down on the nearest couch, ready to continue the casual camaraderie from the lab. But Draco stopped near the entryway. He had grabbed his bookbag; a few rolled up parchments, tied with twine, were sticking out the top of it.

“I’m heading out.”

Percy looked up. “Where to?”

Draco’s expression flickered for half a second – something quick and unreadable passed over his face before he covered it with a scowl. “I’m doing something. None of your business.”

The way he said it wasn’t angry, just final.

Percy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. See you later, then.”

Draco nodded stiffly and turned, cloak flaring slightly as he left through the stone passage.

Percy watched him go, frowning a little. He didn’t push. If there was one thing he’d learned about Draco Malfoy so far, it was that pushing only made him push back harder.

Still, something about the way Draco had said it stuck with him. There was something lonely in it, Percy thought.

He shook it off and stretched out across the couch, still faintly proud of the potion they’d brewed. It hadn’t been a bad day – not bad at all.

Percy had nothing to do in the Slytherin common room. He had already finished everything he cared to do, it was the beginning of the week, and the rest could wait until future-him was in more of a school-spirit mood. So, with boredom buzzing under his skin, he left and made his way up to the Great Hall, hoping to track down a familiar face or two.

Inside, the hall was quieter than usual – no mealtime crowds, just the scattered murmur of students working or chatting. He spotted Annabeth immediately, seated at one of the long tables with Kelly Yew, both hunched over parchment and books. At first glance, they looked deep into their potions assignment, until Percy got closer.

“I mean, how do I break it to them?” Kelly was saying in a low, urgent voice. “Alex isn’t exactly a ‘pure-blood boy.’ And to make it worse, that fucker is a sweet Hufflepuff. My parents will never let me be with a Hufflepuff.”

Annabeth nodded seriously, clearly invested. “What do you do? You don’t keep it a secret forever, that’s for sure. Your parents can’t control your life, Kelly. Alex sounds like a sweet girl. I’d stay with her.”

Percy froze halfway to the table, not wanting to interrupt.

Too late.

Kelly noticed him, paled, and immediately straightened up, cheeks flaming red. She pulled her scroll closer, as if that would make everything less awkward. Percy gave her a sheepish wave.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just looking for Nico. Thought maybe he’d want to go for a walk or something.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve got literally nothing else to do tonight.”

Annabeth raised a brow. “Really? No homework?”

Percy hesitated. “Well, not that needs to be done right now.”

She gave him a look but relented with a smirk. “Fair enough. I don’t know where Nico or Thalia are, but if I had to guess, they’re probably working on the homework you’re putting off.”

Percy grinned. “I’ll let them be miserable. I’ll find something else.”

That “something else” turned out to be a trip back to the Slytherin common room, where he settled in front of the big enchanted windows. The lake outside rippled with darkness, greenish light glowing faintly. Percy pressed his hand to the cool glass and sent out a mental nudge, calling softly to the water.

A few curious fish came swimming up, shimmering like little dancers. One of them even did a somersault. Percy grinned. He had hoped Muireann might show up – she had been fun to talk to – but it seemed she was off doing giant squid things.

“Hey, Percy!”

He turned, still half-focused on the fish, and found Rick Nash lounging on a couch with Taylor Marlowe and Benjamin Kensley. All three of them looked thoroughly done with the day – robes gone, ties loosened, shirts wrinkled like they had been through a wind tunnel. Percy could relate.

Rick, one of the Slytherin team’s beaters and a fifth year, sat with his legs stretched out. “What’s new?”

“Nothing,” Percy said, crossing the room to flop down beside him. “Just bored as hell.”

“You’re the new Slytherin keeper, right?” Rick said, a spark lighting in his eyes. “Why don’t we play some quidditch?”

Percy blinked. “Uh, I don’t have my own broom.”

Rick waved a hand like that was a non-issue. “We’ll grab one from the broom shack. No one’s using the pitch tonight. Dawson shared the schedule with me.”

“We’re allowed to use the pitch without permission?” Percy asked.

Rick shrugged. “No. Not really.”

Percy snorted. “Alright. But what if we get caught? I’m not looking to be the guy who gets us all docked fifty house points.”

Benjamin, a fourth year, leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No one checks the pitch this late. It’s too far from the castle, and professors are lazy. Besides …” He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a tiny glass vial filled with an opalescent liquid. “I’ve got a potion that turns us invisible. Traded a few sickles for it from Rick’s twin, Nick, in Hufflepuff. Guy’s a genius with potions. I figured I’d use it eventually.”

Taylor, lounging across from them, raised a hand. “We can use the time to throw at the hoops. Percy can practice blocking. It’s a win-win.”

Technically, it was breaking the rules. But Percy had broken Camp Half-Blood rules before, and those usually involved actual monsters chasing them down. This? This was tame by comparison. A few brooms, a little flying in a restricted section. No big deal.

He passed the Great Hall again on the way out and caught Annabeth’s eye through the open doors. “Hey, I’m off to the pitch with some of the team,” he said casually, already halfway past.

She nodded absentmindedly and hummed in acknowledgment.

Percy and his fellow Slytherins headed out to the pitch.

As it turned out, Benjamin, Rick, and Taylor were actually pretty easy to get along with. Percy hadn’t expected to enjoy hanging out with them so much, but it was a refreshing change of pace. They didn’t try to act like they were better than him, or whisper behind his back like some of the Gryffindors had started doing.

The four of them ended up doing a lot of quidditch practice – shooting on Percy all at once, forcing him to stay alert and move fast. Rick and Taylor showed him a few maneuvering tricks he hadn’t picked up yet, and Percy absorbed it all like a sponge. Eventually, the focus shifted toward the bludgers. Benjamin and Rick were both beaters and wanted to get in some practice, and Percy didn’t mind watching – or even giving it a go himself.

Beating wasn’t too different from baseball, really. Swing, make contact, watch it fly. It felt natural.

They even turned it into a game – who could hit a bludger the farthest. Rick was winning by a mile, grinning like a maniac every time he dove after one. He looked completely at home in the air.

“Hey Taylor, go long!” Benjamin shouted, hitting a bludger one-handed with his bat and slamming it with a clean hit. The ball curved high into the sky, whistling.

Taylor prepared to fly after it, but suddenly stopped mid-air, staring at something near the edge of the pitch.

Percy turned his head and followed his gaze.

Two figures were entering the arena down below. At first, Percy couldn’t tell who it was, but then he saw the unmistakable mess of red hair and realised immediately: Harry and Ron.

“Who’s that?” Benjamin asked, squinting through the dimming light.

Rick sneered. “Potter and his slave.”

The venom in Rick’s voice took Percy by surprise – but then again, maybe it shouldn’t have. Percy remembered how Harry had been treating them lately. During flight class, he played dirty. He let his team bend the rules and never called it out. The friendly tone from the start of term had evaporated. Even Thalia had stopped hanging out with Percy recently.

Something had changed. Harry had changed.

“I knew it!” Harry shouted from below. He sounded furious. “See? She said they were out here.”

She? Percy’s stomach twisted.

“Quick, let’s go get a teacher before they leave.”

Taylor’s head snapped toward Percy. “Did you hear that?”

Percy was already flying to the ground. “He’s going to get a teacher. We need to go. Now.”

Rick muttered a curse under his breath and dropped down beside him, immediately heading for the chest. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a sharp whistle that echoed across the pitch. The bludgers came streaking back toward him, and Rick caught them one by one, grunting under the force. He slammed them into the box and locked it shut.

“Of course, Potter’s ratting us out,” Rick snarled. “Ben, where’s that invisibility potion my brother gave you? Is there enough for all of us?”

Percy shook his head. “No – save it. We can be out of here before he gets back.”

Benjamin pulled out his wand, a light brown-pink piece that was delicately carved. “Anyone remember the levitating spell?” He paused, then smacked himself. “Wait. Duh. Wingardium Leviosa!”

With a flick, the brooms and chest floated into the air beside him.

“Let’s go.”

They left the arena at a fast walk, Percy keeping his eyes sharp for movement. As they rounded the side, he spotted Harry in the distance – this time with someone else. A professor?

“Stick to the side!” Percy hissed, motioning to the others. Then he broke into a run, the others close behind, swearing under their breath. They reached the broom shack just in time and ducked behind it. Percy peeked out from the side – Harry and the teacher kept walking straight, heading into the arena.

He turned back and grinned. “All clear.”

Rick burst out laughing and clapped his hands. “Potter’s not gonna know what hit him. He had it coming.”

Benjamin carefully guided the floating quidditch equipment into the broom shack, and once it was stowed, the four boys headed back toward the castle.

Inside, Taylor suggested they stop by the Great Hall to see who was still around. As they turned a corner, Percy heard footsteps – and shouting.

Further down the corridor, Argus Filch was dragging Harry by the ear.

“You’ve really done it this time, lying to me,” Filch growled. “Thirty points from Gryffindor, Potter.”

Harry yelped in protest. “But sir, I swear they were there! Thalia told me – she said they were out on the pitch! I saw them! They just got away –”

Filch ignored him and stormed off. Harry stood there, seething, his face flushed with frustration and humiliation.

“Dirty Slytherins!” He spat, loud enough for Percy to hear.

Percy’s fists clenched, but he stayed put. He could have called Harry out for it, for being a jerk, for blaming everyone but himself. But what would have been the point? He had already lost thirty points.

“He had it coming,” as Rick had said.

Let him stew in it.

They continued down the hall. When they reached the Great Hall, Percy was surprised to find it still buzzing with activity, even though curfew was fast approaching. His eyes scanned the room and landed on Annabeth at the Gryffindor table. He waved goodbye to his new friends and headed over.

As he sat down beside her, he saw Thalia across the table. Her expression twisted in shock.

“Why are you here?” She asked, voice sharp.

Annabeth smiled and kissed Percy on the cheek. “Just back from quidditch, then? Bad news – or good, depending on how you feel about pain. Dawson’s got you signed up for practice every weekend. Two, three-hour sessions.”

Percy groaned.

But Thalia slapped the table, demanding their attention again.

“Percy, where’s Harry? Why are you here?”

Annabeth frowned. “What’s going on?”

Percy stared back at Thalia, his jaw tightening. “What – did you think I’d be in detention already?” Her guilty expression gave her away. Then her eyes widened, and he could see the pieces clicking into place.

“I overheard Harry saying you told him about us being on the pitch,” Percy said. “He tried to get us in trouble. Filch docked Gryffindor thirty points.”

Thalia gasped, face going red. “You didn’t!”

Annabeth looked between them. “Okay – what is going on?”

Thalia’s shock turned to anger in a flash. “Gods, Percy, why would you do that?”

Percy blinked. “What? Try not to get detention?”

“You broke the rules and got caught! And Harry got punished for it. This is the second time. You should’ve just stayed and taken the blame!”

Percy stared at her like she had lost her mind. “You wanted me to stay and get in trouble? You told on us!”

Annabeth looked stunned. “Thalia, seriously?”

Thalia crossed her arms. “It’s against the rules.”

Annabeth turned to Percy, eyes narrowing. “Wait – you didn’t tell me you were breaking rules.”

He rubbed his temple. “I didn’t think it mattered. We weren’t hurting anyone.”

Thalia threw her hands up. “Gods, Percy, you’re insufferable! You’ve changed since getting into Slytherin. I can’t believe you’re acting like this. Maybe if you lost some points, you’d start thinking about someone besides yourself.”

She stormed away from the table. Percy could feel the judgmental stares from the Gryffindors further down.

He dropped his forehead onto the table with a soft thud.

What had happened? When had things fallen apart like this?

“Annabeth,” he muttered, lifting his head. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him, disappointed. “This is your fault, Percy. Don’t look to me for answers.”

He stared at her, hurt.

Maybe this quest was more screwed up than he thought.

*

Chapter 14: selfish

*

Chapter 14: Selfish

Harry felt like he was losing his grip on reality.

Ever since the transfer students had arrived at Hogwarts – and more specifically, ever since Perseus Jackson had been sorted into Slytherin – things had begun to fall apart. House points were vanishing at an alarming rate, mostly due to Percy. Snape, already no fan of Harry, had turned completely hostile in potions ever since Percy and Malfoy started acting like best friends. Even Ron, Harry’s best mate, was beginning to look at him like he was the crazy one every time Harry tried to point out how shady Percy was.

And Ginny … well, their relationship was on shaky ground lately. That part, maybe, wasn’t Percy’s fault – but Harry had decided that most of his bad luck could somehow be traced back to that smug Slytherin.

So when Dumbledore requested to see him in his office, Harry felt a wave of relief. Finally – finally! – someone would listen. Someone with the authority and wisdom to fix everything. He had always looked up to Dumbledore, ever since first coming to Hogwarts. And now that things were falling apart, surely the headmaster would help him piece them back together.

All Harry had to do was explain. Tell Dumbledore the truth about Percy – that he wasn’t just some arrogant new kid, but someone dangerous. Manipulative. Malfoy 2.0. Harry could finally stop dealing with this mess alone.

With the note in hand, Harry made his way to the spiral staircase leading to Dumbledore’s office. The gargoyle guarding it glared down at him with its usual stony menace, wings arched and fangs bared. Harry ignored it.

“Honeysuckle,” he said clearly.

The gargoyle groaned and grudgingly slid aside. Harry climbed the steps two at a time, barely able to contain his urgency. He needed to be heard.

The office looked like it had finally returned to normal. During the war, when Dumbledore had been removed as headmaster, the place had felt cold and wrong – full of dark artifacts, black magic tomes, and empty portrait frames. But now, everything had been restored. The whirring silver instruments were back, puffing steam and glowing gently. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses hung on the walls once again, their eyes watching him with mild interest.

And there, behind the familiar claw-footed desk, sat Albus Dumbledore.

The old wizard looked just as Harry remembered – long silver hair and beard, sparkling grey eyes behind his half-moon spectacles, and a calm presence that immediately made Harry’s shoulders relax. He wore long silver robes today, with a plum-colored cloak and those high-heeled, buckled purple boots Harry could never quite understand. Around his neck hung a strange new pendant – three moons: two crescents, one full, inlaid with purple gemstones. Odd, but Harry barely noticed it.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. “Harry, my boy. Come, sit.”

Harry all but fell into the chair opposite him. “Professor, you don’t know how happy I am to see you. I –”

But Dumbledore raised a hand. “Now, now. We’re here for a reason, aren’t we?”

Harry blinked, startled by the interruption. “I – I mean, yes, sir.”

A beat of silence passed. Harry cleared his throat. “Er, why am I here, exactly?”

“I’ve heard news of a new prophecy,” Dumbledore said calmly.

Harry froze.

He hadn’t told anyone. None of them had, as far as he knew – except maybe Professor Trelawny, who had spoken the prophecy in that weird, distant voice she got when something other took over. But Trelawny never remembered her own prophecies. Not the first one. Why would she remember this one?

Still, Dumbledore knowing made a strange kind of sense. If anyone was going to find out, it would be him.

“Yes,” Harry said slowly. “There is one. Professor Trelawny spoke it.”

Dumbledore nodded as if he already knew. “Indeed. She spoke one during her first interview with me, as well. That’s why I hired her. Of course, she didn’t remember that one, either.”

Harry shifted awkwardly. “She doesn’t usually remember them, no.”

“Fortunately,” Dumbledore continued, “this time there were two witnesses. One of whom is you.”

Harry's stomach sank. “I can’t remember it clearly, sir,” he admitted, frustrated with himself. “It happened so fast, and I wasn’t really –”

“That’s quite alright, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently. “You don’t need to recite it from memory. We can view your recollection through the pensieve.”

He gestured toward the stone basin on a nearby table – the one Harry knew well. The idea of sharing his memories made his skin crawl. The pensieve could be precise. Too precise. What if Dumbledore saw something he didn’t mean to share?

Seeing Harry hesitate, Dumbledore’s smile faded slightly.

“You understand how important this is, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry looked into those cool, grey eyes. He had always trusted Dumbledore. He wanted to trust him now.

Still, the weight of it all settled heavily on his shoulders. If he gave up this memory, he was giving Dumbledore more than just words. He was surrendering part of himself.

But he also knew Dumbledore was right. The prophecy mattered. More than Harry’s privacy.

He swallowed hard and nodded.

“Okay, professor. I know how important it is. I’ll share what I can with you.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled again, and his smile returned. “Thank you, Harry.”

*

A whole month had passed at Hogwarts, and for once, things were calm – on the surface, anyway.

For Percy Jackson, the month had felt like one long balancing act. Ever since things went sideways with the wizard trio, he had been walking on eggshells – around Harry and even around his own friends. The tension was thick enough to cut with a sword, and it didn’t seem like it would ease up any time soon.

He had stopped visiting the Gryffindor table during breaks. They hadn’t invited him, and he wasn’t about to force himself into a place where he clearly wasn’t wanted. Every now and then, some teacher with a twisted sense of humour would partner them up during class – him and Thalia – and for a brief hour, things would feel normal again. Just like old times. They would laugh, get their work done, and for a second Percy would forget there was any rift at all.

But the second class ended, she went right back to ignoring him.

Thalia had been the one to say he had changed, like it was some kind of accusation. The thing was, she wasn’t wrong – but she was a hypocrite if she thought she was the same girl who left Camp Half-Blood with him. Hogwarts had transformed her. She was bolder now, louder, more outgoing. She fit in with Gryffindor like she had been born to wear red and gold. The last real conversation they’d had ended with her threatening to drop out of the quest, and Percy hadn’t wanted to speak to her since.

And honestly? That was perfectly fine.

Annabeth and Nico had found their rhythm in their new houses. Annabeth, unsurprisingly, had slotted into Ravenclaw like a puzzle piece. She was thriving there, surrounded by curious minds and endless academic debates. Nico had joined Hufflepuff, and it turned out to be exactly what he needed. He had found a group of friends who were kind, fiercely loyal, and – surprisingly – very open-minded. The fact that his new circle openly supported the LGBTQ community had been a shock to Percy. He hadn’t expected wizards to be so progressive.

Meanwhile, Percy had carved out his own space in Slytherin.

He had fallen in with a group of boys from the quidditch team, and with them, he was learning all the little secrets of Hogwarts: the best shortcuts, the quietest corners of the castle, the rules that could be bent without consequences. The underground stuff. The fun stuff.

Strangely enough, he was spending more time with Draco, too. They partnered up in class often, and Draco – though still standoffish – was starting to change. He wasn’t the guy Harry had warned him about. In fact, Percy had watched him call out another student for using the word “mudblood,” and he had done it with actual disgust.

It had thrown Percy off. He remembered Harry talking about how much Draco loved that slur. But that version of Draco didn’t seem to exist anymore. The more time Percy spent with him, the more convinced he became that Harry had been wrong about a lot of things.

Or at least, Percy no longer trusted Harry’s version of the truth.

Annabeth, for her part, had made some good friends in her house, especially one girl named Kelly Yew. Kelly was smart, kind, and – by the sound of it – completely in love with someone she wasn’t supposed to be. Percy had heard Annabeth talk about her little matchmaking mission more than once. Apparently, Kelly had been pining after Alexandria Brigham, an eighth-year Hufflepuff girl, for ages. They clearly liked each other, but Kelly was terrified of what her parents would think.

Her biggest fear? That Alex wasn’t the “ideal pure-blood boy” they wanted her to end up with.

Annabeth had made it her personal project to help them get together.

Percy didn’t get involved, but he listened when Annabeth vented about it. Part of him admired her for it. Another part just wished things between them weren’t so awkward. She was doing fine without him – just like Nico and Thalia. Just like everyone else.

And Percy? He was doing fine, too.

Mostly.

*

October had arrived, and with it came a strange excitement that swept through the castle. Hogwarts was transforming for spooky season – fake cobwebs hung from rafters, paper bats fluttered enchantingly above doorways, and everyone was already talking about the first weekend visit to Hogsmeade. Percy had overheard from Rick that students third year and up got to spend evenings there in October, and apparently the Halloween feast at the end of the month was legendary.

Everyone was buzzing so much, you would think Christmas was around the corner.

But Percy wasn’t thinking about butterbeer or candy from Honeydukes. Third period had just ended, and he’d spent most of it distracted by thoughts of the quest. If he was being honest with himself, he had almost forgotten it was still ongoing. That fact alone unnerved him. The mission they were on, the prophecy they had been handed – it all felt like some half-finished story that had gone quiet.

After class, as Draco packed up his things, Percy told him to go ahead. He had something he wanted to ask Chiron.

The centaur was still at the front of the room, erasing the blackboard with long, steady strokes.

“Chiron …” Percy approached, hesitating.

Chiron turned. “What do you need?”

Percy fiddled with the strap of his bag, unsure how to put his worry into words. “I just … I’ve been thinking about this quest,” he said. “It feels like we’re stuck. We got the prophecy, sure – but that’s just floating out there. I’m not talking to the trio anymore, so that connection is gone. And nothing’s happened. No threats, no monsters.” His brow furrowed. “It feels like we’re just … living here. Like we’re undercover but forgot what we’re waiting for.”

Chiron studied him for a moment. “Is something going on?” He asked.

Percy didn’t answer right away. It was hard to admit that part of him wanted something to happen – something that would validate their presence here. Was that selfish? Dangerous? Maybe both.

“If you don’t like being here,” Chiron offered, “we can –”

“No,” Percy interrupted. “That’s not it. I like it here. I’ve made new friends. It’s just – don’t you think it’s weird? A whole month and nothing? No danger?”

Chiron sighed. “I know you’re used to prophecies taking effect immediately, Percy. But not all of them move that fast. Sometimes we wait. Sometimes we prepare in silence.” He glanced around the classroom. “I didn’t expect to be teaching here this long. But … things change.”

Percy frowned. “So, we might be here the whole year?”

“It’s possible,” Chiron said, returning to the board to finish erasing. “Our original mission was to protect the trio. That was the deal. Just keep an eye on them. Albus didn’t anticipate a prophecy – that was an unexpected twist.”

Percy blinked. “Wait. This whole quest – it was Albus’ idea?”

Chiron trotted toward his desk, sorting through a stack of papers and uncapping a red pen. “Yes, Percy. Albus reached out to us directly. He’s one of the few wizards who knows about the Old Religion, and he wanted someone he could trust. Someone with no ties to the wizarding world – no political bias, no alliances. He needed an outside perspective.”

Percy processed that slowly. Somehow, he had always imagined the quest came from something bigger – something divine. Like it had fallen from the Triple Goddess herself. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“So, this whole thing wasn’t a magical mandate,” Percy muttered. “It was just a … what? A background check?”

Chiron laughed without looking up. The paper in front of him was covered in red pen. Chiron looked like he was enjoying it far too much. “Percy, if you want to believe the Triple Goddess is steering things, you’re welcome to. But not every quest starts with a lightning bolt or an oracle.” He paused. “We can talk more later, if you want. For now, you’ve got class – and I’m assigning homework today.” He handed Percy a note. “So, you won’t get docked for being late.”

Percy took the slip, unsatisfied. Chiron hadn’t given him the reassurance he wanted – no secret plan, no hidden danger being kept at bay. Just waiting. Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Chiron seemed too calm. Too comfortable.

Where had the urgency from his letter earlier in September gone? What had happened to “something big is coming”?

“Thanks, sir,” he said quietly.

Chiron gave him a smile. “And don’t forget the paper.”

Percy left the classroom and started down the corridor toward the practice pitch for flight class. The hall was empty, save for a few distant voices.

Then something cold brushed the back of his neck.

He froze. It wasn’t a breeze. It wasn’t imagined. It felt like – something else.

He looked around, heart thudding. Nothing. Just shadows.

Down the corridor, Albus Dumbledore was approaching, his plum robes trailing behind him like silk smoke. He offered Percy a kind smile and a nod as they passed.

“Professor,” Percy greeted, voice even.

Dumbledore’s smile deepened slightly, and then he moved on.

Percy kept walking, trying to shake the sensation crawling down his spine. Probably just the robes. He always swore the neck tag felt like a spider.

Still …

He glanced behind him one last time.

Nothing.

He was just being paranoid.

Right?

*

It was Monday, which meant flight class last period – Percy’s favourite way to end the day. He made his way quickly to the practice pitch, grateful for the chance to clear his head. After the talk with Chiron, his thoughts had been spiraling. At least broom work required focus.

Today’s lesson was about maneuvering techniques, which Percy actually looked forward to. They had been promised a more technical unit soon – stuff about aerodynamics, magical wind currents, and how to handle broom malfunctions. For now, every class ended with a short game of quidditch, and Percy was always eager to get in the air.

He handed his late slip to Madam Hooch, who gave it a brief glance and waved him on. The cool wind snapped at his robes as he mounted his school broom and kicked off, catching up to the rest of the class mid-drill.

“You missed it,” Draco called, flying in a loose turn beside him. “Dumbledore was just here.”

Percy adjusted his grip and narrowed his eyes against the wind. “Oh yeah? I saw him in the hall.”

Draco nodded. They both executed a smooth one-eighty turn, cutting across the sky in tandem. “He came to talk about the Hogsmeade visit. There are new rules.”

Percy groaned before Draco could finish. “What now?”

“No Slytherin can go unless they’re partnered with someone from another house,” Draco said.

Percy’s broom suddenly slowed to a halt mid-air. He stared at Draco in disbelief, his stomach clenching with frustration. “You’re joking.”

Draco pulled up beside him, hovering. “Nope. Dumbledore’s orders. Said it’s to ‘be safe.’”

Percy hit his broom handle in irritation. “To be safe? From what? The war is over!”

Draco rubbed his wrist nervously – a tell Percy had learned to recognise. “Use your head, Perseus. The war ended in May. It’s October. Do you really think everything’s just settled? Like it never happened?” He paused, glancing down toward the pitch as if weighing whether to keep talking. “There are still Death Eaters who haven’t been tried, who’ve vanished. And I – I mean, I get why Dumbledore would be watching me closely. And by extension … Slytherins.”

Percy shook his head. “No. This isn’t your fault, Draco. It’s Albus reinforcing house stereotypes. That’s what this is. If he wants house unity, this isn’t how you do it. He’s dividing us further, not bringing us together. I don’t care what kind of reputation he’s got – he’s not as wise as everyone is preaching.”

Madam Hooch called out for them to switch to dives, and the two of them sped into position, the conversation dropping for the moment. Percy let the air cool his skin as he soared downward, controlling his descent with precision. It felt good to focus on something physical, something immediate.

Once they returned to level flight, Draco circled around again.

“So – Thalia,” he said. “She’s your cousin, right?”

Percy’s expression went flat. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

Draco looked genuinely confused. “But you guys are friends. She should partner with one of us.”

“Was my friend,” Percy said coldly. “We didn’t always get along, but she had my back. And now … I don’t even know who she is. I tried to reach out, but nothing worked. Then she pulled that stunt trying to get me in trouble. After that, she ghosted me completely.” He looked away, focusing on the mountains beyond the castle, his voice quieter. “The trio’s convinced her I’ve changed. And maybe I have. But she’s changed, too. She’s just like them now.”

Draco muttered under his breath, “Well, there goes my plan to get you to Hogsmeade.”

Percy felt a flicker of warmth at that. For all his cynicism, Draco cared. It wasn’t about the candy or the town – it was about not being excluded. And Percy appreciated that.

“Aww,” Percy said, nudging his shoulder with Draco’s as their brooms glided side by side. “Thanks, Draco. But I’m sure Annabeth will let me tag along. Still … it stings, you know? Thalia letting something as dumb as a house rivalry get between us.”

He looked down toward the pitch where the rest of the students were gathering for the game.

“It’s like everything the trio told us on the train is flipped,” Percy said. “Harry made it sound like he knew exactly what was what. But now? I don’t think he knew anything at all.”

By the time Madam Hooch called them into formation for quidditch, Percy felt more grounded. Literally and figuratively. He flew to his position above the goalposts, letting the cool breeze cut through the haze of frustration left over from his talk with Chiron. Up here, everything felt easier – cleaner. He belonged.

He had grown a lot more confident on a broom over the last month. Dawson, Slytherin’s intense and borderline obsessive team captain, had been drilling them every weekend without mercy. Seven to ten in the night, on both Saturday and Sunday. “Unfair scheduling,” Dawson always said, though Percy doubted he ever actually fought for a better slot. According to him, Penny Pomfrey, Gryffindor’s captain, had guilt-tripped the staff into giving Gryffindor the prime practice times. She had brought up the war and used Slytherin’s past like a bargaining chip. Percy hated that it had worked – but Dawson never complained to the headmaster.

Smart move. Too many eyes were already watching their house too closely.

The game started fast.

Percy barely had time to blink before the quaffle had changed hands four times. As expected, the match was messy – more chaos than coordination. Their class didn’t exactly overflow with quidditch talent, so watching was like witnessing a swarm of five-year-olds trying to play soccer. Painful, but entertaining.

Still, he was grateful for Dawson’s presence on the pitch. The guy was a menace when he wanted the ball. Even Harry, who was no stranger to flying, couldn’t help much – being a seeker meant staying out of the actual chase. The Gryffindor chasers, while clumsy, played like they had something to prove. They were aggressive. Every time a Slytherin got possession, one of the Gryffindors would swoop in and shove or clip them – just enough to throw them off-balance. Madam Hooch rarely called it.

By the time the score hit thirty-thirty, Tracey had managed to grab the quaffle and was darting toward the hoops. Percy watched, when –

CRACK.

A bludger whistled through the air, fired straight at Tracey by Thalia. It missed – but only barely. Tracey dropped the ball during her dodge.

Seamus Finnigan swept in, caught it mid-dive, and bolted toward the Slytherin goalposts.

Percy locked in, shifting into a defensive position, ready to block the throw.

Then –

WHAM.

Something hit him.

Not the quaffle. Not a stray elbow.

A bludger.

Right to the ribs.

The world blinked out – like static on a TV. His lungs emptied before he even hit the ground.

When Percy came to, everything sounded far away. He was on the grass, staring up at the sky. A shape leaned over him – Madam Hooch, barking questions.

“What’s your name?”

He sat up slowly. The world pitched, like he was still flying. “Percy,” he muttered, blinking hard. His ribs throbbed, and his vision swam. What had happened?

Above, the match had turned into a brawl. Dawson was storming across the field, face red, shoulders squared like a viper ready to strike. His finger jabbed toward one of the Gryffindor beaters – a tall guy, still gripping his bat like a weapon.

“You do not beat at the keeper!” Dawson shouted.

The beater didn’t even flinch. “Madam Hooch didn’t call it. Back off.”

Dawson – barely five-foot-six – had to look up to glare. “You hurt one of my players. I will not ‘back off.’”

“Bug off,” Dean Thomas added, stepping into the fray. “Stop acting like you’re some big-league captain. You’re from Slytherin. No one wants you on their team. You play dirty – you always have. Don’t get pissy when someone finally plays your game.”

That was the spark.

The Slytherin team surged forward. Percy, still dizzy, caught a glimpse of Millicent Bulstrode rolling up her sleeves with very real intentions. Things were about to explode.

Madam Hooch stood up so fast Percy thought she might levitate.

“Hey! Step back! No fighting. Not on my pitch. I catch one punch, and it’s detention and fifty house points deducted, I don’t care what house you’re in.”

Silence.

Slytherins on one side, Gryffindors on the other. Percy could feel the hate bubbling under everyone’s skin.

“Pack it up. No one wins this game.”

Groans erupted. Someone yelled that Gryffindor had scored just after Percy fell, but Madam Hooch didn’t care. She docked ten points from Gryffindor mid-sentence, and no one argued after that.

Draco landed beside Percy and helped him to his feet. His legs felt wobbly. Around him, the gear was packed up. The balls were locked back in the chest and wheeled off to the broom shack.

Madam Hooch returned to Percy, frowning. “You all right?”

Percy gave her a crooked grin. “Part of the game, right?”

“Usually, players see it coming,” she muttered. “I’ve never seen a keeper get hit like that. You took a nasty fall. I’m thinking Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’m fine,” Percy insisted. “Just caught off guard.”

Still, she didn't look convinced.

Class was dismissed early. Percy noticed Madam Hooch pulling the beater aside, her voice sharp and clipped. He felt a flush of embarrassment rise up his neck. He had been so focused on the quaffle, he’d completely missed the bludger – a rookie mistake.

Dawson fussed over him the entire walk back. “Do you know what year it is? What house you’re in? What’s your name?”

When Percy rolled his eyes, Dawson only shook his head. “I take concussions seriously, alright? You’re my only keeper. I’m not losing you before the season even starts.”

At Madam Hooch’s insistence, Draco escorted Percy to the infirmary. When Percy teased him about the personal service, Draco blushed, grumbled something about “orders,” and looked anywhere but Percy.

*

That night at dinner, the Slytherin table was a boiling pot.

Dawson wouldn’t shut up about the game. He was venting to anyone who would listen – complaining about dirty plays, biased calls, and how if Penny Pomfrey had been hit, the school would have burned down in sympathy.

But most of the table was buzzing about Hogsmeade. The new policy had landed like a curse: no Slytherins allowed unless partnered with another house.

It felt like a public punishment.

“Guess we’ll all have to shack up with Hufflepuffs,” Rick joked bitterly. “They’re the only ones who don’t hate us.”

The worst part was, Percy knew he wasn’t wrong.

He sat silently, pushing peas around his plate, not even hungry. His eyes flicked up to the staff table – and froze.

Dumbledore was gone. So was Snape.

Weird.

Dumbledore never missed a meal, not since they had arrived. Percy’s brain clicked into gear. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe …

Snape was their head of house. If anyone could push back against the ridiculous Hogsmeade policy, it was him. Percy could imagine the conversation now – Snape, voice like oil and venom, calling the rule what it was: bullshit.

And maybe Dumbledore would actually listen.

*

Halloween was creeping up fast, but still there was no word about whether Slytherins would be allowed to go to Hogsmeade without partners from another house. If anything, things had only gotten worse.

Dumbledore had announced even more restrictions, each one weighing heavier than the last. Slytherins now had a curfew of nine o’clock sharp. They couldn’t sit at other house tables during meals or breaks. If they were out late for detention or extracurriculars, they had to report directly to McGonagall before bed – every single time.

It felt like they were being boxed in, slowly suffocating under the weight of rules that no other house had to follow.

Dawson had already started whispering about organising a protest if Dumbledore dared to touch quidditch privileges. Percy didn’t just agree – he would help lead it if it came down to that.

But worse than the rules was the effect they had. With each new restriction, the walls between houses grew higher. The Slytherin table was an island. Gryffindors taunted them openly. Ravenclaws avoided being paired with them in class – like associating with a Slytherin might bring down their grades. Even Hufflepuffs gave them wary glances, like Slytherins might hex them just for saying hello.

It stung. All of it.

At least Annabeth and Nico still made time for Percy – though lately, even they felt distant. Percy told himself it was just scheduling – different classes, different electives, different lives. It wasn’t the Slytherin thing. Not really.

He hoped.

*

The evening before the Hogsmeade visit, Percy found himself tucked away in the library with Nico. They had both finished their homework, so now they sat in a quiet corner catching up, hidden behind towering shelves of magical theory and dusty tomes.

“So,” Nico said, flipping a quill between his fingers. “Iris Messages still aren’t working, so I wrote to Will recently. Camp Half-Blood’s doing alright.”

Percy looked up from the book he was pretending to read. “Yeah?”

Nico nodded. “Not exactly thriving, but they’re not crashing and burning either. That’s a win in my book.”

Percy nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Jason is focused on rebuilding the cabins at both camps,” Nico went on. “But they’ve already started drawing up blueprints for the temples.”

“Temples, huh?” Percy raised an eyebrow. “That guy never rests.”

“Yeah,” Nico said, then smiled faintly. “But he wants to do it. It gives him something to work toward. You know – purpose.”

He nudged Percy lightly, a small jab paired with a self-depreciating laugh. The kind of laugh that covered up how much the subject actually mattered.

Percy didn’t laugh back.

The word “purpose” sat heavy in his chest.

It was a question that had haunted him more and more lately, especially when everything went quiet. When he wasn’t dodging bludgers or dealing with magical homework or trying to survive a classroom full of people who looked at him like he might snap. What came next?

He didn’t know.

After all the wars, after the prophecies and the battles and the saving-the-world stuff … what did a guy like Percy do? He didn’t even finish high school. He had no career plans, no idea what kind of life he wanted – or if he could even fit into the mortal world anymore. It felt like he didn’t belong anywhere. Not really.

The only idea he had ever really clung to was Annabeth’s plan of moving to New Rome together. But that had always been more of a fantasy than a plan. Something they told each other to cope, like a bedtime story for scared little kids.

The others had their futures mapped out.

Annabeth had always dreamed of becoming an architect in New Rome. Frank was settling in as praetor at Camp Jupiter, and Jason? Jason had been named Pontifex Maximus, the high priest of the Roman gods. He would be building temples for years.

They all had roles. Jobs. Destinies.

But Percy?

He had nothing. No prophecy left to fulfill. No world left to save. No idea where to go next.

That part scared him more than monsters ever had.

Nico seemed to sense it too. He didn’t say anything about Percy’s silence, but his presence felt steady.

Maybe because Nico got it.

He had given up the mortal world a long time ago – buried it, really – and thrown himself entirely into the world of demigods. He wasn’t trying to fit in anymore. He didn’t pretend he could.

Sometimes Percy envied that clarity, even if it came with darkness.

*

After saying goodbye to Nico, Percy made his way back to the Slytherin dormitory. As usual, it was empty this early in the evening, dimly lit with green-glowing lanterns that cast strange shadows on the stone walls. He welcomed the quiet. Being alone wasn’t always comforting – but tonight, it was better than facing anyone else.

He showered, letting the hot water run until his thoughts dulled. With a flick of concentration, he was dry in seconds.

He sat on his bed and stared at the curtains for a while. Tomorrow was Hogsmeade, and he should have been excited. But Nico had refused to partner with Draco, citing how it might upset the other Hufflepuffs, and Percy … well, Percy couldn’t bring himself to go either. Annabeth had offered, and he appreciated it, but the thought of leaving Draco behind didn’t sit right. Even if Draco didn’t know Percy had made that decision for him.

Not that he ever would. Percy would rather bite his tongue than make Draco feel guilty about it.

With a frustrated sigh, he flopped down and turned onto his side, pulling the covers over his shoulders.

Sleep didn’t come gently.

*

Darkness.

Percy’s mind was tossed into a void – a colourless place where light felt like an illusion. His thoughts were muddy, like trying to see through a rain-streaked window. But slowly, shapes began to form. Two silhouettes emerged from the haze.

One was tall and draped in dark robes, the other thinner, almost delicate, in light robes with a pointed hat and a long necklace hanging down – a symbol of two crescent moons cradling a full circle.

They stood together, locked in quiet conversation just out of reach.

“Are you sure?” The taller one asked. “This is exactly what he did.”

The robed figure waved a dismissive hand. “It’s the only way to ensure I can stay and help.”

The taller man didn’t look convinced. He turned away, and as he walked into the fog, the room collapsed – like the dream was crumbling around Percy. He felt himself being pulled backward, sucked out of the scene.

Suddenly, he was standing on a tower.

It looked like one of Hogwarts’ many spires, rising high into the storm-thick sky. The wind howled, ice-cold against his skin. Far below, the world looked small and unreachable.

Then – he fell.

The sensation was instant and gut-wrenching, like his stomach had been ripped away. Percy plummeted through the air, heart slamming in his chest. He reached out instinctively, trying to draw moisture from the clouds, to slow his fall, to catch himself, but it was too late.

The sky spun. The ground raced to meet him.

He couldn’t breathe.

And then, without impact – he was somewhere else.

The trees were tall and endless.

The Forbidden Forest, Percy realised, though something felt older about it. Wilder. Ahead, nestled between twisted roots and patches of silver grass, was a temple – or what remained of one. A marble pedestal, cracked and worn by time, stood at its centre. Offerings were scattered around it: food, coin, even a few glittering gems.

And kneeling before it was that same thin figure.

The necklace glinted faintly in the moonlight.

“Please,” they whispered. “Grant me the power to cleanse the world of the Dark.”

“Power,” a voice echoed – feminine, strong, and cold as starlight. Percy spun around, heart hammering, to find a presence looming behind him.

The Triple Goddess.

“It was always your greatest weakness,” she said.

The man didn’t rise. “But you understand,” he insisted. “You understand my goal.”

“Understanding and agreeing,” she said, “are two different things.”

The air was heavy, and Percy took a cautious step forward, trying to stay quiet, to listen. The dream felt real, too real.

“I helped you before because I thought you noble,” she said. “But now I see you for what you truly are. An extremist.”

“No!” The man snarled. The ground shook, and the pedestal cracked, groaning under some unseen force. “They must be gone. It’s the only way the world can be safe.”

The goddess was unmoved. “For there to be balance, there must be light and darkness. White and black. It’s in the grey that the world truly thrives.”

The man stood slowly, his shadow stretching like a blade. “If you won’t give me the power I need … then I will take it.”

She tilted her head, as though watching a child throw a tantrum. “This will be your downfall.”

“No. It will be yours.”

And then something shifted.

Her eyes narrowed. Her voice, once calm, grew sharp. “Wait.”

The man stiffened. “What?”

“Someone is watching us.”

The man’s wand was in his hand in a flash. A long, elegant piece of wood, carved with notches and symbols Percy couldn’t identify.

“Who?!” He shouted.

A red light burst from the wand like lightning, wild and blind, striking out into the shadows.

Percy tried to dodge – but too late.

The spell hit his lower back, searing through him like fire. He screamed, falling to his knees, pain rippling through every nerve. But still, neither of them seemed to see him. He was invisible. A ghost in their world.

“Don’t fret,” the goddess said softly. “They will be gone soon enough. And it will be nothing but a dream …”

*

Percy snapped awake, gasping for breath.

The dormitory was silent, the only sound the faint crackle of torches in the hall beyond the heavy stone walls. He was drenched in sweat. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

It had felt so real.

His lower back was throbbing.

Grimacing, he reached behind him to rub it – only for his fingers to come away wet, but not with sweat.

Blood.

His heart stopped.

Staring at the smear of crimson across his fingertips, Percy sat frozen, the taste of fear bitter in his mouth. He was alone, bleeding, and no idea whether he had just witnessed a dream – or something far more dangerous.

*

The first Hogsmeade visit came faster than Percy expected.

The Slytherin common room was packed. Not in a festive, excited way, but in a tense, brooding silence. Students sat in groups or by themselves, arms crossed, expressions tight. No one looked ready for a day out in the magical village. Percy wasn’t even sure if a single Slytherin was going.

In the far corner, he spotted Draco, lounging alone in one of the dark leather armchairs. Percy crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him.

“You going to Hogsmeade?” Percy asked.

Draco turned to look at him, expression flat and unimpressed – his classic resting bitch face. Percy could already tell the answer.

“Yeah,” Percy sighed. “Didn’t think so.”

Draco sat up straighter, his frown deepening into something angrier. “It’s ridiculous. They shouldn’t be allowed to do this to us. The people in this house are innocent. They’re punishing us for something that was never in our control.”

Percy followed his gaze to the cluster of eighth years sitting near the fireplace. None of them were speaking to Draco. None of them even looked at him. It was clear he still carried the weight of his family name – and their choices. No matter what he did now, people wouldn’t forget what he used to be a part of.

“Dumbledore was never fair,” Draco continued bitterly. “He’s biased toward Gryffindor. Say anything against them, and you lose fifty points. Praise them for breathing, and they gain a hundred.”

Percy let out a snort. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

Draco’s scowl curled into something almost amused. “So, Perseus, what are your grand plans for today? Now that we’re prisoners, I mean.”

Percy shrugged. “I don’t know. Might hang out with Muireann. You want to join?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Muireann?”

“Oh – right. You guys don’t know her name. The giant squid,” Percy explained, jerking his chin toward the murky green windows that looked out into the lake. “She’s surprisingly friendly.”

Draco just stared at him.

“Perseus,” he said blankly, “I genuinely don’t know how you ended up in Slytherin.”

Percy laughed. “Would you believe it if I didn’t either?”

They spent the next few minutes trading stories about potions class, especially their recent attempt at brewing a Boil-Cure Potion. Draco was confident Snape hadn’t noticed that he had done all the writing on their shared assignment – and made a dramatic point about it, of course. Percy eventually excused himself and drifted to the other side of the common room, where Benjamin and Taylor were in the middle of a heated whisper-fight.

Taylor’s arms were crossed, his expression pinched with disapproval. Benjamin, as usual, looked like he was moments away from causing a disaster.

“What’s going on?” Percy asked.

“Ben wants to break policy and sneak into Hogsmeade,” Taylor said immediately, throwing him under the bus.

“Dude!” Benjamin snapped, glaring at him.

Percy blinked. “Excuse me?”

Benjamin huffed and shoved Taylor’s shoulder. “When you say it like that, it sounds bad. It’s not that bad.”

Percy glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Where’s Rick?”

Benjamin rolled his eyes. “Rick ditched us. He went with Nick. Can you believe that? His own brother, over us! Traitor. He’s probably the only Slytherin who managed to find a partner to go.”

“Well,” Percy said with a chuckle, “they are twins.”

Benjamin ignored that. He leaned in, eyes bright with scheming. “My plan is simple. We’ve gotten way better on brooms, right? So, we fly. We sneak out, hit Hogsmeade for a few hours, and fly back. Easy.”

Taylor shook his head instantly. “You’re insane. What if someone sees us?”

Benjamin waved a hand. “We’re not going to wear our Slytherin robes, genius. That’d be like painting ‘Hey! I’m a snake!’ across our backs. We’ll wear regular clothes. Coats. Hats. No one will recognise us.”

Percy frowned. “Still … even if someone doesn’t recognise us, if they find out later –”

“They won’t,” Benjamin insisted. “And even if someone does see us, it’s just hearsay. No proof. They can’t accuse us without evidence.”

Taylor muttered, “Clearly you didn’t live through Harry Potter’s golden years. One accusation and we’re toast.”

Percy nodded. “Yeah … I don’t know. It’s kind of risky.”

Benjamin threw his hands in the air. “You’re kidding, right? You’re the same guy who snuck out to play quidditch with us when it was forbidden.”

Percy didn’t argue, though the context was completely different. That had been before things got this tense – before Slytherins were being watched like criminals. The line between a prank and a scandal had become razor-thin.

When Percy didn’t say anything, Benjamin narrowed his eyes. “We’ve done worse before you even showed up here. So, are you in or not?”

Taylor spoke first. “Absolutely not –”

“Of course,” Percy said at the same time, cutting him off. “When are we leaving?”

Taylor groaned and buried his face in his hands.

*

It was a Saturday, which meant the students had free reign over the castle – at least, those who hadn’t been barred from going to Hogsmeade. Percy wandered the halls without much purpose, trying to look casual despite the watchful eyes of several professors who still seemed perpetually annoyed at the sight of lingering Slytherins.

No one suspected a thing when he, Benjamin, and Taylor slipped out of the castle and wandered across the grounds toward the quidditch practice pitch. Students did their homework outside all the time when the weather allowed. There was nothing suspicious about three boys heading toward the broom shack on a brisk autumn morning.

At the shack, Percy pulled out his wand and muttered the unlocking charm. With a soft click, the wooden door creaked open, revealing the musty, familiar scent of aged wood, polish, and grass-stained broom bristles.

He grinned. Jackpot.

“Why take a Cleansweep One when we can take a Comet 290?” He said, plucking one of the sleeker brooms from the rack and handing it to Benjamin.

Benjamin gave an exaggerated nod of approval. “Why, Percy, I think that is a lovely idea.” He mounted the broom and gave the handle a satisfied knock with his fist. “Much sturdier than the shit we ride in class.”

Taylor groaned behind them. Again.

“All of this, and you guys wonder why the school’s wary of us Slytherins.”

Still, he didn’t hesitate to accept the broom Percy passed him – albeit with the air of a man bracing for disaster.

Once airborne, the three Slytherins kept low, flying just above the treetops and hills. Percy didn’t know the exact path to Hogsmeade, but Dawson had pointed it out during flying lessons before, vaguely motioning in a certain direction and claiming his aunt lived there. That was good enough.

Eventually, the rooftops of the village came into view: steep triangular peaks of stone and timber, clustered tightly together. The buildings reminded Percy of something medieval, frozen in time. Cobblestone streets crisscrossed the main roads, with dirt side-paths worn down by cart wheels and countless footsteps.

They landed on the outskirts near the railway tracks and stashed their brooms in a gnarled dead bush beneath a tree. Taylor cast a quick protection spell over the hiding spot and the three of them began their descent into the village proper.

Percy’s first impression of Hogsmeade was that it felt like a quieter, more nostalgic version of Diagon Alley. The magical aura was the same: whimsical, a little chaotic, and filled with the scents of sweets and butterbeer.

He tugged his toque lower over his forehead and kept his head down. Taylor had tucked his long hair into a low bun under a thick hood. All three of them wore bulky coats and plain jeans – no robes, no green or silver, nothing to mark them as Slytherins unless someone got close enough to recognise their faces. Percy figured they were safe. Probably.

It was time to have fun.

They walked for a while, just enjoying the freedom, until a sweet, warm aroma caught Percy’s attention. He stopped mid-step, inhaled deeply, then spun and followed his nose without a word. Benjamin laughed behind him.

Percy led them straight to a shop called Honeydukes.

The moment they stepped inside, and the bell chimed above the door, Percy’s jaw nearly dropped. The place was practically a sugar-filled wonderland – shelves bursting with colour, with sweets of every shape and texture imaginable.

There were creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink coconut squares, massive honey-coloured toffees, and neatly lined rows of fine chocolates. Every Flavour Beans filled one barrel, while Fizzing Whizzbees sat in another. A long wall showcased the ‘special effects’ candies: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Toothflossing Stringmints, Pepper Imps, Ice Mice, peppermint toads, sugar-spun quills, and even exploding bonbons.

Percy didn’t recognise half of it – but he was already ready to try everything.

They walked out with jelly slugs, liquorice wands, chunks of nougat, and a handful of chocolate frogs. Percy was already munching on a blue jelly slug, the sugary coating sticking to his fingers.

After a bit more wandering through the winding streets, the group decided to split up, agreeing to meet again in a few hours by the tree where their brooms were hidden.

Percy, still licking sugar off his thumb, headed down another narrow street. A shop called Zonko’s caught his eye – he had heard whispers about it from other students – and he was just about to cross the road when he froze.

Across the way, walking toward him, were Annabeth, Nico, and Thalia.

His body moved before his brain did. He ducked to the side, trying to blend in with the crowd, pretending to linger at the edge of the street while studying his bag of candy like it held deep secrets. Shoulders hunched, he bit harder into the jelly slug, trying to obscure as much of his face as possible.

They were getting closer.

Without waiting for them to spot him, Percy slipped into a narrow alley between two shops. His heavy coat scraped against the stone walls, and he had to squeeze to get through, but he emerged on the other side with a breathless laugh. Close call.

The rest of his time in Hogsmeade passed in a blur of window shopping, exploring backstreets, and enjoying the freedom of being away from the castle and its rules – even if it came with risk.

Eventually, he made his way back toward the outskirts, near their agreed-upon meeting spot. He had just spotted a little knick-knack shop and thought about ducking in – maybe buying something small for Draco, who he still felt guilty about leaving behind – when someone slammed into him.

He stumbled back a step, blinking. He dropped his jelly slug. The person who hit him didn’t apologise. In fact, they shoved past him roughly.

Percy turned to say something – but the words caught in his throat.

The figure was thin, hunched, moving quickly. Their cloak fluttered just enough for Percy to see the familiar crescent moon and circle necklace glint in the light.

His blood ran cold.

It was just like in his dream.

Before he could react, the figure disappeared into the crowd – and Percy was left standing there, the jelly slug forgotten on the ground.

“Well, that was weird,” Percy muttered.

“Yeah,” Annabeth echoed beside him. “It was weird.”

Percy turned toward the familiar voice – and immediately froze. Annabeth wasn’t alone. Nico and Thalia were standing right there, too, their expressions unreadable, but far from welcoming.

“Uh … hey, guys,” Percy said, trying to sound casual, but it came out weak.

Thalia stepped forward, eyes sharp and accusing. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

“I think I might have a lead on the quest,” Percy said quickly, hoping to pivot the conversation before it spiraled into something worse. But Thalia wasn’t buying it – her brows shot up, daring him to elaborate.

Percy sighed. “Look, I know things have been rough between us, but we’re supposed to be working together. That’s the whole point of this quest. And honestly, Thalia, you need to stop acting like –” he hesitated, realising too late the edge in his voice “– like a Gryffindor.”

Thalia’s expression sharpened. “What does that mean? ‘Like a Gryffindor’?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Percy said quickly. “I just meant that ever since we got here, it’s like the trio’s been brainwashing you. You’re not acting like a Hunter anymore. You’re acting like them. You’ve lost sight of who you are.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Thalia’s wand snapped up, pointed directly at his chest. “Oh yeah? Well, you’re being selfish.”

Percy blinked. “… Selfish?”

“I’ve stayed loyal to the trio from the start because this quest is about all of us,” she snapped. “You’re the one who’s changed. I didn’t try out for quidditch or join any clubs. I haven’t been sneaking around or making friends with people who nearly destroyed this school. I’ve been doing what I’m supposed to. And when you disappeared that night without warning, I searched for you for over an hour. You showed up the next morning with no explanation. Gryffindor lost eighty house points for being out past curfew – because of you.”

Percy lowered his hands. His stomach twisted. Thalia wasn’t just mad – she was hurt. And she was making it personal.

“How the hell was I supposed to know the Triple Goddess was going to pull me from my bed in the middle of the night?” He shot back.

“Oh, so now the Triple Goddess, who’s barely even worshipped anymore, shows up just for you?” Thalia said with biting sarcasm. “And you have nothing to show for it?”

“Yes!” Percy barked. “Because I wouldn’t lie about that kind of thing!”

“Yes, you would!” She shouted, stepping closer. “You’re with the Slytherins now. Malfoy told us you were missing – he probably helped plan the whole thing!”

“I never asked you to go looking for me,” Percy growled. “I didn’t ask you to break curfew, or to not tell a teacher. That was your choice. This quest was always going to be weird – we all knew that. And sorry, but this isn’t the first time I’ve disappeared. I wasn’t in danger. The gods pulled me out of my bed like they always do. But no, let’s not focus on that. Let’s talk about the house points, because clearly, that’s what matters most.”

“Don’t act like that doesn’t matter!” Thalia’s wand was sparking now. Her magic responded to her temper like it always had. “I was being a friend, Percy. I was looking out for you. You’re supposed to care when something affects the rest of us!”

Percy’s voice went quiet, cold. “You’re blaming me because you chose to make it your problem.”

“You should have told us!” She shouted. “You should have sent an Iris Message! You should have gone to Dumbledore! But no, you didn’t think about anyone else but yourself. You never do anymore. You’re just mad because this quest isn’t about you.”

Percy’s breath caught.

Annabeth and Nico were silent – watching, listening, wide-eyed – but not stepping in.

“You think I wanted this quest?” Percy said quietly. “You think I asked to be tossed into another prophecy? I never wanted to be the first one, let alone this one. You’re the one who gave up your place in the first prophecy, remember? Not me. I got dragged into this, again.”

“Well, you sure don’t act like it’s a burden,” Thalia spat. “You’re too busy making friends with a Death Eater to care.”

Percy’s temper snapped. “Draco’s not a Death Eater anymore! He’s changed. Just because you’re still clinging to the past doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

“Don’t make excuses,” she growled.

“Why shouldn’t I try to enjoy my time here?” Percy shot back. “We’ve all fought in wars. We’ve all seen the worst of the gods. I’ve been to Tartarus. Nico’s been to Tartarus.”

Nico held up a hand, backing away. “Hey, don’t drag me into this.”

Percy ignored him, locking eyes with Thalia. “We shouldn’t even be here. So, maybe I want to enjoy what time I’ve got. Maybe I want to stop being a pawn for once in my life. Maybe I want to be a kid.”

Thalia’s wand lowered slightly, but her glare didn’t fade. “You’re so thick-headed. You can’t see that you’re the one who’s changed. You keep blaming everyone else – the trio, the gods, even me – but you’re the one not holding up your end. Being a demigod isn’t a choice. It’s a life. So, suck it up and act like it.”

Annabeth stepped forward now, her voice softer – but no less sharp. “Percy, please. We’re worried about you. This – this isn’t like you. Sneaking out. Lying. Acting like the prophecy doesn’t matter. This isn’t the Percy I know.”

That was the final crack.

Percy’s heart split in two.

His voice dropped, calm and cold. “Then maybe you never knew me.”

Annabeth’s expression crumpled into frustration. “Percy –”

“No,” he interrupted. “I didn’t start this fight. I’ve seen the Triple Goddess twice. I’ve had dreams about this quest. I’m doing everything I can with what I’ve been given. And I’m not being selfish – I’m just trying to live like a normal person for once.”

Annabeth and Nico both stared at him like they didn’t recognise who he was.

Thalia looked at the wand still pointed toward her, then slowly lowered her own to the ground. The sparks stopped. The fight drained out of her, but the bitterness remained.

“Fine,” she said, voice flat. “Maybe I have changed. But at least I still remember that we’re not normal kids. Stop trying to rewrite the rules. We don’t get to have a childhood – we never did.”

And with that, she turned her back on him and walked away.

Annabeth and Nico followed, neither sparing him a second glance.

Percy stood in the street alone, surrounded by sugar wrappers and stone buildings, the cold air biting through his jacket like a blade.

His wand trembled in his hand.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt truly alone.

*

Chapter 15: the break up

Summary:

Percy gets in trouble with more than just the headmaster of Hogwarts for sneaking out to Hogsmeade.

Notes:

I've had this chapter sitting around for a while and thought to post it today. I'm working on the next chapter, but no promises as to when it will be posted. However, I will say that I have actually started to piece together a plot for this, so that's in the works for once.

*

Chapter 15: Prophecy Record

Thalia was absolutely livid with Percy.

Who did he think he was, accusing her of not caring about the quest? The nerve. And that wasn’t even the worst part – he had once again broken the rules, sneaking off to Hogsmeade without a non-Slytherin partner like Dumbledore had clearly instructed. Thalia hadn’t been sure what to make of the headmaster at first – he was too cryptic, too knowing – but she understood now why the wizarding trio trusted him so deeply. The man was sharp, kind, and when it came to keeping the school safe, completely fair. The rules he set weren’t arbitrary. They were for protection. And Percy had dismissed them like they were nothing.

But, of course, none of the teachers had actually seen Percy in Hogsmeade. So, they wouldn’t believe her.

Dumbledore would, though. He had to. He was the one who had brought the demigods into this quest in the first place. He would know she wasn’t just making trouble for the sake of it. He would believe her.

So, after getting the directions from a jittery Harry – Thalia couldn’t help but notice how he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes – she made her way up the moving staircases toward Dumbledore’s office.

“Honeysuckle,” she snapped at the gargoyle.

The passageway opened, and she stormed up the spiraling stairs, fury driving every step. She shoved the door open – and stopped in her tracks.

Annabeth was already there, sitting in one of the chairs across from Dumbledore’s desk. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her back straight.

Thalia blinked. “Annie?”

Dumbledore didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “Ah, Miss Grace. I was expecting you.”

But Thalia didn’t even glance at him. “What are you doing here?”

Annabeth turned toward her, and instead of the usual annoyance at being called Annie, she just … smiled. A tired, hollow smile.

“I was talking to the headmaster about the prophecy,” she said softly. “And Percy.”

Thalia’s jaw dropped. “You – what?”

Of everyone, Thalia had thought Annabeth would be the last to throw Percy under the bus. She was the most loyal to him. They were like twin stars, always orbiting each other, always drawn together no matter the storm. Thalia was the one who fought with Percy, not Annabeth. Never Annabeth.

But before she could say anything else, Annabeth’s eyes glossed over. Tears.

Tears?

Thalia stared. Annabeth didn’t cry. Not in front of anyone – not unless it was Percy. Even then, barely. She hated being vulnerable. But here she was, crying in front of Dumbledore and Thalia.

“He’s just … Percy’s acting so strange,” Annabeth whispered, voice trembling. “Ever since we came here. Ever since he got sorted into Slytherin. It’s like … he’s not himself anymore. And then after Hogsmeade –” her voice cracked. “Something’s wrong with him.”

“Please, take a seat,” Dumbledore said, gently.

Thalia hesitated, then sank into the chair beside Annabeth. Her spine remained straight as a rod, fists tight in her lap. Her anger hadn’t left – just buried itself under layers of confusion.

“Miss Chase and I were discussing,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers, “the possibility that Perseus has been placed under the Imperius Curse.”

Annabeth flinched, her face screwing up in pain, and her hands trembled where they were clasped in her lap. Her jaw clenched like she was trying to hold back the emotion – then she broke again, tears falling silent and fast.

“The …what curse?” Thalia asked, blinking. She felt off-kilter, like she had stumbled into a conversation halfway through a nightmare.

“The Imperius Curse,” Dumbledore explained calmly. “Cast with the incantation imperio. One of the three Unforgivable Curses. It allows the caster to take complete control over another person’s will. The victim obeys without question.”

Thalia’s stomach sank.

“A person with particularly strong willpower can resist it,” Dumbledore continued, “but not always. And once the curse is lifted, there’s no magical residue. No trace. The only clues are behavioural changes – someone acting strangely, against their nature, or as if … fighting themselves.”

Annabeth sniffled beside her. “He’s not acting like Percy. Not the Percy I know.”

Thalia glanced at her. The pain in Annabeth’s face – raw and uncertain – was almost worse than the tears. Annabeth believed what she was saying. Deeply. And that scared Thalia more than anything.

“There is another matter,” Dumbledore said quietly. “The prophecy.”

That snapped Thalia out of her fog. “How do you know about the prophecy? We didn’t tell anyone. And the boys couldn’t even remember what it said.”

“I have my ways,” Dumbledore said, with that frustrating, mysterious glint in his eyes. “It wasn’t difficult to suspect Sybill Trelawney had another vision, given her history. She rarely remembers what she speaks. However, I was able to retrieve a version of the prophecy from Harry’s memory using my pensieve. I’ve reconstructed the words as accurately as possible.”

Thalia leaned forward, her heart beating faster.

Dumbledore recited the prophecy in full:

“When balance breaks and twilight falls,
The light shall shift within the halls.
A silver tongue with heart turned black,
Will walk the line, but not turn back.

The son of sea, with tempest bound,
Shall rise when stars crash to the ground.
His heart must choose, though hearts may break,
For what he gives, the world shall take.

Allies lost and allies new,
Shall stand as one 'neath flame and dew.
Yet one shall fall, and not return,
When sacred fire meets water’s spurn.

Only then shall balance mend,
When storm and shadow make their end.”

Thalia inhaled sharply.

It wasn’t clear-cut – not yet – but there were hints. “The son of the sea … his heart must choose …” That had to be Percy; he was the son of the literal sea. And he might need to make a decision. “Allies lost and allies new” sounded like demigods and wizards fighting side by side. And “one shall fall and not return” – that could mean death. Or betrayal.

And then the last line: “… storm and shadow …” She didn’t know what it meant, but it felt important. Like a warning.

“We need to tell Nico and Percy,” Thalia said, standing quickly. “And Chiron, too. We can figure this out together –”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Dumbledore said softly.

Thalia froze. She turned to look at him. His grey eyes were solemn, fixed directly on hers.

“If Perseus is under the Imperius Curse,” Dumbledore said, “then informing him of prophecy details or strategic plans would be incredibly dangerous. And even if he isn’t … are you sure he’s someone we can trust, Miss Grace? He’s been breaking rules, hiding things. Are you confident he’s working in Hogwarts’ best interests?”

Thalia opened her mouth to snap at him – of course, they could trust Percy. He had been through more prophecies than anyone she knew. He was a hero. He was the hero – the prophecy child.

But the words stuck in her throat.

Because even if he wasn’t cursed … he was different lately. Reckless in new ways. Secretive. And her memory of their argument in Hogsmeade burned behind her eyes.

She sat back down slowly. “… can we at least tell Nico and Chiron?”

“I fear they will want to tell Perseus,” Dumbledore replied. “So, we must keep this between ourselves. For now.”

Thalia clenched her fists, her voice hardening. “Fine. Then let me tell you what happened at Hogsmeade. Annabeth already told you her version – but you need to hear mine.”

Dumbledore gave a small nod. “Please do.”

Thalia’s blood began to boil again, fury igniting behind her ribs. “Percy wasn’t supposed to be in Hogsmeade, but he went anyway. Alone. He claimed he met the Triple Goddess – and he’s been lying to us –”

“Interesting,” Dumbledore murmured, eyes gleaming. “Tell me more.”

*

Percy knew he was in trouble the moment Professor McGonagall told him the headmaster wanted to see him. He hadn’t even made it back to the Slytherin common room yet. He had just returned from dropping off his broom at the quidditch pitch, and now this? Right after being caught at Hogsmeade and arguing with the rest of the demigods?

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

This reeked of petty revenge. Thalia, most likely. It reminded him of Camp Half-Blood at its worst – when cabin rivalries turned childish and vindictive, campers trying to curry favour with Chiron or the gods by ratting each other out over minor infractions. But even that had some sense of fairness to it.

This was Hogwarts. And Hogwarts didn’t just have rivalries – it had an all-out house war.

That became especially clear as he climbed the stairs to Dumbledore’s office and stepped inside.

The room was suffocating in Gryffindor colours.

Red and gold banners draped the walls like some kind of shrine to the house of lions. Sure, the other houses were technically represented – Ravenclaw’s blue and bronze over the fireplace, Hufflepuff’s yellow and black near the bookcases – but Slytherin? It was tucked away in a shadowed corner, green and silver barely visible.

Figures.

“Ah, Perseus,” said Dumbledore.

Percy tore his eyes away from the Gryffindor overload and focused on the headmaster, who was sitting calmly at his desk, dressed in crimson robes with a golden cloak sweeping over his shoulders. Hanging from his neck was a necklace Percy recognised instantly – golden moons and purple gemstones, just like the one the Triple Goddess had worn.

“I prefer Percy,” he said flatly, eyes still on the pendant.

Dumbledore ignored the correction. “We have quite a lot to talk about, Perseus. Lying and sneaking out – you’ve been making some bad decisions lately.”

Percy didn’t respond at first. His eyes remained locked on the necklace, his voice quiet but firm. “Didn’t know you were a follower of the Triple Goddess,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “That pendant … I saw it on her headpiece.”

Dumbledore’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So, you claim to have seen the Triple Goddess –”

“Seen?” Percy snorted. “She kidnapped me out of bed.”

“But I don’t appreciate being lied to,” Dumbledore continued, ignoring him.

Percy’s frown deepened. “I’m not lying.”

“Now, Perseus –”

“Percy.”

“You must understand,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers, “the Triple Goddess is fading. Her power is long since gone. Only those with an exceptionally deep connection to magic can sense her, let alone speak with her. She is asleep, much like Gaea once was – only stirring in rare moments. Even I, myself, have only communicated with Lady Magic once or twice, and that was with great effort.”

The amethyst stones in his necklace caught the fading sunlight, sparkling.

“Well then,” Percy said, unimpressed, “you’re clearly not as holier-than-thou as you thought, because I’ve had dreams about her. And she definitely pulled me from my bed to warn me about something big. Probably the prophecy.”

It was subtle – just a fraction of tension in Dumbledore’s jaw, the twitch of his eye – but Percy caught it. The old man didn’t like his tone.

“Your ‘dreams,’” Dumbledore said, voice laced with skepticism, “What were they about?”

Percy shrugged. “Demigod dreams are rarely clear. But they’ve focused on me having to make some kind of choice … and on a figure I think might be you.”

“Me?”

“Well, I never see their face. But they wear that same necklace,” Percy said, nodding toward it. “And in one of them, you were talking with the Triple Goddess. I don’t know what it means, but –”

“Your dreams were simply that, then,” Dumbledore cut in, folding his hands. “Just dreams. I have never spoken with the Triple Goddess directly.”

“But –”

“There are no other options,” Dumbledore said, his tone final. “Now, enough about your fake dreams and lies. Let’s discuss your sneaking off to Hogsmeade.”

Here we go.

“Miss Chase and Miss Grace informed me of your unauthorised visit, despite my clearly stated rules. I placed those restrictions on Slytherins to protect the other students and Hogsmeade residents. Many of Voldemort’s supporters had children in Slytherin. Not all of them were locked away. There are still Death Eaters out there.”

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, hands still calmly folded. “A suitable punishment, I think, is detention with Professor Hagrid tomorrow afternoon. And twenty points will be taken from Slytherin House. What do you think?”

Percy’s jaw tightened. He looked straight at the headmaster.

“I think that’s utter bullsh –”

*

Fifty house points from Slytherin!

Percy couldn’t believe it. He stared at the office door even after it closed behind him, his chest rising and falling sharply with each breath.

His anger burned hot and fast – at Dumbledore, at Thalia and Annabeth, at the whole damn school. The headmaster hadn’t believed a word he said. Not about the dreams and not about the Triple Goddess. And worse, Dumbledore had taken their side – Thalia’s and Annabeth’s – and treated him like some dangerous liability just because he wore green and silver.

He stormed through the corridors without paying attention to where he was going, fists clenched and eyes low. But his mind was spinning.

This wasn’t Camp Half-Blood anymore. There were no second chances here. No Chiron to mediate, no unspoken rule about sticking together when the gods came knocking. At Hogwarts, things were colder, more political. Here, houses weren’t just rivalries – they were battle lines. And right now, Percy felt like the whole castle was turning against him.

Even Annabeth.

That was what stung the most.

She hadn’t come to him. She hadn’t even tried to talk things out after their fight in Hogsmeade. Instead, she had gone straight to Dumbledore and tattled. The same girl who used to keep his dumbest secrets – who once helped him sneak a baby hellhound into the Big House – had run off to the headmaster to report him like some rule-obsessed prefect.

And it wasn’t just betrayal – it hurt.

Before Percy even realised it, he had marched all the way into the Great Hall. The warm hum of dinner filled the air, students laughing and chatting over roast chicken and pumpkin juice, oblivious to the storm building inside him. His eyes scanned the Ravenclaw table.

There she was. Laughing with Kelly Yew, as if nothing was wrong at all.

Percy didn’t hesitate. He crossed the hall in long strides and tapped her on the shoulder. It took a moment – she was still giggling at something Kelly said – but eventually, she turned. Her grey eyes lit on him, and instead of concern or guilt, there was a smirk.

He clenched his jaw. “Can we talk?” He asked. “I have something important –”

“I’m kind of busy,” Annabeth cut in, turning back toward her friends. “Can we talk later?”

Percy blinked, taken aback. Since when did Annabeth turn him down? Especially when he was being serious? Especially when things were clearly not okay?

“Actually, no. It can’t wait,” he said, voice sharper now.

She gave him a look, then turned to Kelly and muttered something. Whatever it was, it made Kelly frown slightly, but Annabeth stood and stepped away from the table. She didn’t look back until she was a few feet ahead.

“Well?” She called over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming? You said it was important.”

Percy’s feet moved before his brain did, his heart pounding strangely. What was going on with her?

He followed her out of the hall, down the corridor, and into a dim alcove lit by a few floating candles. She turned, crossing her arms, robes catching the flickering light – blue and bronze, sharp and polished.

“So?” She said. “What was so important that you had to interrupt my dinner?”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “Annabeth … are you okay? You’re acting … strange.”

“Gods, yes, I’m fine,” she snapped. “I’m just pissed at you. So, what is it? What do you want?”

Percy hesitated. “No, it’s more than that. You’re angry. Like, really angry. What did I do? What have I done to make you –”

“Do you want an itemised list?” She snapped.

Before he could answer, she let out a growl of frustration, fists balling up at her sides. Then she exhaled hard and let the words fly.

“Because so far? You’ve been an absolute jerk this entire quest. You were reluctant from the beginning, all talk about ‘keeping camp safe’ and ‘doing your duty.’ But the moment you got sorted into Slytherin? Everything changed. Suddenly you’re lying about your dreams, about the Triple Goddess, sneaking off to Hogsmeade, breaking rules, and dragging others into it. You’ve become selfish, Percy. I talked to Dumbledore about you.”

Percy stiffened. “You what?”

“And you know what he thinks?” She went on, her voice rising. “He thinks you’re under the Imperius Curse. That you’re being controlled by someone – probably a Death Eater. And you know what?” She looked him dead in the eye. “I’m starting to believe him.”

It felt like a dagger to the chest.

“You are not the boy I fell in love with.”

Just like that, the rage Percy had brought with him drained away, leaving only a hollow ache behind.

“Annabeth …” he said, voice cracking just slightly, “be reasonable. Have I ever lied about stuff like this before? Why would I start now? I swear on the River Styx that I’m telling the truth – everything I said about the dreams, the Triple Goddess, all of it. I’ll take the Willow’s Truth Serum if I have to. I still have a vial from potions –”

He began to dig frantically through his bag, hands shaking slightly.

“I can prove it. I can do whatever you need, I –”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Annabeth snapped. “Truth serums don’t even work properly – they only tell what you think is true. And Dumbledore says you’re lying. I trust him more than I trust you right now.”

Percy looked at her in disbelief. “Annabeth! Are you hearing yourself?”

“I am. I’m thinking clearer than anyone else in the castle.” She stepped back. “And I don’t want to be with a lying, selfish snake. We don’t need you to complete the prophecy – not with how you’ve been acting.”

“You’re …” Percy’s voice faltered. “You’re talking like you’re breaking up with me.”

“Maybe I am.”

The silence that followed felt like the final blow.

“Unless,” she said, eyes narrowing, “you can look me in the eye and admit you’ve been lying. Admit it. Then maybe – maybe – I’ll think about forgiving you.”

Percy’s breath caught in his throat. He stared into her eyes – those storm-grey eyes he used to find comfort in – and all he could feel now was cold.

He tried to hold her gaze, but it was too much. He looked away.

“I … I can’t,” he said quietly. “Because I haven’t lied. I don’t know why Dumbledore thinks I have – I think something’s wrong with him – but I swear, I’m telling the truth.”

Annabeth didn’t even blink.

“Then I guess you have your answer,” she said. “Goodbye, Percy.”

And she walked away.

*

For reasons no one could quite determine, several bathrooms nearest to the Great Hall suddenly flooded, their plumbing systems erupting in a chaotic mess of water and magic. Streams poured from sinks and toilets alike, soaking stone floors and dripping down corridors. It took over an hour and a flurry of frantic spells from both professors and upper-year students to bring the chaos under control. And yet, once the last puddle was dried and the final spell cast, everything returned to normal – almost suspiciously so. The floors were spotless, the fixtures polished, and there was no trace left behind to suggest anything had gone wrong at all.

*

Perseus mysteriously vanished halfway through the day. Along with him, Benjamin Kensley and Taylor Marlowe had also disappeared. The three of them – plus Richard Nash – had grown into a close-knit group of Slytherin boys, united over quidditch and the shared sense of being misunderstood in a school that still distrusted their house.

Normally, Draco wouldn’t have concerned himself with whatever trouble his younger housemates were stirring up, but this time something didn’t sit right. Kensley and Marlowe had returned to the common room without Perseus, and when Draco overheard Kelly Yew loudly telling her Ravenclaw table that Annabeth had taken Perseus “outside the Great Hall to talk,” his attention sharpened. The final piece fell into place when Draco passed by a cluster of third-year Hufflepuffs whispering about a “huge fight” between Perseus and his girlfriend in the hallway. That was enough to make Draco act.

He finished his dinner quietly and left the hall. No one looked up as he passed – not surprising. Being Draco Malfoy had its disadvantages, but also its uses. As long as he kept to himself, no one cared where he went.

He started on the first floor, checking the Great Hall, the library, even a few flooded bathrooms with bizarrely faulty plumbing. No Perseus. He moved on, searching empty classroom after empty classroom – seriously, Hogwarts had an unreasonable number of them – and finally, in the seventh one, he found him.

Perseus was seated at the front, tucked behind a student bench. He wasn’t pacing, crying, or throwing things like Draco half-expected. He just sat there, hunched forward with his hands clasped and his gaze lowered, like he was trying to make sense of the universe.

“Perseus?” Draco asked cautiously.

Perseus looked up, eyes widening with surprise. “Draco? What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” Draco admitted, stepping into the room. “You vanished this afternoon, and I figured you must’ve snuck off to Hogsmeade. Then you didn’t come back, and … well, I got worried.”

Perseus blinked at him, startled, and Draco’s face warmed under the stare.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? Are you laughing? Stop it! I was just trying to be a decent friend – if you want me to leave, I can –”

“No, no,” Perseus interrupted, standing quickly and holding out his hands. “I appreciate it. Really. Having a friend who cares … that means a lot right now. I haven’t had many of those lately.”

Draco paused. “What do you mean? I thought you had loads of friends.”

“Had,” Perseus said simply.

Draco tried a half-hearted joke. “Well, that doesn’t sound ominous.”

Perseus gave a half-hearted snort.

Draco then offered, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Perseus sighed and sat again, patting the space beside him. Draco joined him, the narrow bench forcing their legs to press together. He noticed it. Of course, he did. But he said nothing.

Perseus ran a hand through his hair, silver streak glowing faintly in the fading light. Draco watched the motion – too long, maybe – but then Perseus spoke.

“I had a fight with my girlfriend … if she still is my girlfriend. We’ve fought before, but not like this. She called me selfish. A liar. And I honestly don’t know if she’s right.”

“It’s her,” Draco said immediately. “You’re not selfish. You’re not a liar. She clearly has no idea what she’s talking about.”

Perseus opened his mouth to protest, but Draco cut him off.

“No, listen. You’re one of the only decent people I’ve met in ages. You gave me a chance when nobody else did. You’re kind, smart, and funny, and I’d bet anything you were a great boyfriend, too. Whatever happened, she doesn’t deserve you if she can’t see that.”

Perseus hesitated. “I … I can’t tell you what the fight was really about.”

Draco nodded. “That’s fine. You don’t need to.”

Then, cautiously, he reached out and took Perseus’s hand. He gave it a light squeeze, and to his surprise, Perseus didn’t pull away. He even smiled, the tension in his eyes easing.

“That’s okay,” Draco said gently. “How about we head to the kitchens? Get you something to eat. Then we can forget about your stupid girlfriend for a while.”

Perseus chuckled, eyes red-rimmed but grateful. “That sounds like the best plan ever.”  

*

Percy wasn’t sure whose idea it was to sneak into the kitchens instead of just asking for food, but neither Slytherin needed much convincing. The moment Percy suggested it, the two were slipping out of the Slytherin common room like shadows, darting through the dungeons until they found the portrait of the fruit bowl.

Inside, the kitchen was warm and bustling with house-elves preparing the next day’s breakfast. But Percy had his eyes on the plate of freshly baked biscuits cooling by the hearth – and next to them, a pile of sautéed vegetables glistening with garlic and butter. He caught Draco’s eye, gave a mischievous grin, and before the nearest elf could even turn around, the two of them had swiped the plates and were already halfway to the door.

The elf – a small creature with enormous eyes and oversized ears – turned just in time to see the empty tray and let out a high-pitched wail of dismay. Percy couldn’t help but laugh. He and Draco bolted down the corridor, giggling like first years who had just pulled their first prank.

They tore through the dungeon passageways, the smell of stolen food following them, and skidded to a stop just outside the common room entrance. As they slid through the door, curfew hit – nine o’clock sharp. Barely on time. Randall Rein, the Slytherin head boy, was doing his final rounds. He spotted them both, panting, red-faced, and clearly up to something. After a pause, he just raised his hands.

“I’m not even going to ask,” he muttered, walking past without another word.

Percy and Draco burst into their dorm room seconds later, breathless and triumphant. They collapsed onto the floor between their beds, digging into the biscuits and vegetables like they hadn’t eaten in days. The stolen food tasted better than anything Percy could remember all week – maybe because of the thrill, maybe because he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. Or maybe it was just because Draco was there.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of quiet laughter and whispered conversation. They talked about classes, about which professors annoyed them the most, about Percy’s crumbling relationship, and of course, they shit-talked Albus Dumbledore with great enthusiasm. Draco had an impressive vocabulary for creative insults, Percy discovered.

Somewhere near midnight, after the food had been devoured and the lamplight dimmed to a flicker, Percy felt a strange warmth in his chest. Not just from the food or the shared mischief – but from Draco himself. Calm, sarcastic, sharp-tongued Draco, who didn’t push too hard or ask too many questions. Who had gone looking for him when no one else had.

Without thinking too hard about it, Percy reached over and wrapped his arms around Draco in a firm hug.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Draco stiffened, turning away slightly, but Percy didn’t miss the faint blush on his cheeks – or the way his lips twitched into the beginning of a smile.

“Yeah, whatever,” Draco muttered.

Percy laughed, not letting go just yet. “You don’t have to pretend to be all stoic around me, Mr. ‘You’re Kind, Smart, and Funny.’” He pulled back enough to meet Draco’s eyes. “I may have lost a few friends this week … but I think I gained one of the best ones I could ask for.”

Draco didn’t reply right away. He just looked at Percy – really looked at him. And even though he didn’t say anything, Percy felt the answer in the silence.

He smiled, and for the first time in days, it felt genuine.

*

She felt calm. But it was the wrong sort of calm – like the hush of the world right before a storm breaks. Her head buzzed, soft and light, like it had been stuffed with cotton candy. Her thoughts floated, untethered, drifting lazily through a foggy sea. Worries, questions, instincts – everything slid away, dissolving like sugar on her tongue.

Sand. That’s what it felt like.

There was sand between her fingers, warm and golden. A memory? Maybe. A dream? Maybe. The beach blurred around the edges – waves somewhere in the distance, gulls crying overhead, and laughter. Soft laughter, joyful, belonging to people she should know. Their faces refused to come into focus. Still, the memory wrapped her like a blanket, warm and distant.

She stood there in the sand – at least, she thought she did – watching her hand move, opening and closing, trying to grasp the grains slipping away. She tried to close her fist, to hold onto something, anything, but her fingers relaxed again. Not by her will. Not at all.

It should have scared her. It would have, if not for the way her thoughts were being muffled, padded, dimmed. The cotton candy fog softened everything – fear, doubt, even the instinct to resist.

Back to the sand.

She smiled.

Oh, well.

This was easier. Softer. Whatever weight she had been carrying before – whatever tension, whatever pain – was gone now. Lost in the mist, somewhere behind her.

The calm deepened.

And somewhere, far, far away, the storm waited.  

*

Chapter 16: hellhounds come howling

Summary:

Percy deals with some hellhounds, Hogwarts has the first quidditch game of the season, and Percy and Draco's relationship grows.

Notes:

I did not mean for this chapter to reach 10k. Lol whoops

ANYWAY, I'm going to be going through the previous chapters and editing to my preference. You might want to read the end of chapter fifteen again because I'm going to add a small scene at the end. And I'm going to go back and rewrite the scenes with Draco in them, but nothing major will change.

*

Chapter 16: Hellhounds Come Howling

Percy woke late the next morning, the soft, green-tinged sunlight filtering through the lake outside the dormitory window. It cast watery shadows across the stone walls and turned the silken emerald curtains of the four poster beds into glowing banners. Across the room, Draco's hair was a white-blond mess against his pillow. Percy smiled faintly, warm and cozy beneath his sheets. The dungeon air was crisp, sharp against his nose, but it only made the bed feel more comfortable.

It didn’t matter that he was late – breakfast ran longer on weekends, a full three hours instead of one. And according to the digital clock he had set up beside his bed (and which, miraculously, hadn’t exploded from Hogwarts’ ambient magic), it was only nine o’clock. If he hurried, he could still make it to the Great Hall before the food disappeared at ten.

He moved slowly, tugging on his robes and ruffling his hair into something vaguely presentable, and then made his way up to the Great Hall. By the time he arrived, the room was quiet and sun-drenched, scattered with the handful of early risers or those who never went to bed at a reasonable hour. Percy headed straight for the fruit – his stomach still mildly full from last night’s biscuit heist – but paused when he noticed something odd.

No biscuits. Or vegetables.

He smirked to himself and began piling fruit onto his plate – some raspberries, a few slices of apple, a lone blueberry scone – when the events of the previous day came rushing back.

He didn’t need a reminder, but he got one anyway.

His gaze wandered – casual at first – then caught on the towering glass hourglasses lining the far wall of the Great Hall. The House Point counters. Four massive containers, each standing nearly twenty feet tall, supported by intricately carved pillars that reflected the aesthetic of each house. Percy’s eyes flicked across them: Hufflepuff with elongated badgers, encrusted with gold, and filled with yellow topazes; Gryffindor with red lions, whittled out of ancient wood, and filled with red rubies; Ravenclaw with sleek eagles of obsidian, filled with blue sapphires; and Slytherin, with green-streaked wooden pillars coiled with carved snakes, filled with emeralds.

Slytherin had been in the lead yesterday. One hundred and eighty points.

Now? One hundred and thirty.

Percy’s face warmed. Right. That was his fault.

Maybe he shouldn’t have cussed out the headmaster.

His shoulders tensed as the weight of it settled. Not just the fifty-point deduction, but the knowledge that his outburst – his defiance – had consequences for everyone else in Slytherin. Not that they didn’t deserve to lose a few points sometimes, but it stung knowing he was the reason.

And the stares didn’t help.

He could feel them – burning into the back of his neck. Students, sure. But when he dared a glance toward the staff table, it was the adults that made his stomach twist. Dumbledore, watching him with that infuriating unreadable expression. McGonagall’s brow was tight. Even Snape looked vaguely interested, which was somehow worse. Hagrid was absent, which Percy thought was odd – until he remembered.

Detention. Tonight. With Hagrid.

Great.

He had no idea what magical punishments awaited him. At his old schools, detention meant copying lines, scrubbing blackboards, or alphabetising library shelves. But Hogwarts didn’t do anything normally. He would probably be forced to wrestle a hippogriff or milk a banshee or something equally deranged.

With that thought trailing behind him, Percy finished eating and quietly wrapped a napkin around a handful of berries and a scone or two. Draco always slept in late on weekends, and he would be annoyed to have missed breakfast entirely. Besides, it felt good to do something thoughtful for someone who actually cared.

He tucked the food parcel into his robe pocket and headed back toward the dungeons, already dreading the night ahead – but feeling, for once, a little less alone.

*

“Draco.”

“Draco, wake up.”

“Draco, come on, wake up. I’ve got your favourite – scones.”

There was a muffled groan from the bed as Draco rolled away from him, pulling the blankets tighter. His voice came out thick with sleep. “Mmm, shuddup.”

Percy stifled a laugh. Draco’s hair, nearly white in the morning light, stuck up in every direction like he had just been electrocuted. His silk pyjamas were twisted, wrinkled across his back, and his lips were curled into a small frown that made him look – well, cute, honestly. Still, Percy had expected the resistance. He didn’t come unprepared.

Without mercy, he grabbed hold of Draco’s tightly wrapped blanket cocoon and yanked.

There was a surprised yelp as Draco was pulled sideways, falling from the covers and landing in a graceless heap on the cold dungeon floor.

“Perseus!” Draco shrieked, indignant. He scrambled upright, crawling quickly back into bed. He glared at Percy with a sharpness that might have been more effective if he weren’t half-asleep and pink-cheeked.

Percy held the twisted blanket triumphantly, smirking. “Rise and shine, princess.”

“If you weren’t a friend,” Draco growled, clutching at the edges of the duvet, “I’d have hexed you by now.”

Percy’s smirk softened into something more genuine. A friend.

That word still hit him like a warmth in the chest. Draco was his friend. Someone who cared enough to search for him when he went missing. Who dragged him away from his own misery and made him laugh again, just for the sake of it. Who didn’t ask too many questions but stayed anyway.

“Like you would do that,” Percy teased lightly. “You care too much about me to actually hurt me.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “But not enough to not jinx you,” he muttered darkly, already running a hand through his mess of hair, trying – and failing – to smooth it down.

His attention shifted to the parcel Percy had set on his bedside table. Percy watched his eyes narrow with interest.

“Did you at least grab the blueberry scones?”

Percy grinned, pleased with himself. “Of course, I did. And I got some blackberries and grapes, too.”

Draco unfolded the napkin and poked through the bundle like it was treasure. When he found the two scones tucked among the berries, he let out a satisfied sigh, popping a blackberry into his mouth.

He chewed for a moment, then said around the fruit, “I might just love you for this.”

The words hit Percy like a slap and a hug all at once.

They both froze.

And then, almost in unison, they blushed. Percy looked down quickly, lips twitching, pretending to fuss with the crumpled blanket still in his hands. His heart beat a little too fast for a lazy weekend morning.

He didn’t say anything – he didn’t need to. The silence was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not really.

And maybe, Percy thought, with a small smile tugging at his lips, being woken up with blueberry scones wasn’t the worst way to start a morning.

*

By twelve o’clock, Percy was already on the pitch, gearing up for three solid hours of quidditch practice with Dawson and the rest of the Slytherin team. So far, he hadn’t missed a single session, and it was finally starting to pay off. Being a keeper wasn’t easy, but it was clicking – slowly. He had half-expected Dumbledore to bench him for the first match after their spat, but, thankfully, that hadn’t happened. Percy knew it wouldn’t be fair, but fairness and Dumbledore didn’t always seem to go hand in hand lately. Still, if he had been banned from the game, Dawson probably would have murdered him in his sleep. The guy took quidditch more seriously than most people took their NEWTs.

Practice was brutal. Dawson rattled off plays like a general preparing for battle, drilling them so many times Percy was convinced he would be dreaming about quaffles and bludgers tonight. If it were up to Dawson, the team wouldn’t even stop to eat – they would breathe in broom polish and exhale game strategy until kickoff tomorrow.

Once they were finally let go, Percy’s day shifted into quieter gear. He wrapped up a paper for herbology – something about gillyweed and its applications in underwater botany, which sounded impressive but mostly involved rewording textbooks. He folded and put away the laundry the house elves had dropped off (still weird, but he tried not to think too hard about it), and then spent a quiet hour in the library with Draco, who was on one of his potion ingredient deep-dives again.

Draco had confided in Percy, in a rare moment of honesty, that he wanted to be a potions master, like Snape. The problem was, he wasn’t sure anyone would take him on as an apprentice after the war – not with his name. Percy hadn’t known what to say to that. He wanted to offer some kind of reassurance, something that would make it better. But nothing he could say would change the way people saw the Malfoy name. So, he stayed quiet and just … stayed. It seemed like enough.

By the time the clock hit six, Percy found himself trudging down the hill toward Hagrid’s hut for detention. He had been dreading it all day – not because he was afraid, but because he had no idea what to expect. This was a magic school. “Detention” could mean anything from scrubbing cauldrons to wrestling mountain trolls.

As he walked, Percy glanced up at the darkening sky and shivered slightly. The air was cooler near the edge of the forest, and the sun was just beginning to dip below the trees. He couldn’t help but think about Hagrid himself – why didn’t he live in the castle, like the other professors? It had to be because he was half-giant. Percy had heard enough about wizard prejudice by now to put two and two together.

He grimaced. If half-giants were treated like that, how would wizards react to someone who was half-god?

He didn’t want to dwell on it.

When the hut finally came into view, Percy blinked. “Hut” was generous. The place looked barely habitable – like it had once been cozy, maybe even charming, but had long since given up. The roof sagged inward, the walls looked waterlogged, and the entire structure seemed to lean just a little too far to the left. The door looked like it might give way with a strong breeze, and the cracked window didn’t help its case. Vines twisted up the sides, clinging to rotting wood beams, and Percy got the distinct impression that the plants were the only things holding the whole place together.

He frowned. Why does Hagrid follow Dumbledore so loyally if this is where he’s forced to live?

Percy knocked gently, half-expecting the door to disintegrate beneath his knuckles.

Instead, it flew open with a bang, slamming against the outer wall like it had been kicked. Percy jumped back, heart in his throat, just in time to avoid getting flattened.

“Perseus!” Hagrid bellowed, beaming down at him.

Percy winced. “Erm. You can just call me Percy. I prefer it, actually.”

“Oh – right, sorry,” Hagrid said, scratching the back of his head, looking slightly sheepish. “It’s just that Dumbledore always calls you Perseus, so I thought –”

“Albus is the reason I’m here,” Percy cut in sharply. His tone came out colder than he intended. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Hagrid straightened slightly, face clouding over like he was gearing up for a lecture. “Now, Dumbledore’s a good man, he is. He only wants what’s best for his students. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you sneaking off to Hogsmeade, eh? Dumbledore would never wrongly –”

“Okay, I get it,” Percy muttered, cutting him off. “Albus is righteous and holy. What’s the punishment, anyway? Am I washing cauldrons all night, or will I be fighting a dragon?”

Hagrid looked momentarily annoyed to have his Dumbledore Defence speech interrupted, but at the mention of dragons, he let out a loud, hearty laugh.

“Fighting dragons? Now that’s a new one!” He chuckled. “Though I did have a dragon ‘ere once. Nah, you’re not fighting anything. We’re just feeding the thestrals their dinner.”

Percy blinked. “The … the death ponies from the start of term? Those things?”

“Death ponies?” Hagrid repeated, confused.

“Never mind,” Percy sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. I’ve got a game tomorrow, and I’d rather not be sleep-deprived when I get tackled mid-air.”

“Quidditch is fun to watch,” Hagrid offered, trying to smooth things over.

Percy glanced at him, then looked back toward the forest. “It’s more fun to play,” he muttered. “But yeah … I guess it is.”

And with that, he followed Hagrid into the trees.

*

Talking with Hagrid was stilted and awkward. The half-giant didn’t seem to know what to make of him – this Slytherin transfer student who had already earned himself detention in the second month of school. Percy couldn’t really blame him. If Hogwarts had actually seen his old school records – before the quests, before the war, before the whole demigod thing – maybe they would realise this wasn’t some new act. He had always been like this. And maybe if his friends had known him before Camp Half-Blood, before the prophecies and gods and monsters, they would have realised that, too.

They made their way down from Hagrid’s hut, toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Percy still thought the name was ridiculous. “Forbidden,” but totally fine for detentions, apparently. He had snuck around plenty at Camp Half-Blood – dodging harpies and slipping past curfew – but at least there he knew the layout. Here, under the dense canopy of trees, the world dimmed too fast. Everything felt unfamiliar and shadowed. It was the kind of place that swallowed people whole.

“Are we going to have something to help us through the dark,” Percy asked, “or are we just supposed to stumble through the bushes and hope for the best?”

Hagrid turned and grinned. “You transfer students are a funny lot,” he said. “We’ll use magic, of course!”

“Of course,” Percy echoed. He should have thought of that. Even after all this time at Hogwarts, magic still didn’t register as his first go-to. Not unless it was his magic. Water came easier to mind than wands and spells.

He slipped his wand from the holster beneath his robes – something Draco had insisted he get after learning Percy had been keeping the thing in his bag like a pencil. Draco had transfigured it from one of his own old holsters, lengthening it to fit Percy’s wand, and though he had acted like it was no big deal, Percy hadn’t stopped wearing it since.

The wand dropped into his palm like it belonged there. Twelve inches, cedar wood, pliant. The core was water serpent spine – rare, according to Jonnie Littletree. The wood was a deep, reddish-brown, not dyed like some others he had seen, but naturally vibrant. The carvings along the handle were smooth and intricate, spiraling up into a twisted tip.

It felt good in his hand. Steady. Right. Like it anchored something in him.

When Percy whispered, “Lumos,” light bloomed at the wand’s tip like a candle flaring to life. The magic from the wand met his own power with surprising ease, sliding into place like water over smooth stone. Gentle and familiar. It calmed something in him.

Beside him, Hagrid pulled out his own wand – a thick, heavy-looking thing, even plainer than Percy’s, but longer. No carvings, just wood.

“I finally got meself a new one after the war,” Hagrid said, tone light. “My old one was snapped when I got expelled from Hogwarts for … well, doesn’t matter now. This one works like a dream. Spells don’t even backfire anymore!”

He demonstrated with his own “Lumos,” the light casting deep shadows into the trees.

Percy raised a brow. Expelled from Hogwarts but still employed here? That’s rich. But he kept the thought to himself.

They pushed further into the woods. The forest was massive, way bigger than the one back at Camp Half-Blood. Percy figured it had to stretch for miles. After about two hundred yards, they reached a clearing. Percy’s wand light flickered across the trees, catching movement.

He narrowed his eyes and strengthened the Lumos Spell, pouring just a little more of himself into it. The light glowed brighter. Shapes in the darkness took form – sleek black bodies slipping through the underbrush like shadows.

The death ponies.

They looked exactly like the ones he had seen pulling the carriages on the first day of term. There was something draconic in their design: skeletal bodies with skin stretched tight over their bones, long muzzles, white, pupil-less eyes that stared blankly into the dark. Their bat-like wings flicked behind them with each step. They were silent and eerie.

And then they spoke.

“My lord?”

“Son of the sea?”

“Food?”

“Brought us food?”

Percy blinked. They were like puppies. Excited, creepy, dead puppies.

The bucket in his hand sloshed unpleasantly against his leg. Inside: entrails and hunks of raw meat. Definitely not vegan.

“There they are, the beauties,” Hagrid said fondly. “C’mon, Percy. Time to feed them.”

The half-giant reached into his own bucket barehanded, pulled out a string of intestines, and chucked it toward the thestrals. They rushed forward, teeth flashing, snapping at the offering with surprising speed.

Percy clicked his tongue. “No need to throw it at them.”

He crouched, setting his bucket down beside him so he could keep one hand on his wand for light. With the other, he pulled out what looked like a slab of thigh meat and sat cross-legged in the grass, trying to look non-threatening. He gave a soft whistle, low and melodic.

One of the thestrals – smaller, less wary – stepped forward.

“My lord?”

Percy held the meat flat in his palm, letting the creature take its time. It picked the food delicately from his hand, careful to keep its sharp teeth from brushing his skin. The others followed, surrounding him in a loose circle of bones and wings and strange warmth.

They licked his fingers, snuffled his hair. One nosed at his shoulder.

Percy laughed as they begged for more.

By the time the bucket was empty, his robes smelled like raw meat, and his hands were wet with thestral spit. He wiped them in the grass and stood up. The herd shied back at first but crept closer again, curious and gentle, like remembering: hey, this guy isn’t so bad.

Percy reached out and ran a hand along one of their bony necks. They let him.

When he finally turned around, he found Hagrid staring, mouth agape.

“What?” Percy asked, defensive.

Hagrid shut his mouth quickly, face unreadable.

“Nothing,” he said, voice a little too tight. “Just … not a common sight, is all. Seeing thestrals take to someone so fast. Most are scared of ’em. They don’t trust easily. It’s … it’s a nice thing, seeing them so happy with you. Dumbledore said – well, I didn’t believe him –”

Percy’s expression darkened. “Albus said what about me?”

Hagrid hesitated. “That you were special,” he said. “He said to keep an eye on you. Not sure why, when –”

The thestrals let out uneasy, warbling cries. One reared up, wings flaring wide in panic.

Percy’s head snapped toward the trees.

There was movement. The shadows beyond the clearing deepened unnaturally, crawling and clinging to the underbrush like smoke. Then the shape took form: impossibly dark, blending into the gloom until Percy realized it was the gloom.

A hellhound. Shadow traveling.

It stepped into the wand light, massive as a grizzly, its fur rippling with darkness. And it wasn’t alone. Percy spotted at least two more behind it, hulking brutes, slipping between the trees like smoke given shape.

“Hagrid,” Percy said evenly, his voice suddenly sharp with focus, “get behind me.”

“I ain’t never seen one o’ those before,” Hagrid muttered, stunned. “What kind of –”

The lead hellhound growled – a sound like gravel grinding under pressure – and lunged.

Percy barely had time to reach into his robes before it hit him like a truck. His wand flew from his hand, the light at the tip vanishing the moment it hit the ground. The clearing plunged into darkness. He hit the dirt hard, ribs aching, fingers already curling around a familiar pen. Riptide was uncapped and extended in his grip just in time to wedge the celestial bronze between him and the monster.

The blade pierced the hellhound’s chest. The creature froze, eyes flaring once, and then burst into golden dust, showering Percy in sparks as the weight vanished from atop him.

He didn’t have time to breathe.

Another howl tore through the trees.

The remaining two were on him in a flash, using the shadows to mask their charge. Percy couldn’t see them clearly, not with only Hagrid’s weak wand light flickering behind him, but he didn’t need to. He moved on instinct, parrying one with a sideways slash, then spinning to drive Riptide into the second’s shoulder. The celestial bronze cut clean, slicing deep, and Percy followed with a downward strike that took its head clean off.

It exploded like the first.

The last one snarled and charged, but Percy was already moving. His body remembered the rhythm – the muscle memory from months of war, from years of surviving monsters who wanted him dead. He ducked low, felt hot breath over his shoulder, and drove his sword up through the hellhound’s ribs. It dissolved into golden mist with a pitiful whimper.

Silence returned to the clearing.

Percy stood still, heart pounding, chest heaving. His grip on Riptide was tight enough to make his knuckles ache. It had been months since a fight like that – months since adrenaline burned like fire through his veins.

Behind him, the thestrals began to settle, their cries softening.

He turned slowly, the weight of Riptide still comforting in his hand.

Hagrid stared at him with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open.

“So,” the half-giant said softly, “that’s why Albus said to keep an eye on you.”

Percy quickly capped Riptide and tucked it back into his robes. His pulse was still thundering in his ears, but his mind had already moved on to the next problem.

The Mist.

He bent to pick up his wand and the hellhound claws – three jagged, gleaming things resting in the golden dust. He tucked them away and turned to Hagrid, fixing him with a steady look.

“What did you see?” He asked carefully.

Hagrid looked dazed, like someone who knew something weird had happened but couldn’t quite grasp it.

“I … I saw …” Hagrid squinted, scratching his beard. “Yer were attacked. By those beasts. Big ones. You fought them off but … not with magic. You had a …”

A sword, Percy finished silently. But not one a wizard should be able to conjure.

So, Hagrid couldn’t see through the Mist. Not fully. He had witnessed the chaos but didn’t understand it. Percy could work with that.

He reached for the magic in the air – the Mist around them. It felt like water in his mind, slippery and fluid. He twisted it gently, wrapping his words in the fog of half-truths and illusion. His voice came out smooth, touched with magic.

“We were attacked by several large dogs,” he said calmly, “and I transfigured my wand into a sword so I could fight them off. They ran away soon after. Nothing important happened.”

Hagrid’s eyes glazed slightly, his shoulders relaxing.

“Nothing important happened …” He echoed.

Then he blinked, confused. “You transfigured your wand into a sword? I ain’t ever seen a spell like that before.”

Percy didn’t flinch. “It’s very advanced stuff,” he said quickly. “Anyway, is detention over now? I’ve got a quidditch match tomorrow. Kind of hoping to get a full night’s sleep.”

Hagrid still looked uneasy. “What are ye –”

He glanced up and seemed to notice the moonlight at last and how high it had climbed over the treetops.

“Oh. Right,” he muttered, brow furrowing. “Yer free to go now …”

Percy nodded once in thanks, already turning back toward the edge of the clearing. He kept his head down as he walked, wand in one hand, the weight of the hellhound claws in his pocket, and the echo of adrenaline still humming in his chest.

He didn’t look back.

*

As Percy made his way back toward the castle, wand still in hand and footsteps quiet on the forest path, his mind refused to rest. The fight was over, but the questions it left behind were making his head spin.

How the hell had those hellhounds gotten into the Forbidden Forest?

They weren’t just run-of-the-mill monsters. Hellhounds were sacred to the Underworld – guardians of the dead, servants of Hades. They didn’t just appear. Not unless Hades sent them himself … or unless someone summoned them.

Percy’s brow furrowed. He remembered exactly what a summoned hellhound looked like. Luke had done it once, back during capture the flag, when Kronos’s influence had first begun to twist him. Gaea had summoned them, too – black-furred nightmares in the war camps, always used as weapons, as threats.

So, this wasn’t just some stray monster slipping past the magical wards. This was deliberate.

That was what really made his skin crawl.

Someone summoned those things, he thought.

But who?

His fingers curled slightly around his wand, knuckles whitening as he thought it through.

The Greek pantheon wasn’t common knowledge here. Most Hogwarts students didn’t know anything beyond the vague concept of mythology – and even then, they treated it as stories, not reality. The only people who actually knew the gods were real at Hogwarts were the other demigods, Chiron, and Dumbledore.

And the only people with the kind of knowledge and power it would take to summon a hellhound were Nico or Chiron.

But that didn’t make sense either.

Neither of them would do this. Nico wouldn’t. He was broody, sure, and had a flair for the dramatic, but he wouldn’t risk innocent lives. And Chiron? No way. He had fought for centuries to keep demigods safe. There was no reason for either of them to send hellhounds into a school full of children – especially knowing that detentions were regularly held in the forest.

Percy’s boots hit the gravel path as he broke through the trees, the castle’s lights flickering like distant beacons ahead. He didn’t stop walking, but his thoughts kept spinning in circles.

This wasn’t just out of place. It was wrong. Hogwarts wasn’t supposed to be part of the Greek world. It belonged to the Old Religion – the Triple Goddess, the druidic roots, all that magic that predated even Rome. Greek monsters weren’t supposed to step foot here, let alone charge out of the shadows and try to kill someone.

The presence of hellhounds on this soil meant one thing: the boundaries were blurring. Someone had crossed a line. Either that, or someone wanted Percy dead – and was willing to rip open a path from the Underworld to make it happen.

He glanced back once at the trees, now still and silent.

None of it made any sense.

*

Percy was still turning over the hellhound attack in his mind when he stepped into the Slytherin dorm. The cool, green-tinged light from the enchanted lamps barely registered to him. His thoughts were too loud. So, when a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, he flinched.

Instinct took over.

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the arm in a crushing grip and yanked the person forward, ready to shove or throw or strike – until a startled yelp broke the moment.

Platinum blond hair. Grey eyes. Familiar voice.

Draco.

Percy’s breath caught, and he immediately released his grip, stumbling a step back as guilt surged up like bile.

“Draco?” He rasped, voice hoarse with surprise.

“Perseus,” Draco hissed, rubbing his arm where angry red finger marks were already blooming into the shape of Percy’s hand. His tone was equal parts reprimand and pain, and it made Percy’s stomach twist. “I waited up for you … why were you gone so long?”

“I had detention with Hagrid,” Percy said, lowering his voice instinctively out of respect for the sleeping boys down the hall. “It went longer than anticipated. Ran into some trouble.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, catching on the word. “Trouble?”

Percy looked away. The guilt shifted, grew heavier. “I can’t … I can’t tell you.”

There was a pause. Then: “Why?” Draco’s voice cracked. “I understood why you couldn’t tell me about the fight with Annabeth – that’s personal, and I didn’t push. But this is detention. It’s small stuff. I thought –” he broke off, his voice quieting to a near-whisper “– you called us friends. Do you not trust me? Is it … because of who I was? Before the war?”

The question hit Percy like a slap.

“No. Draco, no – that’s not it,” he said quickly. He stepped forward, but Draco didn’t move or meet his eyes.

“I’ve changed,” Draco said, his voice still small. “I thought you knew that.”

“I do,” Percy said, and he meant it. “I know you have. And this – it has nothing to do with you.”

But Draco didn’t look convinced. He looked uncertain and hollow. And the worst part? Percy understood that look too well. That was the look of someone who was tired of being left behind.

Percy stood there for a long moment, torn.

He could lie. He could dodge the truth. He could protect Draco from the madness of it all. Lying would protect himself from the consequences of sharing a secret that wasn’t his to tell.

But then he thought: fuck the gods.

He wasn’t going to lose the one person who made this place feel even slightly like home.

“Draco …” Percy began, “if I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else. Not a soul.”

Draco finally looked up. There was something vulnerable in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Pain.

“I’ve no one to tell, anyway,” he muttered. “Remember? My father’s rotting in Azkaban, my mum’s dodging the Ministry in Spain … and it’s not like I have other friends here.”

Percy winced. The words were bitter, but honest. And they only made his decision clearer.

Because he wasn’t the only one feeling isolated. They both were – cut off from the people who used to know them best, drifting in a school that didn’t quite feel like it belonged to them.

He sighed.

“What do you know about the Greek gods?”

*

“So, you’re telling me, you’re the son of some ancient sea god?”

“Poseidon,” Percy prompted gently. “And … yes?”

“Why does that sound more like a question than an answer?”

“It’s an answer,” Percy said. “Definitely an answer. The only question is … do you believe me?”

Draco looked up from the hellhound claws he had been inspecting. Each was as big as his hand and were near indestructible. Percy had shown them to him as proof of the attack during attention; he had also shown Riptide. He didn’t have much else in the form of evidence for his claims about being a demigod, besides showcasing his demigod powers … which could also be passed off as advanced, powerful magic. But what was more believable: being the son of an ancient sea god, or being a powerful teenage wizard who somehow had an affinity for water and talking to sea life?

“I don’t know … this goes against everything I’ve ever learned, but …” Draco took a deep breath. He made eye-contact with Percy, silver to green. “I don’t know who’s crazier – you, for being a demigod and telling me, against the god’s wishes; or me, for believing you.”

Percy felt relief hit him. He couldn’t help his smile.

“It’s definitely me,” he said, “but that’s okay – we can be crazy, together.”

*

Draco lay in bed, eyes fixed on the canopy above him, though he couldn’t see much beyond the shadows. Sleep didn’t come easily – not with everything Perseus had just told him still circling his mind like a spiraling, dizzying storm.

He had thought Perseus was just an odd American wizard with an even odder name and a frustrating habit of showing up places he shouldn’t be. But now? Now he knew that Perseus was a demigod. Half human, half ancient Greek god – specifically, the son of Poseidon, god of the sea.

The revelation would have seemed laughable, ridiculous even, if not for the raw, haunted way Perseus had told his story.

He hadn’t held back. He had started from the beginning – his earliest quests, the prophecies that had dictated his fate, the wars he had fought in, the monsters he had faced. Even among demigods, he had said, his story was unusual. Too many prophecies. Too many battles. Too many losses.

Draco had listened in silence, feeling more like a ghost in the room than a participant. He had seen pain before, had lived through the war himself, but the things Perseus had endured went beyond anything Draco could imagine. Tartarus. He shuddered just thinking the name. Perseus had spoken of it like it was alive. Like it watched from the corners of the world, waiting to drag him back.

And now, somehow, that same pain had followed Perseus to Hogwarts. A new quest. One that no one else knew about.

Draco couldn’t stop thinking about what Perseus had said about the Triple Goddess – the deity of the Old Religion, the one tied to all wizard kind. She was fading. Dying, maybe. And if she did … the consequences would be catastrophic. Magic itself could unravel. It sounded impossible. And yet …

That was the part that scared Draco the most: how much he didn’t know. How much was happening in his own world without his knowledge, things far more ancient and powerful than the war he had lived through.

Still, for all the epic tales and impossible revelations, the evidence Perseus had offered was thin. A handful of monstrous claws that might have come from a dragon. A sword that could have been transfigured with advanced magic, if you were clever enough.

But Draco had seen something more convincing than any of that. He had seen the truth in Perseus’ eyes. The way his voice cracked when he spoke of friends he had lost. The tremble in his hands when he mentioned the hellhounds. The hollowness in his face when he admitted he didn’t know who he could trust anymore.

And Draco – Draco, who had been feared and hated, who had watched friends abandon him in the aftermath of the war – understood that feeling all too well.

He was tired. Tired of being alone. Tired of walking through life with people expecting the worst from him. Maybe that was why it was so easy – too easy – to believe Perseus. Maybe he was foolish. Maybe it was desperation. But he couldn’t look at the other boy, with all his ghosts and grief, and tell him he didn’t believe.

So instead, when Perseus finished, voice barely above a whisper, Draco had reached out. His hand found Perseus’, tentative but steady. He curled his fingers around the other boy’s and said softly, “Thank you for telling me. You don’t know how much it means to be trusted again.”

Percy’s expression shifted, softening with a kind of warmth Draco hadn’t seen on anyone’s face in a long time. That same crooked, lopsided smile he had worn in the bookshop when they had first met. It still made his stomach feel like it was full of Fizzing Whizzbees.

“No, thank you for listening,” Percy had said, his voice rough. “I … I needed a friend like you.”

“Friend.”

Draco forced a smile in return, but the word lodged itself deep in his chest, a quiet ache he didn’t know what to do with. He tried not to look too closely at the disappointment that bloomed beneath his ribs.

He rolled onto his side now, in the dark, pulling the covers tighter around him.

“Friend.” That would have to be enough.

For now.

*

The next morning, Percy woke earlier than usual, the remnants of last night still pressing heavily against his mind. There was too much to do – too much to think about. A quidditch match loomed after classes, but that wasn’t the priority gnawing at his thoughts. He needed to find Nico. Needed to talk to him about the hellhounds, about the strange feeling in the woods, about how wrong everything had felt.

He dressed in a rush, barely sparing a glance at the mirror. His shirt was crooked, his robe askew, but Percy couldn’t bring himself to care. He just needed to move. Needed to get out of the dorm before –

“Morning,” came a quiet voice behind him.

Percy froze halfway through tugging his robes over his shoulders as Draco sat up in bed, his pale hair mussed, eyes still soft with sleep.

Of course.

Percy’s stomach twisted. The memories of last night came rushing back – the way he had bared everything to Draco in a rare moment of vulnerability. His failures, the quests, the weight of prophecy, the friends he had lost. He had dumped it all on Draco’s shoulders just to prove he wasn’t a liar. And now … now there was nothing left to hide behind. No mask. No distance. No secrets.

He didn’t know how to talk to Draco now. Didn’t know what came after being seen like that.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Draco was already on his feet, moving across the dorm with a kind of sleepy determination. Percy didn’t have time to react before Draco reached out and, with a quiet frown of focus, began fixing the buttons on Percy’s shirt. Nimble fingers smoothed the wrinkles, tugged his robes into place, and fastened them with a small, decisive motion.

“There,” Draco said, stepping back with a critical eye. “Now you look like a proper wizard.”

Percy blinked, heat rising up the back of his neck. “Uh …”

Draco didn’t wait for a response. He turned with an effortless sort of grace and made his way to the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “See you at breakfast.”

Percy watched the door swing shut behind him.

“You … you too,” he murmured, too quiet for anyone to hear.

*

Nico wasn’t hard to spot among the sea of Hufflepuff robes. He might have been shorter than most and lost in the crowd at first glance, but Percy could feel him before he saw him. That subtle pulse of death magic – cold, heavy, and unmistakable – cut through the ambient buzz of Hogwarts’ enchantments. It was the demigod aura, the mark of Hades’ bloodline. No one else in the Great Hall gave off that kind of energy.

He spotted Nico at the far end of the Hufflepuff table, deep in conversation with a younger student – fourth or fifth year, Percy guessed. He hesitated only a second before weaving through the crowd and tapping Nico on the shoulder.

Nico turned, blinking in surprise. “Percy?” His tone was uncertain. “I mean, hi, but …”

Percy felt the distance immediately. It was uncomfortable. They had never been particularly close, not after the Bianca fallout, but there had been a mutual respect between them after the Second Giant War. Lately, though, even that felt like it was fraying. After everything going on between the demigods at Hogwarts, Nico looked like he wanted to vanish into shadow the moment he saw him.

“Hey, Nico,” Percy said, forcing his voice into something light, casual. “I need to talk to you about something … privately.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced at his friend, then back to Percy.

“It’s about our family,” Percy added, lowering his voice.

That did it. Nico’s expression darkened, and he sighed before turning to the girl beside him. “Uh, excuse us, Leslie. I’ll be right back.”

Without another word, he grabbed a fistful of Percy’s robe and hauled him toward the corridor just outside the Great Hall. Percy let him. He recognised the hallway instantly – he had spoken to Annabeth here, not so long ago. That conversation hadn’t ended well. He could only hope this one went better.

Nico crossed his arms, back against the stone wall. “So, what is it? What’s going on?”

Percy glanced around to make sure they were alone, then reached into his robes. “I was attacked by three hellhounds last night,” he said, voice low. He pulled out the jagged black claws he had stashed away earlier and held them out. “This was during my detention with Hagrid. I had to use the Mist to cover things up.”

Nico’s eyes widened. “But hellhounds can only be summoned from the Underworld,” he said sharply. “And I know you’re not on my father’s kill list anymore.”

Percy ignored the “anymore” part. That was a can of worms he wasn’t about to open.

“That’s what’s bugging me,” he said. “They were after me. Three of them, all coordinated. If your dad didn’t send them, they had to be summoned by someone. And only a few people on these grounds would know how. You or Chiron. But –”

“You’re not accusing me, are you?” Nico’s voice went cold.

“No! No, of course not,” Percy said quickly, holding up his hands. “I know it wasn’t you. I just … something’s not adding up. And very few people knew where I was that night. Fewer still have the skill to summon hellhounds. I haven’t pieced it all together yet, but …” He hesitated. “I think Albus is involved.”

Nico’s demeanor shut down instantly. He crossed his arms tighter and frowned. “Percy, you can’t blame Dumbledore every time something goes wrong.”

“I’m not –”

“Annabeth said you’ve been acting weird,” Nico cut in, voice sharper now. “And I didn’t want to believe her. But you’re sounding paranoid. How would Dumbledore even be connected to the hellhounds?”

Percy’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know. But he hates me. He’s turned Annabeth and Thalia against me. He’s planting doubt, and he’s hiding things, I swear! I know what I saw, and I know what I felt when the Triple Goddess took me. He’s – he’s manipulating something, I just know it.”

Nico bit his lip and looked away, eyes filled with a quiet sort of pity Percy didn’t want to see. “I believe you about the hellhounds. You’ve got the claws to prove it. But Chiron said the Triple Goddess is barely clinging to her divine spark. She’s fading. Fading gods don’t kidnap demigods for mysterious missions. That kind of power? It’s just not there anymore.” He paused. “Maybe you think you saw her. Maybe you wanted to. But that doesn’t make it real.”

Percy’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say to that. Every word from Nico felt like it widened the rift between them. But the last thing he wanted was to push another ally away.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Don’t believe me. But don’t pretend you haven’t noticed things are off at Hogwarts.”

Nico didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“I don’t like what Dumbledore’s doing to the Slytherins,” he admitted at last. “Yeah, a lot of them come from Death Eater families. But they’re just kids. I don’t think they’re dangerous. Just … scared. Lost. The new rules, the monitoring – it’s like he wants to make them outcasts. And I don’t get why. He’s supposed to be smarter than this.”

Percy exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. Finally, someone else saw it.

“I’m not going to argue,” he said. “But yeah. The Slytherins are getting the worst of it. And no matter what anyone says …” He met Nico’s eyes. “I’m going to figure out what’s really going on.”

Nico gave a resigned sigh. “I can’t convince you to lie low, can I?”

Percy grinned faintly. “Nope.”

“Just … don’t go looking for trouble.”

Percy turned to leave. “It’s trouble that finds me,” he said over his shoulder. Then, softer: “But I’ll try not to.”

*

After the frustrating, dead-end conversation with Nico, Percy returned to the Slytherin table. He hadn’t gotten any closer to answers – just more questions and Nico's half-measured concern.

Soon, Benjamin, Rick, and Taylor pulled him into a heated debate about the best European quidditch team. Percy didn’t know if it was a mercy or a distraction, but he appreciated it either way. He was just starting to enjoy himself, even managing a few genuine laughs, when he noticed that Dawson was missing. That was weird. Usually, the moment quidditch was mentioned, Dawson appeared like a moth to flame, ready to monologue about stats and plays from the 17th century.

Percy barely had time to consider it when Draco suddenly appeared, looking stiff and determined, and insisted they go to potions early. Before Percy could ask why, Draco grabbed him by the bicep and pulled him away from the table.

Percy barely managed a shrug of apology to the others before letting Draco drag him toward the dungeons. He couldn’t ignore the fact that Draco’s grip was surprisingly tight. It was like he didn’t realize he was squeezing, his knuckles going white as they turned corner after corner. Percy tried to shake his arm free once or twice but gave up quickly. It wasn’t like he minded being close to Draco.

They finally reached the potions classroom. The moment they stopped, Draco abruptly dropped Percy’s arm, only just seeming to register what he had been doing. His pale cheeks turned a deep, tell-tale red.

“I didn’t want us to be late, Perseus,” Draco said stiffly, like it was a perfectly reasonable excuse and not the most transparent lie Percy had heard that morning.

Percy arched a brow. “Uh huh. Sure.”

Before Draco could fire back, a familiar, scathing voice sliced through the air.

“Do not loiter outside my classroom.”

Percy and Draco turned to find Professor Snape standing in the doorway, trying – and failing – to loom over them. Percy was taller than Snape. He wore the usual black robes that somehow always seemed like they were caught in an invisible breeze, but Percy noticed something new: faint bags under the man’s eyes. He looked tired, not that it made his scowl any less intense.

“Professor,” Draco said quickly, clearly relieved by the interruption.

“Draco,” Snape replied, his tone noticeably softer. Then his gaze shifted to Percy, giving him a long, pointed once-over. “Mr. Jackson, I see you’ve finally decided to wear your uniform properly today.”

Percy smirked. He saw the opening and couldn’t help himself.

“Draco helped me get dressed this morning,” he said smoothly, letting just enough implication hang in the air to make it sound suggestive.

Snape’s eyes widened just a fraction, his scowl faltering for the briefest moment into something close to alarm.

“Class – class starts soon,” he said, his voice stuttering. “You would do well to set up your cauldrons.” And with that, he turned and swept back into the classroom, robes billowing dramatically behind him.

Percy grinned to himself, satisfied.

“Perseus!” Draco hissed the moment Snape was out of earshot. His face was burning red. “Why would you say that? Now he thinks we were … doing things!”

Percy bit back a laugh. “Aw, come on, Draco. A little leg-pulling never hurt anyone.”

Draco looked absolutely scandalised, but Percy only chuckled and stepped inside, enjoying the rare moment of having the upper hand.

*

The rest of the day didn’t exactly fly by, but Percy’s excitement for the upcoming quidditch match kept his spirits high enough that he didn’t mind the slow crawl of time. Potions was a theory day – which meant no cauldrons, no explosions, and nothing remotely interesting – so Percy spent the majority of it doodling in the margins of his leather-bound notebook with Riptide, carefully avoiding Snape’s withering glares. He knew Draco would lend him the notes later. That was good enough for him.

He kept his focus pointedly away from Thalia and her usual trio – Harry, Hermione, and Ron. They returned the favour, offering him nothing but a cold wall of silence. Percy still wasn’t ready to forgive Thalia. Not after the argument. Not after what she had done, after what she said.

Herbology was better. It was a hands-on day in the greenhouses, and Percy ended up paired with Draco. He couldn’t help but laugh as Draco made a production out of every speck of dirt that got under his nails, whining dramatically like it might kill him. It helped lighten the mood. Even Nico gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment as they passed, which was more than Thalia had managed in potions.

Lunch passed with Percy tucked in at the Slytherin table again, chatting with Benjamin, Rick, Taylor – and trying, with mixed success, to get Draco to join in the banter. The other Slytherins weren’t subtle about their disapproval. There were side-eyes, sneers, and more than one roll of the eyes. But Draco stayed quiet, didn’t leave Percy’s side, and eventually, the others seemed to accept that the two of them came as a package deal.

Defence against the Dark Arts was a blur. Percy hardly paid attention. His mind was too full, still buzzing with everything Nico had said – and hadn’t said – about the hellhound attack. Against his better judgment (Chiron was an “old friend” of Dumbledore’s – would he actually listen to Percy?), he lingered behind after class, waiting by Chiron’s desk while the last few students filtered out.

“Uh, Chiron?” Percy said cautiously.

The centaur was erasing the board with slow, distracted movements. He turned at the sound of Percy’s voice, looking more tired than usual. His face was thinner, his beard messier, and there was a tightness in his shoulders Percy didn’t remember seeing before. Being a professor at Hogwarts clearly wasn’t an easy gig.

“Percy, my boy,” Chiron said, voice friendly but distant. “What do you need? How did you enjoy the class?”

“It was fine,” Percy said, waving that off. “But I have something I need to tell you –”

“Is it about the paper I assigned during class?”

“It’s – wait, you assigned a paper?” Percy blinked. “No, that’s not what I –”

“Percy,” Chiron interrupted, his tone turning sharp, “if this isn’t about the paper, then I suggest you make haste to your next class. You’re already on Albus’ bad side. You don’t need another detention. You’re not supposed to be looking for trouble.”

“I’m not looking for trouble,” Percy said, jaw tightening. “But I have something really important to talk to you about –”

“And I’m sure it can wait until the weekend, when you’re not wasting class time.”

Percy’s stomach sank. “Chiron, I just –”

“Percy, I already told you, not now.”

“If you would just listen to me –”

“Percy!” Chiron snapped.

The sound cracked through the air like a whip, and Percy flinched. He hadn’t heard Chiron raise his voice like that before. The centaur sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face as his tail swished behind him in irritation.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Chiron muttered, “and I’m not in the mood for any more trouble from you. Albus already told me about your delinquency in Hogsmeade. Could you just … for once … stay out of trouble?”

The words weren’t shouted. In fact, by the end, Chiron’s voice had softened. But it didn’t matter. The damage had been done.

Percy looked down at his shoes. His throat felt tight. His eyes stung, and not just from lack of sleep.

“I’ll try my best not to fuck up anything else, sir,” he mumbled, the bitterness in his voice sharper than he had intended.

“Percy, that’s not what I –”

“No, you’re right,” Percy said, stepping back. “I need to get to my next class. See you … whenever.”

“Percy, wait –”

But Percy was already out the door.

*

Draco noticed when Perseus lingered behind after defence against the Dark Arts, speaking quietly to Professor Brunner. There was a familiarity between the two that Draco hadn’t clocked before – an ease, like old friends – or maybe something deeper. It sparked a prickle of suspicion in the back of Draco’s mind. Was this Brunner connected to Perseus’ other life? The demigod one? The life filled with monsters and gods and ancient prophecies?

Draco didn’t have an answer. What he did know was that by the time Perseus walked onto the quidditch pitch, his expression had darkened. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there at breakfast, and his usual spark had dulled.

Something had gone wrong.

Draco couldn’t stand the look on Perseus’ face – not the silence, not the brooding. He didn’t like it. Not on his Perseus.

“Perseus,” Draco said, keeping his voice low, careful not to be overheard. “What’s going on?”

They had just finished grabbing their brooms from the equipment shed while Madam Hooch went on about drills. It was a practicum day – but no matches today, just skill work: dives, feints, pull-aways, and turns. But Draco’s mind wasn’t on flying.

Perseus gave a tired shrug, not looking him in the eye. “Chiron just … wouldn’t listen to me. I don’t know why. He’s acting strange. Just like Annabeth.”

Draco’s brows drew together. “Chiron …” he repeated. The name tugged at something in his memory. Then it hit him.

Chiron. The Chiron.

“You mean Chiron,” Draco said slowly, “as in, the one you talked about at your camp? The centaur from the old myths? That’s your mentor?”

Perseus gave a humourless nod. “One and the same.”

Draco blinked, stunned. “How did I not notice that? He’s even a centaur! It’s so bloody obvious!”

“Well, to be fair,” Perseus said, “the Mist hid his identity. It probably stopped you from putting it together – until I told you about it, that is.”

“The Mist …” Draco echoed, frowning. Perseus had mentioned it before, but it still felt like a vague concept – like a spell he hadn’t learned the mechanics for yet. “How does that even …”

“Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Jackson!”

Draco nearly dropped his broom.

Madam Hooch’s sharp voice cut through the air like a blade. All eyes turned to them – Gryffindor and Slytherin alike. Draco’s stomach dropped. Once, he would have loved the attention. Now it made him feel ill.

“Would you like to share what you two were discussing?” Madam Hooch asked coolly. “Since it seems far more important than my instructions?”

Draco froze, face flushing. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then Perseus, with that ever-present smirk of his, drawled, “We were just talking about how Draco helped me get dressed this morning.”

The snickers were immediate. Laughter rippled through the students like a wave – some scandalised, others delighted. Even a few of the Gryffindors chuckled. Draco’s ears burned.

Madam Hooch raised a brow, not looking the least bit scandalised. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said, dryly. “Next time, think of a lie. Now, onto other matters –”

Draco caught the chuckle that slipped out of Perseus as the two mounted their brooms. He was shaking his head, clearly pleased with himself.

Draco, still pink in the cheeks, sneaked a glance at him. The storm cloud over Perseus had lifted – just a little. The brooding weight in his expression was gone, replaced with something lighter, more like the boy Draco had met in Diagon Alley.

And that was what mattered. That he was smiling again.

Draco didn’t know why it mattered so much, only that it did.

*

Flight practicum was probably the best way to prep for a quidditch game, and Percy was silently grateful to whatever scheduling god had blessed him with the class as his final one for the day. It was the perfect warm-up for his first match at Hogwarts.

Dawson, the Slytherin team captain – and quite possibly the most quidditch-obsessed wizard Percy had ever met – looked deeply annoyed that they weren’t doing actual scrimmage. But that didn’t stop him. The moment Madam Hooch finished explaining the drills, Dawson took it upon himself to bark out instructions at the Slytherins, pushing them even harder than their professor as they drilled take-offs, tight turns, hovering, and pinpoint landings. Never mind that not all the Slytherins in class were even on the team – Dawson clearly didn’t care. He was on a mission.

The others, surprisingly, just went along with it. They humoured Dawson with smirks and eye rolls, but they still did what he asked. There was a kind of pride in it – Slytherin unity, maybe.

The Gryffindors, on the other hand … not so much.

Percy watched as Harry tried – and failed – to rally his side into taking the drills seriously. He was clearly trying to match Dawson’s intensity, but the rest of the Gryffindor eighth-years weren’t biting. Ron was the only one actually responding to Harry’s leadership, following directions and making an effort. Thalia, though, was too busy sending Draco a death glare every few minutes. Percy had no idea why, and he wasn’t about to ask. And the rest of the Gryffindors? They looked like they couldn’t care less.

Percy couldn’t help but grin at Harry’s growing frustration.

He kicked off into the sky for the next drill, wind in his hair and adrenaline already starting to bubble beneath his skin. Whatever else was going on – hellhounds, weird professors, arguments with Thalia – it could wait.

For now, it was just him, the broom, and the sky.

*

Dinner carried an electric charge that night. Conversations buzzed through the Great Hall, the usual chatter spiked with excitement for the first quidditch match of the school year – Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Tomorrow would be Hufflepuff against Ravenclaw, but tonight, all eyes were on the clash between green and red.

Percy was just as eager as the rest. Back in mortal school, sports had never been an option for him – his grades weren’t good enough, he didn’t know the rules, or he had been too busy trying not to die to even think about joining a team. But this time was different. This time, he had a shot at actually enjoying school, playing with his friends, and – if all went well – crushing the Gryffindors in front of the whole school.

The match started at six, so dinner was cut short. Percy wolfed down his food, barely tasting it, before heading down to the pitch to gear up.

Inside the Slytherin locker room, he stripped down to his boxers and turned to grab his jersey, pants, and pads. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Draco glancing at him. Percy smirked, stretching deliberately, enjoying the way Draco’s pale cheeks bloomed with colour. He didn’t know why the sight of Draco blushing made him feel warm – or why he thought it was cute – but the moment shattered when Dawson strode in, already dressed for the game and barking at everyone to move faster.

Percy focused on getting dressed. He pulled on the loose green quidditch pants, then his jersey, dark and bold with JACKSON and #1 printed across the back. Knee and leg pads buckled into place over the pants, leather gloves stretched snug up to his elbows, a padded chest plate strapped over his torso. His leather helmet was the last piece, sitting snug but not uncomfortable.

In bad weather, he was told they would wear magicked goggles that would help them see in the fog, rain, and dark. But today, the weather was perfect for flying – crisp air, not too cold, and the sun dipping low in a warm orange sky.

Dawson moved through the room like a commander on the eve of battle, checking in with each player before calling out, “Alright, team, huddle up!”

The Slytherins closed ranks, eyes on their captain as his gaze burned with determination.

“This is it – the match we’ve been grinding for,” Dawson began. “Look around you. These aren’t just teammates; this is your squad, your family on brooms. We’ve put in the hours – early mornings, late nights, dodging bludgers until we couldn’t feel our arms or legs. And for what? For this moment. I don’t care if their chasers fly faster, if their beaters pound you with bludgers, or if Potter thinks he’s the chosen one of seekers – they don’t want this more than us. They don’t have what Slytherins have.”

He swept his gaze across the circle, voice hardening. “When you’re out there and your muscles are screaming, when you think you can’t push any harder – remember who you are. You’re Slytherins. Ambitious. Determined. Clever. Unstoppable. You catch that quaffle like it owes you money. You dodge bludgers like they’re the insults they throw at us in the Great Hall. And Malfoy – I want you to keep your eyes on that snitch like it’s the last chocolate frog in the world.”

“We’re not here to just play. We’re here to win. Now let’s get out there and show them exactly who they’re dealing with!”

The team roared their agreement, and Percy grinned, adrenaline already thrumming in his veins.

The season had begun. And Percy was ready to win.

*

Stepping out onto the quidditch pitch sent a strange rush through Percy’s chest. The stands were packed – it looked like the whole school had turned out – and the air was alive with shouts, cheers, and the occasional magical whistle. Students craned forward with binoculars, their faces eager. The seats might have been raised high, but it was still hard to follow the game from up there unless you had sharp eyes or enchanted lenses.

The Gryffindor team was called out first by Madam Hooch, greeted by a roar of support from the red-and-gold section of the stands. A minute later, Slytherin’s name rang out. Percy followed Dawson and the others onto the pitch to a mixed reception – cheers from the green section, boos and jeers from almost everywhere else.

It reminded him, uncomfortably, of the time he had fought in Antaeus’ gladiatorial ring in the Labyrinth, with monsters baying for his blood. The only difference now was that the “monsters” were just Hogwarts students who hated him for wearing green and silver.

He rolled his eyes.

Like he would let them see him lose.

Madam Hooch stood at the centre of the field, broom in hand, waiting for both teams to gather. “I want a nice, fair game, all of you,” she said firmly. “Now, mount your brooms, please.”

Harry swung a leg over his gleaming Firebolt. Draco straddled his Nimbus 2001. Percy stepped over his own school-issued broom, feeling the familiar creak in the handle. Some Slytherins still flew on the Nimbus 2001s Lucius Malfoy had donated years ago, others on school brooms. After the war, Percy could tell a few players still felt uneasy riding something that carried the Malfoy name, but Draco wasn’t one of them. As he had explained to Percy, a seeker needed speed and maneuverability above all else, and the Nimbus was still one of the best brooms out there. Percy couldn’t argue with that logic – if winning matches helped Draco regain his place with the team, then more power to him.

A sharp blast of Madam Hooch’s silver whistle split the air.

Fifteen brooms shot upward in a rush of wind and adrenaline.

The quaffle arced high into the air, then was immediately snatched by a Gryffindor chaser. Percy rose toward the tall rings of the Slytherin goalposts, scanning the field. Three hoops – one large in the centre, two smaller on either side – waited behind him. His job was simple: let nothing through.

Up in the commentator’s booth, Jamie Oliver’s – a seventh year Hufflepuff, and therefore a supposedly neutral part – voice boomed across the pitch, with Professor McGonagall looming behind him like a silent warning.

“And the quaffle is immediately taken by Penny Pomfrey!”

Jamie’s voice kept pace with the quaffle’s dizzying path – passes, steals, bludgers smacking into players mid-flight. Percy tracked every movement, body tensed, waiting for his moment.

“And Pomfrey’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Trent Barker – back to Pomfrey – no, the Slytherins have taken the quaffle. Slytherin captain Dawson Chidator gains the quaffle and off he goes – Chidator flying like an eagle up there – he’s going to scoop – no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor keeper, Ron Weasley. And the Gryffindors take the quaffle – that’s chaser Astra Robins of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Chidator, off up the field and – OUCH – that must have hurt. Hit in the back of the head by a bludger, beat by one Richard Nash. Rick, you are one nasty –”

“OLIVER!”

“Er, sorry, Professor,” Jamie said to McGonagall. “Anyway, the quaffle is taken by the Slytherins – that’s Riley Ethleta speeding off toward the goal posts, but she’s blocked by a second bludger – sent her way by Jimmy Peakes – nice play by the Gryffindor beater – anyway … and Pomfrey is back in possession of the quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes. She’s really flying – dodges a speeding bludger – the goal posts are just up ahead – come on, now, Penny –”

Pomfrey got the quaffle back and tore up the pitch toward him, weaving around bludgers and chasers alike. Percy squared up, leaning forward on his broom, hands ready.

“Keeper Perseus Jackson dives –”

Time slowed. The quaffle hurtled toward the left hoop, red leather gleaming in the fading light. For one breathless instant, Percy knew he wouldn’t get there in time. Then instinct took over – his fingers slammed into the ball, smacking it down hard like a volleyball spike.

“Gryffindors miss, Jackson saves the goal!”

A roar of Slytherin cheers answered him, tangled with the groans of Gryffindors. Percy let out the breath he had been holding, adrenaline surging through his veins like fire. The game had only just begun, and there would be plenty more shots to block before it was over.

Now, if Draco could just find that snitch quickly, maybe they could wrap this up before his arms started to feel like lead.

*

The score sat at forty-thirty, Slytherin in the lead, but not by much. Perseus had pulled off some miraculous saves in front of the goalposts, yet even he couldn’t block every shot. On the other end, Weasley was floundering against Slytherin’s chasers – who had drilled enough on scoring past Perseus that they seemed to delight in hammering Weasley with shot after shot.

Draco kept himself above the main chaos, gliding along the edges of the pitch, eyes narrowed against the wind as he searched for the snitch. This was all part of Chidator’s strategy.

“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the snitch,” Chidator had told him before the match. “Everybody on that pitch hates you – including some of our own – and we don’t want you attacked before you need to be. Just … play it smart. Your use as a seeker outweighs anything else I feel about you. I don’t care who your father is – I just care about your quidditch skills. So, go out there and catch that snitch.”

Not exactly a warm pep talk, but not the worst thing anyone had ever said to him, either. At least Chidator saw him as a person – a person to use, yes, but still a person. And maybe … maybe if he caught the snitch early, he could claw back a shred of the respect he used to have. He missed the days he could walk through the Slytherin common room without whispers at his back.

Not that he had much of a choice now.

A blur of motion pulled him back to the present. Benjamin Kensley, Slytherin’s fourth-year beater – and one of Perseus’ other friends – swung hard, knocking a bludger away from Draco’s left shoulder.

“Get your head in the game, Malfoy!” Kensley barked, already veering off toward another incoming bludger. “We need to win this!”

Draco tightened his grip on his broom handle and scanned the field again.

“Slytherin in possession,” Oliver’s voice rang out from the commentator’s stand. “Chaser Ethleta ducks two bludgers, Pomfrey, and Robins, and speeds toward the – wait a moment, was that the snitch?”

The air seemed to shift as a murmur rippled through the crowd.

Draco’s gaze snapped right. There it was – glinting gold against the fading light. But before he could move, he saw Potter angle toward it from the other side. They locked onto the same target and dove, neck and neck, wind tearing at Draco’s hair.

Potter was faster. He always had been, and with that blasted Firebolt, the gap was even wider. Draco’s stomach sank – if Potter reached the snitch first, this whole match would be for nothing.

Please, he thought desperately, directing the plea toward any god that might be listening – Perseus’ Greek ones, his own, he didn’t care. Just don’t let Potter get the snitch.

And then – crack. A bludger slammed into Potter’s back, courtesy of one of the Slytherin beaters. Draco didn’t even know if it was Kensley or Nash, and at the moment, he didn’t care. Potter’s broom spun out wide, pulling him far from the snitch.

Relief shot through Draco – only to vanish as quickly as it had come. The snitch had disappeared again.

He groaned, resisting the urge to smack his own forehead. Back to square one.

*

The match had gone on for over an hour, and the scoreline was finally swinging well in Slytherin’s favour – eighty to forty. Jackson had been a wall in front of the goalposts, taking two bludgers to the chest without so much as flinching, saving the quaffle in the process. Gryffindor’s chasers couldn’t get past him, and Slytherin’s own offense – though not exactly dazzling – was steady enough. Chidator had scored twice, Ethleta once, and Marlowe’s had made some great assists.

The only threat left to Slytherin’s lead was the snitch.

And Draco still hadn’t caught it.

He swept along the pitch’s upper edge, the wind clawing at his hair, Oliver’s voice droning in the background.

“Slytherin in possession again. Chidator with the quaffle, pulls off a Thimblerig Shuffle with Ethleta and Marlowe, who throws it and … keeper Weasley blocks it! Now Gryffindor in possession, with Pomfrey passing to Robins –”

A glint caught Draco’s eye. There – hovering dangerously low, right by Gryffindor’s goalposts. The snitch.

His gaze flicked sideways. Potter was looping lazily around mid-pitch, eyes nowhere near the goal area. If Draco went straight for it, Potter would spot the move instantly, and on that blasted Firebolt, he would overtake Draco without breaking a sweat. He needed a way to pull Potter off course – long enough to get there first.

Then an idea came to him.

He shot off in the opposite direction. Potter’s head snapped toward him immediately, and, right on cue, the Gryffindor seeker pulled his broom around to follow.

Not enough. Draco tightened his grip and dove hard, body folding in to cut the drag, aiming just to the left of the goalposts – close enough to look convincing, far enough that Potter couldn’t see the real snitch glittering in the sunlight. Predictably, Potter bit. They hurtled toward the ground together, wind shrieking in Draco’s ears.

The thing was, Potter might have been the celebrated hotshot, but Draco had been flying since before he could form proper sentences. He knew how far he could push it before losing control. Potter didn’t.

Sure enough, the Gryffindor pulled up too early, unwilling to risk a crash.

By the time he realised the real snitch was tucked low beside the goalpost, it was already too late.

Draco veered hard at the last second, barrel-rolled, and let go of his broom, hanging from his legs low enough that his fingertips brushed the grass. The golden wings beat frantically against his palm as he closed his hand around the snitch. His legs slipped from the broom entirely, momentum throwing him into a rough tumble across the pitch. The impact knocked the breath clean out of him, but he forced himself upright, dizzy and grinning.

“I’ve – I’ve got the snitch!” He shouted, almost surprised with himself.

Two hundred and thirty to forty. Slytherin had won.

The stands erupted, half cheers, half groans.

And the very first person off their broom was Perseus, jogging toward Draco with a look of concern that almost overshadowed the victory.

*

Chapter 17: in kisses we trust

Summary:

Draco and Percy share several kisses, each time they're interrupted. Third time's a charm, right?

*

Chapter 17: In Kisses We Trust

Percy didn’t care about the roar of the crowd – half cheering, half jeering. His eyes were locked on Draco, still sprawled on the grass, one hand clamped tight around the snitch like it might try to wriggle free. The seeker looked dazed, windblown, and a little too still for Percy’s liking.

He angled his broom down sharply and hit the ground running, leaping off before it had even stopped moving.

Draco stirred when Percy reached him, but the way his body tilted made Percy grab his shoulders to keep him upright.

“Easy,” Percy said, steadying him before he could fall back completely.

It took Draco a moment to focus, eyes blinking rapidly until they landed on Percy. Then, to Percy’s surprise, Draco gave a short, breathless laugh.

“I … I caught the snitch,” he said, sounding like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “I actually caught the snitch.”

“Yeah, you did,” Percy said with a grin. “You helped us lock in the win.”

The rest of the Slytherin team was already descending, brooms hitting the grass one after another. Dawson reached them first, his expression somewhere between exhilaration and mania. The others hung back, as if unsure whether approaching Draco was a good idea.

“You did fucking brilliant, both of you,” Dawson declared, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “Malfoy, that was a wonderful Wronski Feint. Jackson, I’ve never had a better keeper. We absolutely wiped the board with the Gryffindors. That’s fifty points for Slytherin for our win and secures our spot in the House Cup. Good job!”

Before Percy could say anything, Dawson grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a wet, smacking kiss right on his forehead.

“Uh – you’re welcome?” Percy managed.

Dawson immediately repeated the move on Draco, whose baffled expression suggested he was still processing the fact that he had caught the snitch, let alone being kissed.

Then Dawson spun toward the rest of the team, throwing his arms high. Green sparks shot from his wand as he bellowed, “TIME TO CELEBRATE!”

The Slytherins erupted in cheers.

Across the pitch, the Gryffindors groaned.

*

Dawson had gotten ahead of himself with that whole “time to celebrate” declaration. Before either team could party, they had all been herded to the hospital wing to get checked over by Madam Pomfrey – Penny Pomfrey’s aunt – who clearly took her job seriously.

Percy had ended up with bandaged ribs and strict instructions not to “go doing anything foolish for at least three days.” Who knew taking two bludgers to the chest at the same time could do this much damage? While Madam Pomfrey moved on to Draco, Percy sat in the corridor outside, leaning against a cold stone column. Waiting gave him far too much time to think.

The image kept replaying in his head – Draco’s broom plunging toward the ground, his pale hair whipping in the wind, that insane aerial roll where he had been hanging from the broom by his legs. Percy’s stomach still dropped every time he thought about it. And then Draco had let go, hitting the ground hard after grabbing the snitch. For a few awful seconds, Percy had been sure Draco wasn’t going to get up again.

Maybe there hadn’t been anything Percy could do during the match, but that didn’t make the helplessness sting any less. He needed Draco to understand – really understand – how much he cared.

The hospital wing door creaked open.

“Perseus …”

Percy’s breath caught. Draco stepped out, looking a little worse for wear – hair tousled, cheeks pale, eyes still a bit unfocused. And, somehow, Percy’s mind supplied unhelpfully, cute.

“I thought you’d be celebrating with the others by now,” Draco said, sounding surprised.

Right. Draco had been last in line to be seen. Gryffindor had claimed first turn, the Slytherins had gone after, and Dawson had practically dragged the rest of the team away for the pre-curfew party in the Great Hall, before moving to the common room. Percy had been invited. He had declined.

“I couldn’t leave before telling you how stupid you were during the game,” Percy scolded. “What were you thinking, being that reckless? You could have been seriously hurt.”

Draco arched a perfect brow.

“Says the man who’s been on more than one life-threatening quest and nearly got himself killed this semester alone.”

“… touché,” Percy admitted reluctantly. “I almost wish I hadn’t told you about all that.”

“But you did,” Draco said, smirking faintly, “and I’m never letting you forget it.”

“Still,” Percy said, letting his voice drop into something more serious, “I mean it. I was really worried about you.”

That seemed to throw Draco off guard, but Percy pressed on.

“We’ve gotten close over the last month, and I care about you, Draco. Watching you pull that stunt today … I thought you were going to get yourself killed. And I could never forgive myself if something happened to you and I just stood there.”

“Perseus …” Draco’s voice was softer now. “You know why I did it. I had to show I’m still worth something – that I’m more than just an ex-Death Eater.”

“You’re so much more than that,” Percy said instantly. He pushed himself away from the column, closing the space between them and gripping Draco’s shoulders. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to them. Not to me. If it’s worth anything, I want you exactly the way you are, Draco. No heroics required.”

Draco glanced down at their feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” he murmured. “But … I think I feel the same.”

They were close now – too close for Percy to think straight. Their breaths mingled, the hallway was empty, and the impulse rose before he could shove it down.

“Can I … kiss you?” Percy asked, his voice low.

“Yes!” Draco blurted, then immediately flushed pink. “I mean … uh, yes.”

Percy’s mouth twitched in a small laugh. Gently, he tugged Draco into the shadow of the column, tilted his head down, and kissed him.

*

Draco was tall, but Perseus was taller, forcing Perseus to tilt his head just slightly downward when their lips met. The kiss was everything Draco had hoped for – and infinitely more than the awkward, chaste kisses he had once shared with girls in his year.

Heat pooled in his chest. He gripped the front of Perseus’s quidditch jersey, fingers curling tight to keep himself upright as Perseus’ large, warm hands traced up and down his sides. Perseus’ mouth moved against his with purpose – eyes closed, lips coaxing Draco’s open with a gentle nip before pulling his lower lip into a slow, deliberate suck. Then Perseus’ tongue flicked against his own, and Draco didn’t hesitate. He opened eagerly, and their tongues met in a rhythm that left Draco breathless and just the right kind of dizzy.

He never wanted it to end.

Which was exactly why the shock hit him so hard.

It wasn’t metaphorical. Lightning – reminiscent of a lightning hex – seared through him, making every nerve scream. Draco yelped and jerked back, and Perseus broke away with a startled sound. The charge hung in the air, prickling at Draco’s skin, and when he looked down the corridor, he understood why.

A short figure stood there, framed by the dim torchlight – black hair spiked, eyes glowing an unnatural blue. Sparks danced along her fingertips.

Thalia Grace.

Draco froze. He knew she wasn’t human – not entirely. Neither was Perseus. They were demigods: half human and half god. But Thalia wasn’t just any demigod. She was a daughter of Zeus – the King of the Gods – and in that moment, she looked every inch the storm’s fury.

Perseus’ expression darkened into something low and dangerous, the sound in his throat more growl than human voice. The two of them stepped toward each other, and the very air seemed to grow heavy under the weight of their stares.

Draco’s back found the wall, his instincts screaming at him to get out before something worse than lightning happened.

“So, you’ve lowered yourself to cheating, is it?” Thalia’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Just like your father?”

“You have no room to talk, with your own father,” Perseus shot back, his tone dark.

Draco’s gut twisted. They were throwing each other’s parents into the fight – something he knew far too much about from his own ugly past with blood purity insults. Only this was different. This was gods they were invoking, and the consequences seemed a little more literal. Lightning flashed outside the corridor’s windows, thunder shaking the glass.

“What about Annabeth?” Thalia pressed. “You’ll cheat on her with just any old Death Eater, huh?”

“Don’t talk about Draco that way!” Perseus snapped. His green eyes flared, almost luminous in the shadows. “And if you had bothered to ask, Annabeth and I broke up two days ago. She was the one who cut things off, not me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Thalia said, her voice dripping venom. “After all the years between you two? After going through literal hell together? You’d give all that up … for that?”

Her hand sparked as she gestured at him.

Something hot and tight welled up in Draco’s chest. He wanted to retort, to tell her exactly where she could shove her opinion – but the words stuck. Because she wasn’t entirely wrong, was she? Perseus and Annabeth had a history most people couldn’t dream of surviving. They had walked through literal Greek hell together. Perseus was a hero twice over. And Draco? Draco was the boy who had once served Voldemort. A Death Eater. The villain.

“That is none of your business,” Perseus said, voice low with threat. His hand flicked, drawing his wand from the leather holster Draco had gifted him. “You don’t know Draco the way I do.”

“You know what?” Thalia said coldly. “You’re right. I wouldn’t know a Death Eater like you would.”

“You bitch –”

“Perseus …” Draco’s voice cut in as he reached out, catching Perseus’ arm. The defence warmed him in a way he didn’t have words for, but he knew a battle they couldn’t win when he saw one. Thalia wasn’t listening to reason tonight. Whatever was driving this, it went deeper than him. “Come on, we should leave. Didn’t Chidator say the celebrations would be in the commons?”

Perseus glanced at him, anger still burning behind those green eyes. Draco could almost see the fight in him – see the muscles in his jaw tense and release – before Perseus finally sighed.

“You’re right. We should leave. Go somewhere we won’t be interrupted.” He shot Thalia one last glare.

“Oh, so the Death Eater has you on a leash,” she taunted.

Perseus’ head snapped toward her, but Draco kept his hand firm on his arm. “Perseus, she’s purposefully trying to rile you up.”

Perseus drew in a deep breath, forcing himself still.

“Let’s go, Draco.”

*

Thalia used to think Percy was incapable of cheating on Annabeth. Couldn’t imagine it. According to Athena, his fatal flaw was personal loyalty – loyalty that had driven him to risk the world for a friend. But lately, with the way he had been acting … maybe she shouldn’t have been so sure.

Still, seeing him pressed against Draco Malfoy, lips locked, outside the hospital wing? Her jaw dropped.

Earlier that day, she’d had to endure a lunch with Nico. She hadn’t wanted to talk about Percy – not after all the broken rules, the smugness, the lies – but Nico had been stubborn. He told her Percy had been attacked by hellhounds the day before, during detention with Hagrid. He said Percy suspected Dumbledore of targeting Slytherins, claimed the hellhounds had been sent after him deliberately, and that he had kept their claws as proof.

Thalia had scoffed.

“Oh, come on. You don’t actually believe him, do you?”

“He had proof they attacked,” Nico had said flatly. “He had the claws.”

“But the rest of it,” she had pressed. “Dumbledore’s the one who called the quest in the first place. This isn’t our world. Percy’s overstepping. We’re here to keep the wizard trio safe, not undermine the headmaster.”

Nico’s dark eyes – eyes that belonged in the Underworld – locked onto hers.

“Thalia, you can’t tell me you honestly think the entire Slytherin house is rotten. You can’t tell me the first years had anything to do with the war. And you can’t tell me Percy’s not onto something. There’s a broken prophecy, and I don’t know what’s going on – but I know we need to figure it out before it blows up in our faces.”

She had just stared at him. For a moment, she had considered telling him she knew the full prophecy. Then she remembered how he was already siding with Percy. If Nico knew, he would tell Percy. And Percy would take that as his cue to go off and “fix” everything.

And she remembered Dumbledore’s warning: tell no one else.

So, she had shut it down.

“Whatever. Let the adults handle it for once. I have a history paper to write.”

The look on Nico’s face – disappointment tinged with something heavier – had almost gotten to her. Almost.

That was hours ago. Now, after the quidditch match, she had followed most of her housemates into the stands. Gryffindor versus Slytherin always drew a crowd. The match had been brutal. Gryffindor lost, though she had been grudgingly impressed with Percy’s keeping skills. She had spotted Nico in the stands, wearing black and yellow, but Annabeth hadn’t been anywhere in sight. Come to think of it, neither had Dumbledore.

She had turned to Ginny Weasley. “I thought the headmaster would attend the first match of the season.”

Ginny’s nose had gone up. “Oh, I’m sure Dumbledore would love to watch Harry win the game for Gryffindor.”

Thalia had decided not to touch that with a twenty-foot pole. Romance drama wasn’t her specialty.

After the match, both teams headed to the hospital wing. Thalia had decided it was the perfect time to corner Percy about the hellhound attack and his paranoia over Dumbledore. She didn’t believe his theory, not exactly – but she did believe something was going on.

She rounded the corridor outside the hospital wing, almost passing Percy entirely. He was standing in the shadows, back toward her. For a moment, she wondered what he was doing – until she caught sight of the pale blond hair just beyond him.

Malfoy.

They weren’t just talking.

They were kissing.

For one stunned second, her brain refused to process it. Then white-hot rage roared up, not for herself but for Annabeth. Annabeth, who had fought beside Percy through hell and worse. Annabeth, who had trusted him.

Thalia didn’t think, she just acted. Lightning surged through her fingers as she grabbed their shoulders, sending a crackling shock through both. They jerked apart, startled. Percy’s eyes flashed with something darker than embarrassment; Malfoy just looked rattled.

From there, it all spiraled. The argument turned ugly, words flying like curses. Percy’s tone was sharp, defensive. Malfoy looked torn between retreating and biting back. Thalia could feel the electricity still humming under her skin, her pulse pounding in her ears.

When it was over, she was still standing there in the corridor, fuming, watching Percy walk away with Malfoy at his side.

And for the first time, she wasn’t entirely sure which of them she was angrier at – Percy, for what he’d done, or herself, for thinking he would never do it.

*

Draco and Perseus wandered the corridors at an unhurried pace, each step a delay before they had to face the noise of the common room and the inevitable quidditch celebrations. Draco wasn’t entirely sure why he was dragging his feet – victory usually tasted sweeter – but right now, it was the company he didn’t want to lose.

“So … is your cousin always like that?” Draco asked carefully.

Perseus shoved his hands into his pockets. “No. At least … I don’t think so.”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t think so? She’s your cousin. Wouldn’t you know?”

“I’ve never really gotten along with Thalia,” Perseus admitted, his voice carrying a flicker of guilt. “A child of Poseidon and a child of Zeus – we were never meant to get along. And then she passed off the Great Prophecy – the one about my soul being reaped and Olympus being razed – to me because she didn’t want the responsibility. She became a Hunter of Artemis, so she’d never turn sixteen. That meant the prophecy would never apply to her, so it became mine. We didn’t see each other much after that, and when she visited camp … I’ve never seen her that angry before. She must really hate me now.”

Draco said nothing. He wanted to reassure Perseus, but lying wasn’t something he could do convincingly – not about this. Thalia did seem to hate Perseus. As a Slytherin, and, apparently, because he had cheated on his ex-girlfriend.

Which brought Draco to the conversation he had been trying to start.

“About what she said …”

“Don’t listen to her,” Perseus said quickly. “Nothing she said about you is true.”

Draco hesitated. “… but I was a Death Eater, Perseus. You know that. It’s not a secret. I have the mark to prove it. Everyone hates me for it.”

“But you’ve changed!” Perseus argued.

Draco’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And that doesn’t change what I’ve done. I’m forever marked by the Dark Lord and my actions. It’s permanent.”

They walked a few more steps before Perseus suddenly stopped. He turned, catching Draco off guard, and grabbed his left arm. In one swift motion, he shoved Draco’s sleeve up, revealing the black skull and serpent coiled into his skin.

Draco flinched instinctively, trying to pull back. Perseus’ grip didn’t loosen.

He looked away. He hated looking at it. It was a brand. It was a reminder of that night when the choice had been no choice at all.

“Did you want this?” Perseus asked, voice low but unyielding.

“No,” Draco choked out. “No, I didn’t want it.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Perseus said. “It doesn’t matter what’s happened, or what you’ve done – you never wanted to be a Death Eater. You were outcast by other Slytherins for joining, for tarnishing the house’s name. You were forced into it, and that wasn’t okay.”

And then Perseus did something that froze Draco where he stood – something so utterly absurd it made his brain stutter. He lifted Draco’s arm and pressed a gentle kiss to the Dark Mark.

“And I don’t care how long it takes; I will find a way to get rid of this for you.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “You – you don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” Perseus said, his voice steady. “Because I care about you. And you don’t deserve this.”

Draco felt the sting behind his eyes before he could stop it. He had heard people say he did and didn’t deserve many things – punishment, ridicule, a second chance – but no one had ever said it quite like this. And certainly no one like Perseus.

Before Draco could think of a reply, Perseus released his arm, tilted Draco’s chin up, and kissed him. It was brief, soft. Chaste, even. But the gods apparently had a sense of humour, because the wall to the Slytherin common room slid open just as the kiss began to deepen.

Chidator stood there, mouth open. “Well, that’s one way to celebrate,” he said, picking his jaw up off the ground.

Draco closed his eyes. The Fates were laughing. He was sure of it.

*

Draco fought the heat rising in his cheeks, determined not to give Chidator the satisfaction. Being caught snogging Perseus outside the common room had been bad enough; being herded inside like a prize-winning catch for the rest of Slytherin to gawk at was worse.

The commons were a blur of motion and noise. Students crowded around the long tables, piling plates high with roast meats, sweets, and anything else nicked from the feast. Someone had smuggled in butterbeer and even a bottle of chocolate liqueur, which was being passed around like contraband gold. A piano in the corner played itself, courtesy of a well-placed charm, while a cluster of tipsy upper-years sang along – loud, flat, and utterly shameless. Laughter rose from a group crowded over a wizarding board game, the air in the room practically buzzing with the giddy aftermath of victory.

Near the fireplace, Dawson stood in the centre, gesturing wildly as he retold the quidditch match blow-by-blow. His audience hung on every word with fervour.

Draco stayed in the shadows of the far wall, content to watch. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to join in – Merlin, he wanted that more than he would admit – but he knew better. The Slytherins were tolerating him tonight only because the glow of victory and Perseus’ presence had smoothed the edges of their dislike. If he tried to wedge himself into the middle of it, the atmosphere would crack. Better to keep his distance and not spoil the mood.

Kensley, Marlowe, and Nash had already given up trying to pull him in, wandering off once they realised a bit of teasing wouldn’t draw him out. Draco thought he had successfully escaped further humiliation – until Perseus appeared, grin bright enough to rival the fireplace.

“You’re not going to join the celebrations?” Perseus asked.

Draco let out a short, dry laugh. “I’m fine where I am.”

“Oh, come on,” Perseus pressed, leaning in conspiratorially. “Not even a dance?”

Draco gave him a flat look. “No. I don’t think so.”

“I think you should give me a dance,” Perseus said, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

“I don’t think – hey!”

In one fluid motion, Perseus had seized Draco by the forearms and dragged him into the thick of things. The music swelled, and a few Slytherins whooped when they realised what was happening. Perseus began to sway with the beat, drawing Draco against his chest before catching his hands and spinning him into the chaos.

Draco tried not to think about how ridiculous he must look. He had been trained in precise, calculated ballroom footwork. This … this was undisciplined, wild, and entirely too close. And yet, as Perseus led, Draco found himself falling into step, matching the rhythm without overthinking it.

They spun again, closer this time, breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Perseus’ hands found his waist, steady and warm, and Draco felt something in his chest tighten in a way that was both alarming and addictive.

He lost track of time – whether it was minutes or hours didn’t matter – until the head girl, Keria Gullscream, raised her voice over the din, telling everyone to pack it up for the night. Groans of protest went up, but students began drifting toward their dormitories in small, reluctant clusters.

Draco stepped back, drawing in a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. When his gaze found Perseus’, he stopped short. The sea-green eyes he had grown used to had deepened into something darker – like the Great Lake at night, black-green and glowing faintly from within. A reminder that Perseus was not entirely human, though Draco could never seem to remember that until moments like this.

Demigod, hero, wizard – it didn’t matter. Perseus was Perseus. And somehow, in just over a month, Draco had come to the unsettling realisation that he would trade everything he had left for him.

It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was everything.

And Draco, for once, wouldn’t change a thing.

*

The night’s celebrations – and maybe a bit of butterbeer spiked with something stronger – left Percy pleasantly exhausted. He stumbled down the corridor toward his dorm, Draco at his side, both laughing at nothing in particular.  

Inside, Percy tugged at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a little. Draco stepped in to help, his pale fingers quick and precise. Percy noticed the way Draco’s gaze lingered – taking in the mess of scars across his torso, the muscles he had built from years of fighting monsters.

Percy grinned and waggled his eyebrows. Draco immediately made a sound that could only be described as a very dignified pig-snort, whipped the shirt at Percy’s face, and told him to shut up.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Percy protested, laughing.

They stripped down to pyjamas, Percy ending up in his usual – sweatpants and an old, worn Camp Half-Blood t-shirt. He was just turning toward his bed when Draco stepped closer. His fingers brushed over the faded pegasus printed on the shirt, tracing its outline like it was something precious.

“Is that …” Draco began, eyes fixed on the fabric.

“A pegasus?” Percy finished for him. “Yeah. We’ve got a whole stable back at Camp Half-Blood. I even have my own – Blackjack. He’s a black stallion.”

Draco’s eyes went wide. “I knew about winged horses –”

“‘Winged horses,’” Percy repeated, snorting. “Just call them pegasi.”

“You don’t understand,” Draco said, earnest now. “Pegasi are rare – expensive. There are subspecies, like abraxans and granians, but most wizards never even see one. And you … just have them? You have your own? I’d kill to even see one, let alone touch it.”

“I thought you were a potions guy, not a magical creatures guy,” Percy teased.

Draco’s mouth twisted in embarrassment. “They’re not my strong suit. There was an incident in fourth year … I got a hippogriff in trouble, it was sentenced to be executed, but it escaped at the last moment. I’ve never been so relieved.” A pause. “My father was furious.”

Percy’s warmth cooled into steel. “Your father can rot in Tartarus for all I care. After forcing you into Voldemort’s service, branding you –”

“He’s still my father,” Draco said, quiet and miserable.

Percy met his eyes. “Your parent doesn’t define you. Trust me – I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Draco gave him a small, almost shy smile. “I’d imagine having a god for a parent makes that a little different.”

“Maybe,” Percy said, smiling back. “But the principle’s the same. You are not your father. I don’t care what anyone else thinks – you’re a good person, Draco.”

The blush that rose to Draco’s cheeks made Percy’s chest ache.

“Not everyone agrees with you,” Draco murmured.

“Then they can go fuck themselves,” Percy said without hesitation.

“Perseus!” Draco scolded, but Percy caught the twitch of amusement in his mouth.

“What? Fine, fine – you want to play nice.” He softened his tone. “Maybe when all this is over, after school’s done, I’ll take you to America. Show you Camp Half-Blood. I’d even let you ride Blackjack with me.”

Draco’s eyes went wide, like Percy had just offered him the crown jewels. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” Percy said. His voice came out softer than he had intended. “Now, bed. We’ll miss breakfast if we stay up all night.”

Draco muttered something Percy didn’t catch, but he moved toward his own bed. On impulse, Percy reached out, catching him by the hips and pulling him back.

“Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?”

Draco smirked. “And why would I give you one?”

“Because the last two were interrupted,” Percy said. “Third time’s a charm, right?”

“You muggles have the weirdest sayings,” Draco replied.

“So … is that a no?”

“Of course, not. Come here.”

They kissed, brief and unhurried, and – for once – no one barged in to ruin it.

They broke apart and went to their separate beds. Percy lay back, the smile still on his face. The last couple of days had been a nightmare, but right now? He felt content. His head hit the pillow, and he was asleep before his mind could find a single reason not to be.

*

Percy woke before Draco, like he always did.

The first thing his eyes landed on was his little battery-powered clock, the one stubbornly ticking along despite Hogwarts’ magic-infested air. Or at least, it had been. Now the numbers blinked at him, stuck at 11:34pm. He groaned, flopping back for a moment. Either the battery had died, or the castle’s magic had finally fried the thing’s insides.

Draco would be over the moon – no more early morning alarms.

Still, Percy wanted to know the time. He fumbled for his wand, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and murmured, “Tempus.” A soft red light glowed at the tip, swirling lazily until it formed glowing numbers in the air: 6:40am.

Breakfast started at seven. Which meant, if they didn’t want to risk Draco sulking for the rest of the day, they had better get there early – especially since Draco treated finding the best seat in Charms with the same level of strategy Percy used when planning a battle.

Yawning, Percy got dressed in his slacks and shirt, tossing his robes over his shoulders. No tie – never a tie – but the Slytherin pin was fixed neatly to his robes. He figured that was enough to make him passable in Draco’s book.

A low, disgruntled noise came from the other bed, followed by a rustle of sheets. Draco was finally waking, all slow blinks and scowls, his platinum blond hair falling into his eyes. It was getting longer now, starting to look a little wild – like a wolf cut, Percy thought – and maybe he just had a weakness for blonds, but it suited him.

By the time Draco had gotten up, Percy was nearly ready to leave. Or he thought he was, until Draco stepped in front of him, tutting under his breath.

Without a word, Draco straightened Percy’s robes, smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, and flicked his wand to erase the wrinkles from his shirt.

“You want to look presentable, at least,” he said, tone brisk, like this was all perfectly normal.

Percy couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t about the wrinkles, not really. This was Draco’s way of saying: I care about you.

*

At breakfast, Percy noticed something unusual – people were actually talking to Draco.

It started subtly, just a couple of passing comments about the weather and the front page of the Daily Prophet. Then it snowballed into full inclusion. They pulled Draco into their chatter about who was dating who – mercilessly teasing both him and Percy until Percy threatened to hex the jam pot into someone’s lap – and then moved on to grumbling about upcoming assignments.

Most surprising of all, they congratulated Draco for helping Slytherin win the quidditch match.

Further down the table, Dawson was still going on about the game, carrying the story over from the night before. When he finally looked up, he gave Draco a short, approving nod.

“Good work, Malfoy,” he said. “I expect to see you on the pitch again next week during practice.”

Draco froze for a second, almost like he didn’t believe Dawson was speaking to him at all. Percy smirked and gave him a nudge under the table. That seemed to bring him back, because Draco cleared his throat and replied, “Of course. I wouldn’t let Slytherin lose to Gryffindor, if it was the last thing I did.”

There was a brief pause before Felix, the sixth-year prefect, leaned in and said, “Aye, we wouldn’t want to lose to those lions again. That would just be embarrassing.”

The whole table hummed in agreement, and Percy caught the faintest flicker of something warm in Draco’s expression – like he wasn’t quite sure how to handle being part of the conversation, but he didn’t hate it.

*

Charms was fun (read that in the most sarcastic voice possible) because about three-quarters of the class were glaring daggers at the other quarter. Coincidentally, those three-quarters were all Gryffindors, and the remaining quarter was Slytherin. Apparently, yesterday’s quidditch loss still stung.

Harry, in particular, looked like he had been personally wronged. He kept his eyes locked on Draco as if Draco had kicked a puppy, stolen its food, and then made it do his homework. Percy didn’t need to be a mind reader to know Draco could feel it; the way he hunched over the lantern he was enchanting said enough.

Their assignment was to create a single object with at least three charms layered together in perfect harmony – no magical instability, no interference. Professor Flitwick had said it was to teach them about charm interaction, spell longevity, magical safety, and “creative application.” Percy thought it was just plain difficult.

Draco was meant to be charming the reading lantern to adjust its brightness automatically, make its light based on a fixed Lumos Spell instead of flame, and make it muffle sound in a small radius for more pleasurable reading. Draco, though, was barely muttering his incantations, clearly more focused on avoiding attention than on enchanting the lantern. It wasn’t working. Harry kept glaring.

Percy tossed a glance over his shoulder, giving his wolf glare – the one he had learned from Lupa, Mother of Rome herself. It was a look that said: No matter how bad you think you are, I’m worse.

Harry froze mid-glare. Colour drained from his face.

When Percy turned back, Draco was frowning at the lantern, then glancing at Harry, who was now pretending to be very interested in his own work. Slowly, Draco’s gaze shifted to Percy, his expression equal parts confusion and suspicion: What did you do?

Percy only shrugged, lips curling into a small, innocent smile.

After that, they both went back to their charms, Harry no longer a problem.

*

Ancient Runes passed in a blur of hieroglyphs, translations, and Percy making absolutely certain his syntax was perfect. If he was going to sit through an entire class on dusty old symbols, he might as well crush the pop quiz Professor Wifflebright sprang on them. And crush it he did – at least, he was pretty sure he did.

Lunch was more of the same energy as breakfast – friendly chatter, quidditch talk, and plenty of ribbing over bets. The next match was Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw, and the Great Hall hummed with excitement, though nothing like the electric tension of the previous day’s Gryffindor versus Slytherin face-off. Dawson swore Ravenclaw would take it; others insisted Hufflepuff had the edge. Even Draco got drawn into the debate, which made Percy grin as they placed their own bets just to stir the pot.

Transfiguration came next. Professor McGonagall was in full command of the room as she demonstrated animagus transformations. Percy had to admit – watching her shift from cat to human was way cooler than any textbook description.

By dinner, the day had fallen into a nice rhythm. Until it didn’t.

Thalia walked straight up to the Slytherin table. The reaction was immediate: sneers, narrowed eyes, and muttered insults. Percy had never seen Thalia look so small. She didn’t even glare back, which was uncharacteristic enough to put him on alert.

She stopped in front of him, voice low.

“Can we talk?”

*

 

Chapter 18: "not fighting"

*

Chapter 18: Not Fighting

The night after the Gryffindor versus Slytherin quidditch game, Thalia couldn’t sleep. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw it again – Percy leaning in, kissing Malfoy like it was the most natural thing in the world. Draco Malfoy. Former Death Eater. One of the very people they were supposed to keep a close eye on – but not that close!

It was reckless, dangerous, and so perfectly Percy – treating their mission at Hogwarts like a vacation, ignoring that they had duties to fulfill and a wizard to track. He had been outright defying Dumbledore’s instructions for weeks now, and Thalia had finally found the one person who might be able to snap him out of it: Annabeth.

Except … Percy had cheated on her. The fact still made Thalia’s stomach twist. Percy, loyal and so in love with Annabeth that he had walked through literal hell for her, had broken her trust. Annabeth deserved to know – but to hear it from a friend, not from the cheating boyfriend himself.

By morning, Thalia had worked herself up enough to march straight to the Ravenclaw table.

Annabeth looked awful. Not her usual “I’ve been up studying” tired, but hollow-eyed, pale, hair frizzy, and tangled. Even her storm grey eyes, which were usually sharp with intelligence, looked cloudy and unfocused. But despite this, when she spotted Thalia, she lifted one brow in question, like nothing was wrong.

“What do you want, Thalia?” She asked flatly.

“I have something I need to talk to you about,” Thalia said.

“Can it wait? Kelly and I were about to go to flight class.”

The casual dismissal made Thalia blink. Annabeth had never brushed her off like that before.

“Uh, no,” Thalia said, her voice tight. “It can’t wait. It’s important. It’s about Percy –”

“I don’t want to talk about Percy.”

“Cool,” Thalia shot back, “except this is really important, and you don’t have a choice.”

Annabeth scoffed. “Oh, I don’t have a choice, do I?” She stood abruptly, turning to the girl beside her – light brown hair, brown eyes, crooked teeth. “Kelly, let’s head to flight class. We wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”

Kelly looked between them, unsure whether to intervene. In the end, she just stood and followed Annabeth’s lead.

“Let’s go, Kelly,” Annabeth said, already walking away.

Thalia’s instincts screamed at her not to let this go. She pushed after her into the hallway and caught Annabeth by the arm. “Annabeth, wait!”

“Let go of me!”

“But Annabeth, you don’t get it, Percy –”

“I don’t want to hear about Percy!”

“Percy kissed Malfoy!”

Silence hit like a slap. Annabeth went still – too still. For a moment, her expression shuddered, like glass cracking. Then she pulled her arm free, smoothed her robes, and turned with a calmness that felt wrong.

“So?”

“‘So?’” Thalia stared. “Annie, he cheated on you!”

Annabeth didn’t even flinch at the nickname she hated oh-so-much. “How could he possibly cheat on me when we broke up three days ago?”

The floor dropped out from under Thalia. “You two … actually broke up? I just thought Percy was lying.”

“Yes, Percy has been lying a lot,” Annabeth said coolly, “which is why I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, are we done here?”

The sharpness in her tone was something Thalia had rarely heard directed at her. Annabeth had always had a soft spot for her – fights never lasted long between them. But this … this was different.

Thalia’s voice came out small. “I guess.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, turned, and caught up to Kelly without another glance.

Left in the hallway, Thalia stared after her sister and best friend. Her gut churned. She couldn’t help but feel that something was wrong. And unfortunately, she had the uncomfortable feeling that something had been wrong for quite a while now. She just hadn’t seen it until today. And she had a feeling that if she didn’t speak with the other demigods soon, they might be too late to fix it.

*

During breakfast, Thalia managed to pull Nico aside long enough to ask him to meet her by the Great Lake at lunch. She hadn’t had the chance to corner Percy – he had slipped out of the hall early, trailing after that Death Eater like a lost puppy – and Charms had kept her busy the rest of the morning. From her seat, she had caught Percy glaring at Harry, hard enough to make him look away and pale. She had no clue what that was about, but it was just one more thing to add to the growing list of “We Need to Talk” topics.

When lunch rolled around, she spotted Nico, gave him a short nod, and told him she would be down by the lake soon. Then she made her way toward the Slytherin table.

Her reception was chilly. Several students glared at her – most of them faces she recognised, including the same boys she had tried to get in trouble for sneaking onto the quidditch pitch last month. Her cheeks heated, but she ignored them. She had a mission, and right now, her focus was on one person.

Percy.

He was sitting close to Draco Malfoy. Too close. Their thighs pressed together as they talked and shared lunch, looking far too comfortable for Thalia’s liking. She forced herself to swallow her anger at seeing her cousin cosying up to someone with Malfoy’s track record and leaned down to whisper, “Can we talk?”

Percy looked up at her with a frown. “Why do you want to talk to me? Are you going to shock me again? Tell me I’m making bad choices and go all ‘don’t do drugs and stay safe’ on me? No, thanks.”

Thalia blinked. “What? Percy, no!”

“Then what do you want?”

“Can you meet me at the Great Lake so we can talk about something … private?”

“Just the two of us?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“No,” she admitted, “Nico will be there.”

He seemed to mull it over, weighing options in that way that made her want to shake him. Finally, he asked, “And Annabeth won’t be there … why?”

“Because this talk kind of concerns her. Are you going to come or not? Nico’s waiting.”

Percy frowned again, dragging the moment out long enough to test her patience.

Thalia crossed her arms, tamping down the urge to snap.

“Ugh, please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

He nodded, almost to himself. “Okay. Fine.”

Before getting up, he placed a gentle hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back … if nothing goes wrong.”

Thalia rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Just need to cover all my bases.” He smirked, and it was the most irritating expression she had ever seen on his face.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

She spun on her heel and led the way out of the hall, leaving Percy to trail behind her.

*

The Great Lake – or the Black Lake, as some students called it – was massive. From where Nico stood, it stretched farther than his eyes could follow, nearly a mile across and half that in length. Its still, dark surface reflected the grey sky like a mirror, but Nico knew better than to think it was calm. He had overheard enough from his housemates to know it teemed with merpeople, grindylows, and one very large squid. None of them sounded particularly friendly.

So, he stayed well away from the water’s edge, leaning against the rough bark of a towering tree at a safe distance.

He had only been waiting a few minutes, but it felt longer. Long enough for him to start thinking maybe Thalia had set him up for some lame prank – like: here, Nico, stand by a dangerous lake in the freezing cold for ten minutes. He was just beginning to doubt she would actually show when he spotted her and Percy stepping out of the castle together.

That was unexpected. The two of them weren’t exactly on speaking terms lately. In fact, if Nico had to guess, he would say Annabeth and Thalia were both dangerously close to outright resenting Percy.

And Nico wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Once, Percy had been a hero in his eyes – untouchable, larger than life. A twice-over Saviour of Olympus. A guy who somehow managed to win quests and friends in equal measure. Someone who was unfathomably powerful, in both his physical powers and power over others. Nico had gotten past the grudge about Bianca, even past the stupid crush he had nursed before Will Solace entered his life. But lately, Percy had been different. Was it the quest? Hogwarts? His new house? Or – and this is where Nico hesitated – was this simply who Percy had always been, hidden under years of monster attacks and impossible prophecies?

Nico knew stress changed people. It had changed him. Maybe Percy just needed space to figure himself out; space that Annabeth and Thalia didn’t seem willing to give him.

And again, Nico could understand that. Thalia and Percy had never gotten along; a child of the sky and a child of the sea were never meant to be friends. Thalia hoisting the Great Prophecy off her shoulders and onto Percy’s didn’t help things. But then Thalia had gone off with the Hunters of Artemis, and she had left Camp Half-Blood behind. She and Percy didn’t see each other often enough to get into direct conflicts anymore.

Annabeth … well, she was Percy’s girlfriend. She had known Percy since they were both twelve years old. They had gone on countless quests and walked through literal Greek hell together. If anyone were to know Percy, it would be Annabeth – but again, their relationship had only weathered through times of crisis. Nico vaguely knew of the conflict with Rachel Dare, Percy’s other potential love interest, before Rachel became the Oracle and swore to be an eternal maiden. The rumour grapevine at Camp Half-Blood was filled with exaggerations and outright lies, but Nico knew that Annabeth and Percy had never really had time to just … be around each other, without a quest or the gods pushing them together. Maybe that was contributing to how Annabeth handled the fight at Hogsmeade; maybe that was why the two lovers were quarreling.

When the other two reached the tree, Percy didn’t bother with pleasantries. Arms crossed, he said flatly, “Okay, so, why did you need all of us out here in the cold, miserable weather? Last I checked, both of you hated me now.”

“That’s not true,” Nico said automatically.

“Yeah, well, you could’ve fooled me.”

Thalia threw her hands up. “We’re here because something is going on with Annabeth. She’s acting weird. She doesn’t look good. And she literally couldn’t have cared less when I told her about Percy cheating on her with a Death Eater.”

“It wasn’t cheating, she broke up with me!” Percy shouted at the same time Nico blurted, “Wait, what?”

“Also,” Percy added quickly, “he’s not a Death Eater anymore. Just for the record.”

Nico stared. “You and Annabeth broke up?”

“That’s what Annabeth confirmed,” Thalia said.

“What, you couldn’t take my word for it?” Percy asked sharply.

“Not with how you’ve been acting recently –”

“Guys!” Nico cut in, louder than he intended. “This is so not the time to be fighting about this.” He turned to Percy. “First off – what do you mean Annabeth broke up with you? I thought you two were Aphrodite’s favourite dolls. A match made in Olympus, or whatever.”

Percy’s expression soured. “I thought that, too. But after Hogsmeade – which, by the way, after the fact, I lost fifty house points –” Nico raised a brow when Percy muttered, under his breath: “Though, maybe I shouldn’t have cussed out the headmaster … anyway!” He waved it off. “She was angry. Like, more angry than usual. Our fights have never gotten that bad, not since …”

He trailed off, and Nico didn’t need him to finish. They both remembered Tartarus.

No one knew what had happened in the hellish pit between the two, but something did happen, and Annabeth couldn’t look at Percy because of it for several days. But even then, they had made up. Even then, their love for each other had overcome the obstacles.

“It was like she was a completely different person,” Percy went on. “She even accused me of being under the Imperius Curse. That’s not like her at all.”

“I noticed her acting strange, too,” Thalia said. “But that was after you went and –”

Nico’s ears rang.

The Imperius Curse.

He had no experience with the Imperius Curse, but he had heard the stories from older students. It was one of the three Unforgivable Curses, the kind that bent a person’s will until they obeyed without question. You couldn’t detect it with a spell – only by noticing when someone wasn’t acting like themselves.

In front of him, Percy and Thalia had gone back to bickering – something about Percy “sucking face with a Death Eater,” and Percy immediately correcting Thalia with “he’s not a Death Eater!” – but Nico’s mind was somewhere else, piecing together something he hadn’t even realised was a puzzle.

“Guys,” he said quietly, but it caught the others’ attention immediately. “Do you think … do you think Annabeth might be under the Imperius Curse?”

*

Thalia looked at Nico with a blank expression, waiting for him to yell: “SIKE!”

He did not.

She let out an uneasy laugh. “Nico, Annabeth couldn’t be under the Imperius Curse.”

His eyes burned into hers. “And why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” Thalia said, heat rising in her chest. “I would’ve noticed! Annabeth is like my sister. I would’ve known the exact moment that she was cursed, because I know her. You can’t tell me that I wouldn’t notice one of my best friends getting cursed.”

“But you said it yourself – she’s been acting strange,” Nico said.

“Yeah,” Percy chimed in, “and her appearance – how she’s getting thinner, looking more unkempt. Is that part of the curse, too?”

Nico shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that something’s wrong. There’s a broken prophecy hanging over us, and we aren’t … I mean, look at us! We’ve fallen apart. None of get along anymore – and don’t say that we never got along!” Nico glared at Percy, who looked ready to interject. “I’m saying, we can usually work together to get shit done. Quests are what we do best. But this time … it’s like something is splitting us apart. How did we let it get this far?”

Silence fell upon the three demigods. Thalia hated to admit it, but the words hit home. She was the lieutenant of Artemis, one of the Hunters, and working with a team was supposed to be second nature. But somehow, somewhere along the way, she had stopped treating Nico and Percy like teammates, and more like competition.

“You’re right,” Percy said quietly. “I don’t know what happened to us.”

Thalia scoffed. “Well, for starters, you went and –”

“Stop!” Nico cried. “Don’t you get it?! This is exactly what’s stopping us from completing this quest. Could you go one second without fighting each other?”

Thalia blushed.

Percy grimaced.

Thalia drew in a deep breath to calm herself. She forced herself to be cordial. “I … I’m sorry, Percy, for always being at your throat.”

“And?” Percy said with that grating attitude of his.

Thalia wanted to throttle him.

“Percy!” Nico scolded.

“What? All I’m saying is she doesn’t need to take constant jabs at who I kiss. It’s none of her – or anyone’s – business.” He crossed his arms.

“He’s a Death Eater!” Thalia hissed, “The very kind of person who is throwing the balance of magic out of whack, who tried to kill Harry, who –”

“Will you listen for one second?” Percy cut in, frustration edging his voice. “Yes, Draco was a Death Eater. But he didn’t want to be. He was forced into it – serve Voldemort, or watch his parents die. And he didn’t exactly have anyone to help him – not like Albus would help a Malfoy, would he? So, he did what he had to do. And now that the war is over, all he wants is to brew potions and be left alone. He’s changed, you know? He doesn’t want to hurt anybody ever again.”

Thalia thought that sounded like a load of drakon shit – Percy was probably just being a bleeding heart – but one look at Nico told her that she would lose the bigger fight if she kept pressing. Nico was right about one thing – they couldn’t afford to fight anymore. And if that meant that Thalia had to get over Percy sucking faces with one of their enemies, well … she could do it. She had done harder before.

“I don’t really care what his reasoning was,” Thalia said flatly. Before Percy could argue again, she pushed on: “But Nico’s right – we’ve been fighting too much. More than is normal for us.”

Percy’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, you’re right. This isn’t getting us anywhere. But …”

“But?” Thalia prompted.

“But we can’t work together unless you trust me,” Percy said, “and yet … you guys thought I was lying about the Triple Goddess?”

Thalia rolled her eyes. “Because both Chiron and Dumbledore said that she’s near fading, and if she was going to show up, wouldn’t she … I don’t know … talk to more than just one of us? Wouldn’t she be the one to give us the prophecy, and not some random witch? I mean, I know the prophecy says you’re going to make some big choice, but you’re not the only one on this quest, you know?”

Percy frowned. “I don’t know why she only appeared to me, but she warned me that something big was going to happen – something that would destroy the magical world as we know it. And I’ve been having dreams since then; they want me to make a choice, they show me specific symbols, and sometimes I even dream about … Albus, I think.”

“Oh, come on –”

“Thalia, wait,” Nico said. “Percy, what do you mean you’ve been having dreams about Dumbledore?”

“Albus wears a necklace – it’s gold, with purple gemstones on a full moon and two crescents; same as the Triple Goddess’ symbol. I’ve seen it in my dreams, worn by a man planning something bad. And I guess, with Albus’ bias against me, his necklace, the warning, and then the hellhound attack that is still unexplained …”

“You think this big bad thing that’s coming has something to do with Dumbledore,” Nico summarised.

Thalia scoffed. “Why would Dumbledore do anything to endanger the magical world or the Triple Goddess? He’s the one who called us to Hogwarts. Why would he want outside help if he had some secret evil plan – which he doesn’t, by the way.”

“I’m not saying he’s evil,” Percy replied, “I’m saying he knows more than he’s letting on, and that he’s got a bias against me and my house.”

“Of course, he does. It’s Slytherin, house of Death Eaters!”  

Percy visibly struggled to restrain himself. The lake behind him began to ripple. Thalia eyed him uneasily. “It’s not the house of Death Eaters,” Percy said, eerily calm. “You can’t say that about everyone in the house. You can’t even say that about all pure bloods. But I’ll let that slide, because we’re supposed to be ‘not fighting.’”

Thalia rolled her eyes.

“But we need to actually agree on something for once,” Percy continued, “or else this will go nowhere. So, can we at least agree to be a little bite warier about Albus?” He held up a hand when Thalia went to speak, “I’m not saying we need to accuse him of murder or anything, but we’re running out of time before our next class. So, something is going on with Annabeth, and something is going on with Albus.”

Nico nodded. Reluctantly, Thalia did, too.

Still, as they walked back toward the Great Hall, her stomach churned. She thought about how Dumbledore had told her to keep the prophecy secret. How he had accused Percy of being under the Imperius Curse. How she had trusted him instantly, without question.

There was no way he was behind any of this … right?

*

Everything was calm. Everything was sweet.

Her thoughts drifted light and airy, spun sugar in the sun. Warm grains of sand slipped between her fingers, trickling back to the beach in lazy streams, while the waves kissed the shore in a slow, soothing rhythm.

The calm broke only twice.

First, when a headache began to press at her temples. A faint throb, insistent yet shapeless. Beneath it came an unshakable whisper – something was wrong. But the thought slipped away, drowned beneath the syrupy stillness. Then the pain spiked, sharp and sudden, as though the headache had burst wide open. Something had happened – something bad. She couldn’t remember what.

The second time came with a wrenching twist in her chest, so fierce it stole the air from her lungs. It felt as though someone had reached inside, torn her heart free, and crushed it underfoot. The sand beneath her palms flared scorching hot, burning her skin until she dropped it. In that instant, green eyes flashed before her, framed by dark hair, and her heart lurched again.

Then the heat faded. The pain vanished. The cotton-candy haze wrapped itself around her once more, and she smiled.

Everything was calm.

Everything was sweet.

And nothing was wrong.

*

Draco’s eyes followed Perseus as he trailed after his cousin out of the Great Hall. A knot tightened in his chest. Thalia clearly didn’t like him – hadn’t made any effort to hide it – and by extension, she disapproved of Perseus spending time with him. That alone was enough to make Draco wary. But there was something else here, something heavier in the air, as if the meeting between those two would stir up more than just family squabbles.

Samhain was approaching, and with it came a swell in magic’s strength, his strength – everyone’s, in fact. If Perseus was right – about the prophecy, about the gods, about Magic itself – then it wasn’t a stretch to think all of it would come to a head sooner than anyone expected. The thought sat like ice in Draco’s stomach.

He didn’t get the chance to raise it with Perseus. The moment the demigod slid back into his seat beside him, he turned immediately, voice low but urgent.

“So, there’s some bad news and some good news.”

Draco arched a brow.

“Nico, Thalia, and I have agreed to ‘stop fighting’ –” Perseus lifted his fingers into sarcastic quotation marks “– because we all agree something’s wrong with Annabeth. We want to get to the bottom of it. They still don’t believe me about my dreams or the Triple Goddess, but … that’s the good news. The bad news …” Perseus’s tone sharpened. “How much do you know about the Imperius Curse?”

Draco’s head snapped up so fast his neck twinged. “That’s a sudden change of topic,” he said carefully, wary of where this was going. “Why do you ask?”

The question stirred memories he wished would stay buried: his so-called “training” as a boy, when the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses were hammered into him until he could resist them. The Malfoy heir couldn’t afford to be weak, and if there had been a way to practice the Killing Curse without losing him, Draco knew his parents would have found it. The memory left a sour taste in his mouth and phantom aches in his bones.

If Perseus was asking about the Imperius Curse, it could only mean two things: either he planned to use it on someone, or he suspected someone was already under its sway. Knowing Perseus, it was almost certainly the latter.

“Nico thinks Annabeth is under it,” Perseus said quietly, leaning closer. “She’s been acting strange. Getting weaker. Not the same person we knew before. I don’t … I don’t know what that means for us.”

For one ridiculous, traitorous second, Draco thought “us” meant him and Perseus. Then reality set in – Perseus meant himself and Annabeth – and Draco felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Shame followed quickly after.

“If she’s been under the Imperius Curse this whole time …” Perseus’s voice dropped to something raw, “then were her actions ever her own? Did she actually break up with me, or was that forced on her? I thought the breakup was the worst part, but now it’s like – did it even happen? Gods, it’s all a mess.”

The wreck in Perseus’s voice twisted something deep inside Draco. He hated himself for the flicker of hope that Annabeth might truly be gone from Perseus’s life, hated himself more for remembering the three times they had kissed and how much he wanted it to mean something. But he was supposed to be a friend. Nothing more.

“I know about the Imperius Curse,” Draco said at last, though the words felt like splinters in his throat. “And I can help you find a way to break it.”

*

Chapter 19: the dark arts

Summary:

Percy and Draco talk about breaking the Imperius Curse.

Notes:

Hey ...

Sorry for the long break. It will happen again lol.

*

Chapter 19: Getting to the Bottom of Things

Perseus looked to Draco like he had charmed the moon and stars. “There’s a way to break the curse? You would help us?”

The earnestness in his eyes made Draco swallow back bile. He forced the words out, careful to keep his expression neutral. “I –”

“To your classes, students!” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut cleanly across the hall from the head table. “Lunch is over!”

Relief washed through Draco so quickly it was almost dizzying. Discussing the Imperius Curse in the middle of the Slytherin table, with half the house close enough to overhear, was a spectacularly bad idea.

Perseus’s frustration was plain in the set of his jaw, but before he could speak, Draco reached out and rested a hand on his arm. The contact was meant to be practical, reassuring, and nothing more, but when the tight lines in Perseus’ brow softened, Draco had to stop himself from reading too much into it.

“We’ll talk later,” he said. “And of course, I’ll help you. You’re my … friend.”

The word felt like casting a hex on himself, the kind that lodged deep and hurt more the longer it stayed.

Perseus nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Okay. After the quidditch game, then.”

*

The rest of the day dragged. Transfiguration was dull, even with Professor McGonagall showing them how to turn a teacup into a live mouse, and history of magic was even worse. Sure, they didn’t have the ghost professor droning on like in past years, but even Professor Bramble couldn’t make magical politics from two hundred years ago sound like anything other than a bedtime story.

Not that it would have mattered. Percy’s mind wasn’t in class.

By the time the final bell rang, his feet seemed to have a will of their own. He didn’t even realise where he was going until he found himself outside room 1125 – the upper year defense against the Dark Arts classroom. The door was ajar, and when he pushed it open, he found Chiron at the board, erasing chalk marks.

Percy froze. Chiron looked awful. Not just tired-from-teaching-all-day awful. His eyes were sunken, his beard ragged, and his tail looked like it hadn’t been groomed in weeks. This wasn’t just exhaustion from a demanding job – something else was going on.

The worry hit Percy harder than the memory of their last fight. He walked right up to the desk.  

“Chiron.”

The centaur turned, slow and heavy, like the movement itself cost him effort. “Percy, my boy,” he said warmly, like they hadn’t been one step away from shouting at each other days ago.

Percy almost wanted to raise his voice again. He wanted to yell at his mentor for ignoring him. His frustration and anger came to a boil, like the god of war was nearby. But one look at Chiron’s fatigued expression, his worry lines, and the fight drained out of Percy. “Are you … okay?”

Chiron’s brow furrowed. “What ever do you mean?”

“You just look … tired. I don’t know.”

Chiron shook his head. “You needn’t worry about me, my boy. Now hurry along to dinner, before you miss the food.”

Percy hesitated, shifting his weight. Chiron looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”

The words tumbled out in a rush before Percy could stop himself: “I was attacked by hellhounds, and we think Annabeth might be under the Imperius Curse.”

Chiron looked baffled. “What?”

“It’s just, I was in detention with Hagrid, and I was attacked by three –”

“You had a detention?” Chiron cut in. Then, more alarmed: “Wait, three hellhounds? Wait, no, that’s not the important part. You’re saying Annabeth is under the Imperius Curse? Percy, what on Olympus are you talking about?”

“Yeah, it was three.” Percy waved it off. “I’ve dealt with worse. But they knew where to find me, and someone must’ve sent them. I have the claws if you don’t believe me – though, no one seems to these days.” His voice dipped bitterly before he went on, louder. “And Annabeth … she’s not herself. She broke up with me, didn’t react at all when I kissed Draco, and Nico and Thalia say she’s been acting weird with them, too.”

Chiron’s jaw visibly dropped. “She broke up with you?”

“Why does everyone feel the need to rub that in?” Percy muttered.

“Wait, hold on, you kissed Mr. Malfoy?!” Chiron continued as if Percy hadn’t spoken. “Percy, do I need to remind you that he is a –”

“An ex-Death Eater, yeah, I know.” Percy rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point. I’m just saying, Annabeth is acting out of the ordinary. And I would know. I should have caught on earlier, but I was a little … distracted.” Percy decidedly didn’t share the private moment between him and Draco, with warmth and laughs and comfort; and how he had forgotten all about the break-up soon after. “Annabeth accused me of being under the Imperius Curse – said that Albus floated the idea – but we – Nico, Thalia, and me – think it’s her that’s cursed. And the others won’t admit it, but I think that Albus has something to do with everything that’s going on.”

“That’s a very heavy accusation,” Chiron said gravely. “Do you have any evidence?”

Percy wilted a little under Chiron’s stare. “Just some dreams, his clear bias against me and Slytherins, and a few coincidences that don’t add up.”

Chiron’s sigh was heavy. “Percy, I don’t know why you’re set against Albus –”

“It’s him who is set against me!”

“– but you need to bring solid evidence to support your claims. Albus is a revered wizard and a war hero. I admit, hearing Annabeth might be cursed is very concerning. But why would Albus curse Annabeth? For what purpose? And the fact that you think he had something to do with the hellhounds … he’s not even part of the Greek pantheon. He would need the power of a – a god! Or even a half god – to pull off what you’re talking about. And Albus is very much not a god.”

Percy frowned. Albus may not be a god, but there were currently four half-gods and a centaur residing at Hogwarts, with plenty of power to summon hellhounds. Percy doubted that his friends or mentor would summon hellhounds to attack him, but if there was a way for someone else to use their power … well, that someone else would have no problem trying to kill Percy.

He didn’t say any of this out loud, though. Instead, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said. The look Chiron gave him said he wasn’t buying Percy’s sudden compliance. Percy just gave his best grin. “I’ll collect that evidence that you’re so hard-pressed for. Hope you feel better soon.”

Then he turned on his heel and stalked out, pulse still pounding.

Behind him, Chiron sighed again.

*

After dinner, the quidditch match kicked off. And for the first time, Percy was watching that game instead of playing in it. The stands were alive with colour – scarves, banners, pom-poms, and enchanted flags flapping in the evening breeze. Every house was represented, though the loyalties weren’t exactly surprising. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students cheered for their own teams, while Gryffindor seemed more inclined to Hufflepuff. Slytherin was a clean split between both sides.

Percy glanced at Draco, expecting him to be leaning one way or the other, but the man was dressed in full Slytherin robes and green-trimmed gloves, eyes neutral.

“You’re not rooting for one or the other?” Percy asked.

“I don’t think either team would want me rooting for them,” Draco replied flatly. “But, just between us … I’m hoping Ravenclaw wins. My cousin’s part of that house. She deserves the cheer, even if she’s friends with Harry and his goons.” The word “friends” came out like it tasted bad.

“Cousin?” Percy said, baffled. “Who?”

“Luna Lovegood,” Draco said. “Her mother was a distant cousin of my father. But she married outside what the family considered … acceptable. So, she struck from the family tapestry. I don’t talk to Luna as often as I should. But she’s always been kind to me … even when I wasn’t kind to her.”

There was something raw in Draco’s tone, something that sounded a lot like regret. Percy knew Draco’s past wasn’t spotless – especially when it came to how he treated people – but it made him hope Draco could fix whatever was broken between him and Luna, whoever she was.

He looped an arm around Draco’s shoulders and gave a grin.

“Well, then, we’ll just have to hope Ravenclaw wins. I hear Dawson has a lot of money riding on that fact.” He laughed.

Draco smiled ruefully. “Yes, well, Chidator is even more obsessed with quidditch than Oliver Wood ever was.”

“Oliver who?”

“Just imagine Chidator … but Gryffindor.”

Percy made a face like he had just swallowed vinegar, and Draco actually laughed under his breath. “Yes, I know.”

The game started shortly after. Ravenclaw’s players moved like they shared one mind – perfectly timed passes, sharp maneuvers, no wasted motion. Hufflepuff countered with sheer grit and stubbornness, pushing harder every time they lost ground. But Ravenclaw’s efficiency was brutal.

Two and a half hours later, the match ended with the Hufflepuff seeker snatching the snitch – which pit Hufflepuff at two hundred points … and Ravenclaw at two hundred twenty points. From the way the Hufflepuff seeker slumped on their broom, Percy guessed they had just wanted the match to be over.

The stands erupted – half cheers, half groans. Somewhere further down the bleachers, Dawson had broken out in hoots and hollers. Next to him, another Slytherin was sat, head in their hands.

Percy’s mind was already on November’s games. Slytherin would be facing Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor would be up against Hufflepuff. He couldn’t ignore how sharp Ravenclaw had looked tonight. Still, he knew his team. If they flew like they were capable of flying, they could take on anyone.

*

The quidditch match went past the nine o’clock curfew for Slytherins, which meant every last one of them had to report to Professor McGonagall before heading to the dungeons. While Ravenclaw’s team celebrated and Gryffindor and Hufflepuff drifted toward the Great Hall to join in, Slytherins were herded away like cattle. A few students from other houses laughed as they passed, and Percy rolled his eyes.

McGonagall ticked his name off the list, and Percy caught Draco by the arm and pulled him toward their dorm.

Once they were getting ready for bed, Percy spoke up. “So, the Unforgivable Curses – what are they, exactly? We haven’t gone over them in class yet, but I’ve heard my cousins talk about them.”

Draco blinked, looking momentarily lost before understanding crossed his face.

“I keep forgetting you’re all related on the … godly side of things,” he admitted, pausing when it came to acknowledging the ‘godly’ part. “I’m still a bit shocked about the whole thing, if I’m being honest. Gods, demigods, monsters, and prophecies – it’s all a bit absurd, isn’t it?”

Percy laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Draco made a low hum, as if weighing something in his mind. “I suppose if it really is real, then that makes this even more concerning. I have a hunch that … well, no, it shouldn’t –”

“What? What are you thinking?” Percy pressed.

Draco shook his head. “First things first – the Unforgivable Curses are three of the most powerful, most malicious curses ever created in wizarding history. They’re the strongest known Dark spells in existence. The Cruciatus Curse causes unbearable pain. The Imperius Curse causes the victim to become unquestionably obedient to the castor, so that they may be controlled like a puppet. And the Killing Curse instantly and painlessly kills the victim. Use of any of them sends you straight to Azkaban with lifetime and without parole.” Percy frowned, and Draco explained further: “Azkaban is a high-security prison run by the Ministry. The reason the sentence is so harsh is because the curses are unforgivable – in the sense that they only work if you really mean them. The curses won’t work if you don’t have complete certainty and confidence when casting them. Which means … well, when you cast one of the curses, you really want to hurt, control, or kill someone. It’s the epitome of the Dark Arts.”

Then he muttered bitterly, “which everyone hates.”

“Why wouldn’t everyone hate the Dark Arts?” Percy asked. It seemed obvious to him – magic designed to cause pain and suffering should be avoided.  

Draco made a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand.

“The Dark Arts aren’t all bad. You wouldn’t call a warming jinx evil, would you? You wouldn’t scorn the use of blood in a healing potion, either. Both of those are considered part of the Dark Arts. All curses, jinxes, hexes – and any magic involving blood, body parts, poison, or sacrifice – fall under that category. It’s simply a spectrum, for how far you’re willing to go, with the Unforgivable Curses on the far end of the spectrum. There’s a Light Side and Dark Side, and the grey in between is where most witches and wizards fall.”

Percy mulled over what Draco said for a moment. “So, there’s no absolute good or bed, there’s just a spectrum? And some magic users are in the middle, but they can practice both sides and fall on either side of the spectrum at any time?”

“Exactly,” Draco said. “A lot of pure blood families used to practice the Dark Arts openly. That changed when Dumbledore came into power because he – well …”

Draco hesitated.

“He what?” Percy prompted.

“Well, Dumbledore’s the epitome of the Light Side,” Draco said, his tone edged with resentment. “He acts like he’s above it all. He’s got the influence to sway the Ministry, and he’s convinced most of the wizarding world we don’t need the Dark Arts at all. But that upsets the balance of magic – something magical children are supposed to learn early. Or would, if their parents didn’t buy into Dumbledore’s propaganda.”  

“Upsets the balance of magic …” Percy muttered.

He turned over the phrase in his mind.

Suddenly, he remembered something Chiron had told them months ago, back when the quest had first been laid at their feet: “This war has thrown the balance of magic out of whack. The natural magic has been depleted for too long and there are those who are actively tipping the balance to sabotage the magic for their own gain … It is because of this that Albus Dumbledore has called upon you as heroes to help restore the wizarding world and save magic.”

If Draco was right – if the Dark Arts were a necessary part of magic, and too much of either the Light Side or the Dark Side could destroy that balance – then Dumbledore’s so-called “balance” was a sham. And if Dumbledore was the same man Percy had seen in his dreams …

“Beware the Light,” the Triple Goddess had warned him.

“That bastard,” Percy spat before he could stop himself.

Draco’s head jerked up. “What are you –”

“If I’m right, Albus has been playing us from the start!” Percy said. “He’s been pushing for the Light Side to be the only side, hasn’t he? He hates the Dark Arts. He hates Slytherins, which – news flash – make up a huge chunk of Dark Art practitioners. He wanted us to come on this quest to Hogwarts to ‘right the balance of magic,’ but … I’m beginning to think this whole quest is drakon shit. If he believes what you’ve just told me, then his balance is nothing but Light. I’ve had dreams of him talking with the Triple Goddess – of him trying to take power to do … something. But I just don’t know what. And if he hates the Dark Arts so much, then why would he cast the Imperius Curse on Annabeth … something isn’t adding up.”

Draco only shrugged. “People are hypocrites all the time. In the First Wizarding War, aurors were allowed to use Unforgivable Curses on Death Eaters. The Dark Arts weren’t always so condemned.”

“So, they bent the rules for the good guys,” Percy said flatly.

Draco nodded. “I’m not saying they didn’t need to – Merlin knows that they were up against heavy hitters with no moral compass – but it puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Percy’s thoughts flickered to Annabeth. “And these Unforgivable Curses … there is a way to break them?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, and that was answer enough. “Lots of witches and wizards like to claim that there’s no way to break the Unforgivable Curses … but there is. I mean, I can – well, that is to say, some people can – throw off the Cruciatus and Imperius Curse, if they have exceptional willpower. You can be trained to fight off the curses. If the caster isn’t strong enough, you could also break through the curse. But there are … other ways. Ones that don’t rely on the victim’s strength. But I wouldn’t want Annabeth to … I’ll need to do further research, just to confirm my theories.”

“And if the caster is someone as powerful as Albus?” Percy asked. Draco’s grimace said it all. Percy clenched his jaw. “If he’s planning something … it must have something to do with the Triple Goddess. I just don’t know what, or when, that plan will take place. Not to mention –”

“Samhain.”

“Chiron and – and Saw-what?”

“Samhain,” Draco repeated slowly. He fidgeted with the cuffs on his silk pyjamas. “I can’t be sure, but … Samhain is when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest. Magic is at its strongest – for everyone; pure blood, half blood, muggle born, magical creatures. Witches and wizards used to celebrate Samhain every year religiously, before Halloween took over. If Albus were to do anything, and he needed power to do it, he would do it on the thirty-first, when Samhain celebrations would start. He – and by extension, Magic itself – would have the most power then.”

Percy did the math in his head. “But that’s only in … nineteen days?”

Draco nodded. “I still celebrate it in small ways, but the rest of Hogwarts focuses on Halloween. But if anyone needed more magic for some big plan, they would be strongest on Samhain.”

“Which means we need to act quickly,” Percy muttered. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t done more in less time. I just hate having a deadline. Makes everything so much more damn complicated.”

“Hey …” Draco’s voice had softened.

Percy looked up.

“We’ll figure this out.”

“We?” Percy asked.

Draco blushed so prettily. “Yes, we. You think I’d let one of my only friends figure this out alone?”

And there it was – “friend.” Like they hadn’t kissed. Like Percy’s feelings weren’t getting messier by the day. Annabeth might not have broken up with him of her own will, but his feeling for Draco were real. The thought of disappointing either of them left a knot in his chest.

If Annabeth really was under the Imperius Curse – and he was more convinced of it by the second – then what was he supposed to do?

He looked into Draco’s grey eyes, so much like Annabeth’s, and saw the trust there. Trust that he couldn’t abandon.

But Annabeth …

“Perseus?” Draco said softly, like he had repeated the name more times than Percy had heard. “Perseus? Are you okay?”

That name … Percy hated anyone using his given name.

His mother had given him the name because, in the Greek myths, Perseus – the son of Zeus and demigod – had been one of the only heroes to have a happy ending. She had hoped that some of that happy ending would rub off on Percy.

Instead, Percy’s life was filled with monsters, gods, and prophecies. It was filled with pain, suffering, and loss.

There were happy moments, of course, but most of his life was spun with barbed wire, with the Fates sitting up on Olympus and laughing. And the crux of it all was that Percy was Perseus, son of Poseidon. And a lot of children could say they were accident babies, but Percy was quite literally never supposed to be born. Monsters, gods, and those who hated him – they all called him “Perseus.” They spat the name like it was venom, like it left a sour taste in their mouth.

But not Draco.

Draco used the name “Perseus” like it was a name to be revered. He whispered it softly. He laughed around the syllables. He spoke it like it was important and represented none of the destruction and suffering that followed Percy.

Percy shook his head, almost laughing. “I’m okay. I’m just … thinking.”

“Care to share with the class?” Draco said amusedly.

Percy didn’t share his actual thoughts. He couldn’t. How was he supposed to put it into words? How was he meant to explain how soft Draco was with him, how much he liked when Draco said his name with his soft lilting accent, and how he would need to choose Annabeth or Draco very soon.

“I was speaking to Chiron,” he said instead, “about the hellhounds? The thing is, they are servants of the Underworld. They don’t randomly show up in the mortal world. They need to be summoned. But there are certain requirements to summoning them, and what Chiron said got me thinking …”

Percy thought back to earlier that day when Chiron had, quite flippantly, said: “He would need the power of a – a god! Or even a half god – to pull off what you’re talking about. And Albus is very much not a god.”

Albus may not have been a god, but there were four half gods and a centaur at Hogwarts.

“Thinking about what?” Draco asked. “You don’t think one of your cousins summoned the hellhounds, do you?”

“No,” Percy said. “Not Nico or Thalia. But maybe … if he controlled Annabeth with the Imperius Curse … or maybe if he could somehow siphon her power as a demigod … I don’t know. Does that make any sense? Are there any spells that can steal magic or power from someone else?”

Draco’s expression shuddered. “Yes, but those kinds of spells … well, they’re in the same category of Dark Arts as the Unforgiveable Curses. They can be useful – when both parties are consenting and want to lend power to the caster for a bigger spell – to achieve something greater than only one person could. That kind of spell work is used for curse breaking or when setting up magical wards. But again, that’s when everyone consents. If someone were to siphon magic from someone else without their knowledge … it could drain their life force.”

Percy felt his heart drop to his feet.

“I’m guessing an unkempt look, being more tired, and lacking energy aren’t side effects of the Imperius Curse, are they?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

Draco shook his head. “Not usually, no.”

“And when you said ‘drain their life force,’ you meant …”

“When cast improperly, or without consent, those kinds of spells … well, they can take directly from someone’s magical core.” Percy frowned, and Draco explained: “Which is very bad. It steals someone’s magic – their very being – and weakens them physically and mentally, leaving them susceptible to legilimency, curses, and other attacks.”

“And legilimency …”

Draco sighed, but seemingly not from frustration. Instead, he looked like he was recalling a particularly bad memory. “Legilimency is the ability to access another person’s mind and thoughts – and is in the grey area of magics. Its opposite is occlumency, which is the act of closing one’s mind and protecting it from legilimens. Most pure blood children are taught the basics of both when they’re young, to protect themselves. If your mind is open to any person who has learned legilimency, you could lose your secrets, thoughts that you hold dear, and even your very sense of self. Your privacy is practically nonexistent. And being susceptible to legilimency means your mind is wide open for the taking.”

“That’s fucking terrifying,” Percy said. “But that means that you can …”

“I’m not very good at legilimency – that was always Pansy’s talent,” Draco admitted, looking down at his feet with a crease in his brow. Percy didn’t ask who Pansy was. “I’ve always been better at occlumency. It’s how I … well, you can’t live with the Dark Lord and not know how to protect your mind. My thoughts were the only sense of privacy I had – and even then, he tried to invade that, too.”

“You mean you lived with that guy?” Percy asked, forgetting about tact for a moment.

Draco shivered, as if reminiscing.

“Yes. The summer before my sixth year, the Dark Lord took over Malfoy Manor and …” Draco let out a hum, picking at the bottom of his silk shirt, and decidedly not looking Percy in the eyes. “Enough about me. We were talking about the Imperius Curse. If you really believe Albus has cursed Annabeth –”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” Percy confessed. “I just … I’ve been having dreams about him. And demigod dreams are always trying to tell you something –”

“I believe you,” Draco said.

“Just like that?” Percy asked, disbelieving.

“Just like that,” Draco said simply.

Percy let out a little breath, half of it being a laugh, half a scoff. Over the past month, Percy had learned that he couldn’t trust his friends to trust him. But here Draco was, believing him as easily as breathing. Draco didn’t care how much trouble it was, he just wanted to help. He didn’t question Percy at every chance.

It was refreshing.

“But, ah …” And here, Draco looked embarrassed. “Demigod dreams? Is that a euphemism?”

Percy couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him. “No! Oh, my gods, no. Demigod dreams aren’t like that. They’re rarely ever just dreams. They’re like … visions? They show demigods the past, present, or future happenings. Usually, they show something important or connected to what the demigod is dealing with.”

“So, when you say you’ve seen Dumbledore in your dreams, you think that means his actions are important and are connected to the quest you’re on?”

“Exactly!” Percy said.

“Okay,” Draco said, his expression sharpening, “then that means that Dumbledore is definitely connected to what is happening – in some way, shape, or form. Whether he’s the perpetrator or not is undecided until we have further proof. I’ll do some research. I have a few ideas of how to go about breaking the Imperius Curse. But if Dumbledore is siphoning her magic, like you suspect … well, we’ll have bigger problems to deal with, including finding out how to stop that. Until then, we need to lay low and not attract any attention to ourselves, so we can go about our research without delay. And if worse comes to worst, and we can’t break the Imperius Curse with any of my methods, there’s always one surefire way to break it. It’s a last resort, but …”

“And what is it?” Percy asked with bated breath.

Draco looked up at Percy. “We’ll need to kill the castor – we’ll need to kill Dumbledore.”

*

Chapter 20: curse breaking isn't easy

Summary:

A little insight into Draco's past, their research into the Imperius Curse, and some Percy and Draco moments.

*

Chapter 20: Curse Breaking Isn’t Easy

Draco’s sleep was fitful. One moment, his mind was enveloped with the darkness of sleep, and the next, he was back in Malfoy Manor. Draco remembered this. It was the summer before his seventh year at Hogwarts, and Lord Voldemort had taken residence in his family home. Malfoy Manor had been turned into the hub for all Death Eater happenings. What was once a source of familiarity and comfort for Draco had turned into long, dark halls, suffocating Dark magic hanging in the air, and the screams of the prisoners in the cellars at night. And, to top it all off, Draco had been given a task – not his first task, but one that he couldn’t afford to fail.

If he didn’t do it, his family would die. Simple as that.

But nothing was ever simple for Draco.

Draco blinked and he was suddenly in the vast, torch-lit parlour of Malfoy Manor. Draco’s heart thundered as he stood at attention. The ancient tapestries on the walls, woven with threads of silver and green, shivered in the draft, as though trembling before the Dark Lord himself. Draco clutched the cold edge of the marble fireplace mantel, white-knuckled, willing himself to breathe evenly.

At the centre of the room, Lord Voldemort sat in a high-backed chair carved from black oak. His thin, bony fingers were steepled beneath his pale face.

Draco would never get used to seeing the Dark Lord in all his … glory.

“Draco,” Voldemort cooed. Draco felt woozy. His Lord’s voice was smooth as poisoned silk, and it echoed across the chamber with chilling ease. “You have been delayed with your reports.”

Draco swallowed, his throat tight. He forced his jaw to unclench.

“Apologies, my Lord,” he managed.

He could feel the old panic rising again, a familiar burn at the back of his eyes, and the tremor in his hands threatening to betray him.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes bored into him. “Is there a … difficulty?”

The tension was palpable.

Draco flexed his fingers. “N-no difficulty, my Lord. Just … preparations for the upcoming engagements.”

“Indeed?” Voldemort leaned forward, the folds of his black robes rustling. He pulled out his wand and traced the wood from the handle to the tip, his gaze finally letting up. Draco’s pulse skipped a beat. He knew a threat when he saw one. “Are sure you are ready to fulfill your family’s duties?”

Draco’s throat went dry. He stood straighter, shoulders back. “Yes. I mean – of course, my Lord.”

“Good,” Voldemort said. He rose from his seat, the candlelight gleaming off his skull-like head. He moved toward Draco, stepping so close that Draco could feel the warmth of his breath. He held his wand beneath Draco’s chin, the tip barely digging into his skin, but threatening all the same. “I trust you will not fail me again.”

Draco’s breath caught. The memories flooded – his mother’s distraught face, his father’s inward quake of fear – everything he had promised to himself he would never let happen again. He felt the cold press of terror, the urge to collapse against the floor.

He forced himself to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. Somehow, his voice didn’t shake.

“I will succeed, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed. For a moment, Draco saw something like respect – or amusement – flash across his snake-like face. Then Voldemort lowered his wand, tucked it into his wand holster, and glided toward the ornate doors. They opened wordlessly.

“Very well,” his Lord said. Before he left, he locked eyes with Draco one more time. “But just remember, if you fail one more time … you will be the last Malfoy serving me.”

“I understand, my Lord.”

When the doors shut behind the Dark Lord, Draco collapsed like a marionette that had its strings cut. The echo of Voldemort’s footsteps lingered in the quiet. Draco bent and placed his forehead against the mantelpiece, closing his eyes. Slowly, he drew in a ragged breath, then another, tasting the cold marble. At last, his breathing slowed. He lifted his head and straightened, flicking his wand out of its holster and pressing the tip into the palm of his hand as though to anchor himself to reality.

A whisper slipped from his lips: “I will not fail.”

He could not fail. Because failing meant losing everything. And he couldn’t afford to lose any more.

*

Draco woke to tears trailing down his face.

He angrily wiped the wetness away.

He hadn’t been forced to think about those days since his hearing at the Ministry, where the scummy lawyers of the Light Side had tried to draw every last memory and secret from his lips, proving him guilty of aiding and abetting the Dark Lord. They had used a combination of powerful truth serums, legilimency, and interrogation. They had wanted to sentence him to life without chance of parole in Azkaban; his only reprieve was that his own lawyer, the best that money could buy, and a well-known advocate for both Light and Dark magic users, had been good at his job. Draco had gotten off easy, compared to his father. And while it was true that Draco bore the Dark Mark, it wasn’t true that he had wanted to do anything he did under Lord Voldemort’s direction.

Once upon a time, Draco had believed in the Dark Lord’s ideologies. He had blindly followed his father’s teachings. He had looked down upon mudblood witches and wizards. He had believed himself better than the commoners.

And maybe he was better than some, with his advanced tutorage and skills – but it had been quite a cold shock to the system to realise that maybe it didn’t matter.

Maybe it didn’t matter if some magic users were more powerful than others.

Maybe it didn’t matter if you were a muggle born, a half-blood, or a pure blood.

Maybe none of what he stood for mattered.

That uncertainty … it gnawed at Draco.

But what he took away from all of it was that, whatever mattered, it definitely wasn’t worth life or death.

Hearing the screams of the poor muggle born prisoners, in the inescapable cellars below Malfoy Manor, had been its own unique form of torture. It had been a teaching moment for Draco. It taught him that he didn’t have the same stomach for the kinds of things that his father did. It taught him to hesitate with his wand. And it taught him to be careful, lest any of the Dark Lord’s entourage find him lacking.

It was a scary realisation and even scarier game to play.

It was why he refused to identify Potter and his friends when they were brought to the manor. After everything he had done, he knew he couldn’t have their deaths on his hands, no matter how pleased the Dark Lord would have been with his family.

Draco huffed softly and sat up from his bed.

He didn’t want to think about his past. He didn’t want to reminisce on how bad of a person he was. He would rather be productive, like finishing homework or starting the research that he had promised Perseus. Draco had a few ideas about how to break the curse, but …

Oh, he thought, she would know better than I would.

He hadn’t seen or talked to her since the beginning of summer, but he was sure she would help if he wrote to her – especially if it meant taking down Dumbledore.

He needed to write to his mother.

*

After Draco dropped the bomb in conversation – that they might need to kill Dumbledore – Percy didn’t sleep very well.

Percy had killed before. He had killed monsters and even other demigods in the Battle of Manhattan. He had aided Luke in killing himself to stop Kronos. He had personally helped free the god of death – capital ‘D’ Death – to keep people who were killed, stay dead. He was well acquainted with the concept of death. But that didn’t mean he was comfortable with it. That uncomfortableness – the tightness in his chest, the queasiness in his stomach – was shown in his dreams that night. He dreamt of flashes of Tartarus: of how he killed hundreds of monsters singlehandedly; how their bodies dropped like rocks instead of dissipating into golden dust; and the feeling of almost taking the life of Akhlys, before Annabeth convinced him to stop.

Percy had never wanted to kill someone, or something, more than he ever had in that moment; Annabeth had stopped him. And it was only because of her crying, terror in her eyes, that made Percy pause. Her fear of him in that moment had grounded Percy and had brought him out of his rage.

But that was a rage he rarely ever felt.

And the idea of killing Albus, even after everything he had done, even if he had cursed Annabeth … Percy was angry, sure, but not angry enough to warrant killing.

He hoped Draco could find a way to break the curse without needing to turn to the last resort.

*

When Percy awoke, it was to an unusual sight. Draco was awake and hunched over his desk in the corner of the room. Draco wasn’t a morning person and would usually sleep in until noon if allowed to do so. Instead, today, his hair was mussed, and he had dark bags under his eyes, his quill scratching against the parchment in the dark room. Only a small candle was lit and floating above the parchment, casting more light than the meager sun they got this late in the year, so early, and filtered through the lake’s water.

“Draco?” Percy said, voice low with sleep.

Draco looked up, his quill hovering over the paper.

“What are you doing at …” Percy cast a Tempus Charm. It was 6:30am, and it appeared as if Draco had been awake for a while. Percy was baffled. “… almost six in the morning?”

There was a fervent sort of light in Draco’s eyes. “My mother – she’s in Spain.”

Percy blinked at the non-sequitur. “Okay? And?”

“And she might have the answers we’re looking for,” Draco said. He turned back to his desk. He pressed the quill to the parchment, signed off on the bottom, and then waved his wand over it. The ink dried instantly. He rolled up the paper neatly, reached over, opened the desk drawer, and pulled out a ball of twine. He tied the twine around the rolled-up paper, then stood. He was still in his pyjamas. “I need to take this to the owlery. Carina can fly it to mother, who can access the Malfoy library. I would go myself, but I’m not allowed to leave Hogwarts, and Christmas break is too late –”

“Whoa, whoa!” Percy said, slipping out of bed to stop Draco from marching out of their room in just his pyjamas. “Who is Carina? Why does the Malfoy library matter? And why is your mother in Spain?”

Draco blinked blankly at Percy, as if not sure why Percy wasn’t following his train of logic.

“Carina is my eagle owl,” he said slowly. “And my mother is in Spain because … uh, reasons. They have a different ministry than England. But that doesn’t matter – what matters is that Malfoy Manor has a library full to the brim with books on the Dark Arts. If we can find a way to break the Imperius Curse, it would be in that library.”

Something bright – hope – ignited in Percy’s chest. “Okay. Makes sense. We can visit the owlery during breakfast. First off, though, you need to change clothes.”

Draco finally seemed to realise how much of a mess he looked. His cheeks turned rosy.

“Ah, right,” he said. Then added: “In the meantime, while we wait for my mother’s response, we’ll need to sneak into the restricted section of Hogwarts’ library to find what we’re looking for. The only thing is … I’m not sure how. Filch might catch us, and then we’ll really be in trouble – especially if Dumbledore is doing what we think.”

Percy let out a hum. “Actually, leave that to me. I might have a solution to that.”

*

The walk to the school owlery was long and tedious. It was located in Hogwarts’ west tower, in a room at the very top. When they reached the top of the staircase, Percy noted that the owlery was a large circular stone room and was rather cold and drafty because none of the windows had glass in them. As he watched, he saw owls fly in and out of the open windows freely. He looked down and saw that the floor was covered in straw. The walls around the room had alcoves for the owls to perch and nest in, and in the middle of the room was a large bird bath with running water. Percy was able to spot small skeletons on the edges of the room and in the alcoves – probably the regurgitated bones of the owls’ meals.

“It’s usually worse in the winter,” Draco said. “But in the fall, it’s okay. They really ought to redo the warming charms on the tower.” He marched over to one side of the room, his letter gripped in one hand. He then added, as if it were a secondary thought: “Mind the owl droppings.”

Percy stepped around the straw covered floor carefully.

“So, which one’s yours?” He asked curiously.

“Carina!” Draco called. He whistled.

In response, from high up in the tower, an owl swooped down from an alcove. Draco held out his arm, and the owl landed on his forearm gingerly, careful not to nick his skin with its claws.

The eagle owl looked fierce. It was the size of a small dog, though Draco held its weight easily, like it was familiar to him. Its eyes were a bright orange, and it had little tuffs of feathers sticking out of its head like horns. Its beak was completely black, there was a spot of white on its chest, and its colouring was a mix of different browns and creams. It hooted – a higher-pitched noise – and then it started to preen Draco’s hair. Draco made an exasperated sound.

Percy laughed. “He must really like you.”

“She loves me,” Draco corrected. “I’ve had Carina since my first year. She was my gift for getting into Hogwarts. I try to visit her as often as possible, even when I don’t have a letter or package for her. I haven’t really had much mail to receive this year, anyway.”

Percy’s expression tightened at the sad look on Draco’s face. “I would have thought you and your mother …”

“Mother ran away to Spain as soon as her trial was over,” Draco said, dismissively, like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care, though it was plain as day on his face. “She only stayed as long as she did because it was looking like father might … well, he didn’t. He’s in Azkaban for life, now.”

“But don’t you talk to your mother? Like, at all?”

Draco shrugged. “I know she cares about me, but the war scared her. She’s off, finding herself, somewhere on a beach. She spent as much time as she could with me before leaving. It’s not safe for her in England, let alone in the manor, where … where he stayed.”

Percy nodded as though he understood. “You know, I miss my mother all the time. Between all the quests and missing time, I couldn’t wait to go home at the end of the day.”

“Are you a mommy’s boy?” Draco asked amusedly.

Percy huffed. “So, what if I am?”

Draco giggled. The sound made Percy’s heart soar. “I’d say the same thing about myself.”

He smiled. “Moms are the best.”

“They … they really are,” Draco said, seemingly thinking about something deeper than what they were saying aloud. “But, regardless, I’m hoping my mother is willing to come back and search the Malfoy library for me.” He turned to Carina, still on his arms and still preening his hair. “Carina, take this to mother, in Barcelona, Spain.” He tied the letter with twine to the owl’s leg, then pulled out his wand and gently tapped Carina’s forehead.

“Protego amatum,” Draco whispered, and a faint blue light enveloped the bird’s form and faded. Draco kissed Carina on the top of her head. “I wish you a safe flight.”

Carina hooted softly, then took off, flying out one of the windows.

Draco looked after her longingly, as if he wished he could also fly away from Hogwarts. As if he could also be free. Percy wrapped an arm around Draco and led him back to the staircase, to go down to breakfast. “Hey, you’ve done your part. Now we can start our own research. In the meanwhile, we’ll wait for your mother.”

Draco sighed. “Let’s just hope that we get a response in time.”

*

Draco knew that what he was looking for, to research the Dark Arts and its curses, would only be found in the restricted section of Hogwarts’ library – or in the most noble of pure blood libraries. He only had access to one of those right now, and it wasn’t the latter. Unfortunately, it would have been easier to use his pure blood connections, no matter how sullied they were, to access a pure blood library than to sneak into the restricted section in the Hogwarts library. Nosy librarians, warded bookshelves, and cursed books awaited him in the restricted section, whereas he would only have had to fight off a few curses in a pure blood library.

Perseus said he had a solution to sneaking into the restricted section of the library, but Draco thought that it never hurt to have a back up plan.

He knew that the only reason a student should be in the restricted section of the library was if they had the permission from a professor or Hogwarts staff member. To get permission, you needed a signed note from one of the staff members. Even then, Madam Pince, the librarian, would usually go get the book for you, and not allow students to wander the restricted section.

If they wanted to do this discretely, without alerting any of the professors of what they were doing (so that it wouldn’t get back to Dumbledore, no matter how accidental), then they needed free roam access without the librarian butting into their business.

Draco knew just the professor to sign a full access note to the library.

His favourite professor, in fact – Severus Snape.

*

It was a practicum day in potions class, so while Draco and Perseus worked on an antidote to common poisons, Draco took the down time to write his note. In his note, it stated that he and Perseus had permission to freely access the restricted section in the library to “research the intersectionality between potions, pioneering potions, the Dark Arts, and how it’s applied in everyday life.” Draco finished his note with a flourish, just in time to stop the cauldron from bubbling over. While Draco adjusted the temperature of the flame with his wand, Perseus frowned and waved a hand over the antidote, causing it to instantly settle. Draco shot Perseus a sharp look.

“If you wanted to stick out like a sore thumb, you’re doing a fantastic job of it,” he said.

Perseus rolled his eyes. “I was only helping.”

“Well, you can help without using your … powers.” Draco whispered the last part.

Perseus pressed into his side, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Don’t worry, nobody noticed. They’re all too focused on their own potions. Besides, I can just claim it’s wandless magic.”

Draco huffed, but he had a smile on his lips.

He ignored how fast his heartbeat rose when Perseus kissed him.

Near the end of class, while Draco left Perseus to scrub their cauldron clean – decidedly ignoring Perseus’ cute pout – Draco approached Professor Snape’s desk.

Snape was one of his favourite professors at Hogwarts. Not only was he the head of Slytherin house, but he was one of the only adults that Draco felt he could trust. He was right alongside Draco in the Death Eater meetings, he was the one to petition for Draco to have less tasks, and he was the one who ultimately shielded Draco from most of the Dark Lord’s wrath for failing his tasks. When Draco found out that Snape had been a double agent for Dumbledore, he had been … relieved? He had been glad that Snape wasn’t actually indoctrinated into the Death Eater cult-like mindset.

Only now, he wasn’t so sure it was a good thing.

If Snape was an agent for Dumbledore, then he might be involved with whatever plot Dumbledore was planning. Draco refused to confide in Snape about what was really happening. Despite Draco trusting Snape, he wouldn’t betray Perseus like that.

Instead, he walked to the front of the room, where Professor Snape was distracted by several students and tasks at once. Draco placed the note on the professor’s desk.

“Professor,” he said carefully. “I was wondering if you could sign this note for my final summative evaluation? I need a certain book from the library.” He tried his best to sound flippant, hoping that Snape wouldn’t read the note. If he did, he would notice that it gave Draco and Perseus far more permissions than what they actually needed for a final assignment.

“Your final assignment?” Professor Snape said, sounding distracted. “You’re already working on that?”

Draco bluffed. “Yes, professor. You know how it is.”

Professor Snape blinked, looked down at the note, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, yes,” he muttered. “You were always my best student. Of course, you’re already starting the final assignment. Very well.”

He waved his wand wordlessly, and a quill flew from a desk drawer, signing the bottom of the note without the professor even reading the paper.

Draco tried to hold back his grin.

“Thank you, professor,” he said genuinely. Then, under his breath, “You’ve helped more than you’ll ever know.”

*

At dinner, Percy wove his way toward the Slytherin table, scanning for a familiar mop of dark hair. Benjamin, Richard, and Taylor were clustered together as usual, but it was Benjamin he wanted. Percy remembered the offhand comment Ben had made on the Quidditch pitch weeks ago: “I have a potion that can turn us invisible so we can sneak out. I traded a few sickles for it from Rick’s twin brother, Nick, in Hufflepuff. The guy is a prodigy with potions. I figured I could use it at some point.”

Ben probably hadn’t been imagining this – Percy sneaking into the restricted section of the Hogwarts library – but the idea was too perfect to pass up.

He slipped behind Benjamin, grinning, and grabbed him by the shoulders. The fourth year jumped like he had been hexed.

“Percy!” Benjamin snapped, spinning around. “What was that for?”

Percy shrugged, unbothered. “I wanted to.”

Benjamin glared at him like he was deciding which curse would be most satisfying.

“Oh, come on, Ben,” Percy said, sticking out his lower lip in mock offense. “You know you love me.”

“I don’t know about that,” Benjamin muttered darkly.

“Hey! I resent that,” Percy said, before leaning closer. “Anyway … you don’t happen to still have that Invisibility Potion, do you?”

Benjamin narrowed his eyes. “…why?”

“No reason,” Percy said quickly. The last thing he needed was to explain the convoluted mess that had led to this idea. “But I’m willing to make your coin purse a little heavier in exchange for it.”

Benjamin crossed his arms. “And what makes you think you can afford it?”

“Oh, please,” Percy scoffed. “I know exactly how much you paid for it – and I’ll give you double.”

That got his attention. Benjamin’s eyes lit up. “You drive a hard bargain, but …” He extended a hand. “Deal.”

Percy clasped it without hesitation, sealing the trade. The vial slipped into his pocket at dinner, cool glass pressing against his palm.

He winked at Benjamin. “Don’t let anyone know I’ve got this. It’s going to help a lot. Thanks, Ben.”

Benjamin only smirked, but Percy caught the glint in his eyes – half profit, half curiosity. Whatever the Slytherin was imagining Percy needed the potion for, it probably wasn’t even close to the truth.

*

Percy and Draco ate quickly so they could head to the library without breaking curfew. Not that they wouldn’t be breaking other rules while searching through the restricted section in the Hogwarts library without permission, but rather, Percy was hoping to do this as safely as possible – and that included going to bed before curfew so they wouldn’t be risking even more punishment if caught.

To get to the library, they travelled through the endless maze of corridors. It wasn’t too far from the Great Hall, and was located on the first floor.

When they entered the library, Madam Pince gave them a mean look.

Percy thought it was unnecessary, regardless of the fact that they planned on breaking some rules. What surprised him was when Draco walked right up to Madam Pince and handed her a folded piece of paper. He gave the librarian a charming smile.

“Professor Snape has allowed Perseus and I to use the restricted section,” Draco said, “to work on our final assignments for potions class – for the foreseeable future.”

Madam Pince squinted her eyes behind her glasses and glared down at the note.

“Everything seems to be in order …” She muttered. “Which books do you need? I’ll grab them for you.”

“Didn’t you read the note?” Draco said smugly. Gods, Percy loved that look on Draco’s face. It suited him. He grabbed the note back from her hands so that she couldn’t read it over again. “The note says we can search the restricted section on our own. We’re doing our own research and need access to the full section on the Dark Arts.”

Madam Pince looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. “If that’s what the note says … Keep out of the other sections, though! I’ll be keeping my eye on you boys.”

Draco nodded, then elbowed Percy, who nodded to reassure the librarian.

Madam Pince let them go, and as they walked further into the library, Percy whispered to Draco. “Where did you get that note? I know for a fact that Snape hasn’t ‘let us’ do anything.”

Draco smiled innocently. “Well, if he just so happened to sign my note when distracted, thinking it was for something else …”

“You sly dog!” Percy said.

Draco blinked. “Um, what?”

“It’s a … metaphor? Idiom?” Percy scratched his head. “Whatever it is, it means you’re sneaky. You got Snape to give us full permission in the restricted section. Way to go!”

He held out his hand for a fist-bump. Draco rolled his eyes but fist-bumped Percy. Percy cheered silently.

“Muggles have the strangest sayings …” Draco muttered under his breath.

*

They secured seats at a table by the restricted section. As they set down their book bags, Draco took a moment to take in the entirety of the Hogwarts library. It was even bigger than the library back at Malfoy Manor – which was nothing to sneer at – with tens of thousands of books, thousands of shelves, and hundreds of narrow rows. There were study tables nestled throughout the red carpeted rooms, and the library was walled with full bookshelves – many of which contained secret passages that only those in the know-how at Hogwarts knew about or used. Polished wooden catwalks and a mezzanine overlooked the giant library room, giving access to the taller bookshelves that reached the ceiling. The walls that were visible through the bookshelves had stained-glass windows, which depicted magical feats that were only dreamed about in fiction.

It was different from the Malfoy library – which held a heavier, darker atmosphere – but Draco couldn’t help but feel at-home among the books, scrolls, and tomes. He used to thrive in academics and studying, before … before everything.

Draco started to wander into the restricted section, but Perseus grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Hey, uh, if we need to stay late and break curfew …” He held out a vial about the size of a dinner roll. In it was an opalescent liquid.

It was an Invisibility Potion.

Draco felt his brows raising. “Where did you get that?”

Perseus shrugged as he slipped it back into his robe pocket. “I paid a galleon for it. Probably a bit much for such a small vial, but Ben wasn’t willing to part with it for less. He got it from Rick’s brother, Nick –”

“I don’t need a whole story,” Draco said dryly. “But … keep that on hand. Just in case.”

*

Blood and Binding: A Treatise on Forbidden Rituals, an exhaustive account of blood magic, oath binding, and soul-splitting rites – no, this wasn’t a blood curse.

Shadows that Whisper: A Study of Sentient Curses, a dive into curses that grow, learn, and haunt generations – it wasn’t a sentient curse, either.

Of Fangs and Fog, a practical field guide written by a former Unspeakable, and detailing defensive magic against Dark creatures – ugh, they weren’t fighting against a magical creature, they were fighting against a curse! Granted, it was one of the Unforgiveable Curses, but still, not a creature!

No, no, no!

None of these books were what he was looking for.

And unfortunately, Draco admittedly shelved more books than he picked out.

It made him feel useless, but he knew, logically, that they would probably be spending a couple days in the library before finding anything useful. In the end, he grabbed several books on curse breaking, a few on the Dark Arts, and one on occlumency. It wasn’t until he got to the table, opened Liberamentum Mentis: Defences of the Mind, an occlumency and cognitive reinforcement spell book, that he groaned when he realised something.

“What?” Perseus asked. He peeked over from the shelf he was perusing through. His curls, which had grown out in the past month, fell artfully over his green eyes. “What is it?”

Draco tried to stay focused.

“It’s in Latin,” he said.

“So?”

“So,” Draco explained patiently, “I may read and write in many languages, but I was always better at French than Latin. My father … um, well, he wasn’t happy with my lack of skill in the magical languages. But we can still –”

“Oh, no problem. I can read Latin.”

“– get a translation spell to – wait, what?”

Perseus shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. He took the book he was holding and tossed it onto their table, causing Draco to wince – Madam Pince would not like that. “Yeah. I mean, I do better with ancient Greek than Latin – but that’s just because … you know … my father is from the Greek side, not the Roman. But while I was at Camp Jupiter, and on the quest after, I learned Latin pretty quickly. I can translate it well enough, at the very least.”

Draco simply stared at Perseus. He knew how long the quest took because Perseus told him. “That makes absolutely no sense. How do you learn a language in such a short length of time?”

Perseus shrugged again. “My brain is hard-wired for Greek and Latin, not English.”

“Again: that makes absolutely no sense.”

“Do you want me to make sense, or do you want me to read the book?” Perseus asked, hands on his hips.

Draco sighed and handed over the book. Together, they translated a couple excerpts from the book. The first few chapters weren’t helpful, until they got to the fourth chapter.

*

CHAPTER IV: THE IMPERIUS CURSE AND ITS INTRICACIES

“To submit one’s will is to erase oneself. To resist is not simply to deny, but to remember who you are.”

– Araminta Greaves, former Head of Experimental Hex Reversal, St Mungo’s

The Imperius Curse (Imperio), among the three Unforgivable Curses, is perhaps the most insidious. It does not rend flesh nor kill the body but supplants the mind itself – leaving its victim unaware of the theft of selfhood. Resistance to such a spell is rare, but it is not impossible. With discipline, understanding, and deliberate training, one may repel or rupture the mental tether that binds caster to victim.

UNDERSTANDING THE CURSE’S MECHANISMS

The Imperius Curse functions by projecting the caster’s intent into the subject’s mind, overriding natural thought patterns. The effect induces:

• A sense of euphoric detachment (described often as floating or dreaming).
• Diminished critical thought.
• Immediate obedience to verbal or mental suggestion.

STAGES OF RESISTANCE

Stage One: Recognition

The first victory is awareness. While under the Imperius, the mind may still form faint thoughts of dissent – flickers of doubt or discomfort. These are the cracks through which resistance is born. Trainees are taught to recognise internal incongruities: “This voice is not mine. This action is not of my choosing.”

• Exercise: Have a trusted partner issue nonsensical or ethically challenging commands under Imperius in a controlled setting. Record internal reactions and note which types of commands provoke mental resistance.

Stage Two: Anchoring

Establish strong emotional or memory anchors – moments, people, or places that root you in identity. The stronger the emotional charge, the more effective the anchor.

Example Anchors:

• Your mother’s voice calling your name.
• The pain of losing a friend.
• A first memory of casting a spell successfully.
• The scent of your family’s hearth fire.

When under the Imperius Curse, focus all effort on visualising or emotionally reliving this anchor. It may disrupt the mental haze long enough to break the tether.

Stage Three: Cognitive Counter-Pulse

Advanced resistors develop a reflexive mental “pulse,” a trained rejection that momentarily severs magical influence. This can be imagined as a mental push, or a thought-loop repeating:

“This is not my will. This is not my mind. This is not my path.”

The goal is not to outmatch the curse’s strength but to disrupt its rhythm. Most successful resistors describe this as a clenching of thought – a mental recoil that causes the magic to falter.

ADDITIONAL DEFENSIVE TECHNIQUES

• Occlumency Shields: Form mental barriers or safe rooms in the mind, visualised as locked doors, vaults, or protected memories.
• Aurum Cordis Charm (Golden Thread Charm): A rare charm that connects a pair of bonded individuals. If one is under Imperius, the other may experience emotional disturbances that alert them and allow for intervention.
• Mind-Cleansing Draughts: Potions such as Clarity Elixir or Mnemovalent Tea may help shake off residual effects after the curse is broken.

*

Draco closed the book when Perseus finished reading the chapter. He frowned. “We already knew all of this. It’s common knowledge about the Imperius Curse. And the defensive techniques only work as preventative measures – or after the curse is broken. None of this will help.”

Perseus hummed. “Not necessarily. That part – about the anchor … could we use that?”

Draco sighed. “Having an anchor – a true magical anchor – is something that is only built with years of bonding and shared emotional experiences. Which …” Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t like to be reminded of how close Perseus and Annabeth were. He didn’t want to remember that what he had with Perseus – the soft voices, small jokes, and chaste kisses – was only temporary. “I guess it could work with you, after all you two went through together. But my only concern is … well, if you were her anchor point, then why haven’t you been able to break through the curse yet? And if you two were fighting before she was cursed … it might have weakened the anchor.”

Perseus looked worried. “I hate to say it, but I don’t even know when she was cursed. We were at odds for a while, over little things, before the others and me finally realised she was Imperiused. I didn’t … how could I have not noticed? It doesn’t make sense.”

Perseus put his head in his hands.

Now, Draco was not a people person. He was raised as a socialite. He was raised to be polite and charming and to maneuver his way through political and social challenges. He didn’t actually care about other peoples’ feelings, and he had never needed to comfort another person before. But as he stared at Perseus, whose eyes had gone red-rimmed, he felt a weird tug in his chest. It made him want to scoot over to Perseus’ side and put an arm around him. Draco may have never needed to comfort another person before, but he figured he could try. Perseus deserved it. So, he took a deep breath and tried his best.

“Not everyone under the Imperius Curse acts out of character so wildly that you notice right away,” he explained carefully. “If Dumbledore really did curse Annabeth – if he wanted to play the long game and use her to his advantage – then he wouldn’t have wanted her to act so different that it was noticeable. It’s not your fault that you didn’t notice, especially if the caster didn’t want anyone to notice.”

Perseus let out a shuddering breath. “But I’ve known her for years. You’d think that I would be able to tell when she was being controlled by someone else, obvious or not …”

Draco shook his head. He reached out and took hold of Perseus’ hand in a comforting gesture. “No, Perseus. This isn’t on you. This is on Dumbledore. You’re doing everything you can to save her. That’s … that’s admirable. It’s heroic. And no matter what, I stand by you. We will figure this out.”

Perseus looked down at his hand in Draco’s for a long moment. Then he smiled shakily.

“Thanks. I really need someone like you in my corner right now. And I … I really appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”

Draco smiled despite his heart dropping.

“Friend,” Perseus had said.

“What are friends for?” Draco asked.

*

Chapter 21: secrets found; loyalties shift

Summary:

Percy finds damning evidence, and Snape's loyalties shift.

*

Chapter 21: Secrets Found; Loyalties Shift

The wind howled over the grey sea, churning below in dark waves. Carina soared above it, her wings slicing through mist and wind. She caught a warm current in the air and let it guide her, only flapping her wings periodically. In her claws, and tied around her ankle, was the letter her boy had given to her to deliver. It was one of the smaller letters he had sent, but she could feel the urgency through his voice as he whispered to her. She noticed the green-eyed boy who stood next to her boy. She knew this was important, and she knew she needed to make this journey quickly.

She flew over dark trees and through heavy clouds, her form like a dark arrow. She could feel the weight of her boy’s magic cloaking her feathers, protecting her from inclement weather.

She never saw it coming.

A flare of red and gold broke through the clouds like a lightning strike.

A large bird – almost the size of one of those scary canines – came swooping toward her. Carina recognised what it was only because her masters were so magically inclined.

It was a phoenix.

The phoenix screamed – a piercing, primal note that ripped through the air. In a flash of impossible speed, the phoenix collided with Carina mid-air. Carina felt her boy’s magic protect her – she saw the flash of blue light that flickered and died as the phoenix’s magic overtook the protective charm – and she felt when the phoenix’s claws finally pricked her skin and drew blood. Feathers went spiraling downward like burning cinders. Carina shrieked in fury, fighting back – beak and claw against fire. Both birds grappled in the sky. But she was only flesh and feather – he was magic and fire.

Carina was so focused on staying airborne, and on fighting back, that she wasn’t able to stop the phoenix from tearing the scroll straight from her talons. The twine snapped. As soon as the paper was stolen, the phoenix vanished in a burst of flame, leaving Carina tumbling through the sky.

She righted herself at the last moment, barely avoiding collision with the water.

With no message left to deliver, she veered north, heading back toward her boy where, hopefully, she would be met with food, soft pets, and a place to rest and recover, even despite her failure.

*

The air shimmered, and a phoenix appeared in a spiral of embers in the middle of the room. Said room was bordered by looming portraits, towering bookshelves, and shining silver baubles. None of the sparks caught on fire, but it was a near thing. The phoenix swooped low and dropped the scroll it was holding onto the big ornate desk that sat in the corner of the room. Then the phoenix landed on the perch beside the desk. A man sat behind the desk, and he reached out a hand to pet the large bird. The phoenix nuzzled into the open palm, then chirped and pulled away.

“What is this, Fawkes?” The man asked, interest piqued and eyes sparkling.  

He turned away from the papers he had been studying – yellowed with age, covered in ritual circles and glyphs, and written with ancient text and dead languages – and eyed the new scroll on his desk. It looked non-descript. It was simple cream paper tied with twine, not even deigning with a proper wax seal. But Fawkes would not have brought him this if it wasn’t important.

The man remembered the order he gave his phoenix, at the beginning of the school year: “Stop any and all correspondences from the four demigods. Do not let any of their messages get out. Bring me anything important.”

He reached out a hand, pulled the knot loose on the twine, and unfolded the letter.

His face did not change – but the twinkle in his eyes vanished. A slow, deliberate stillness settled into his expression. Calculating. Cold.

*

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I won’t waste time on pleasantries. I need your help, and I need it quietly.

There is a student at Hogwarts who has been placed under the Imperius Curse. I cannot say who, and I cannot explain how I know – but I am certain of it. They are being used and controlled. And no one sees it except for me and a few others.

I believe the one responsible is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

I am fully aware of the gravity of that accusation. You taught me never to make one lightly. But the signs are there, and I can no longer pretend I don’t see them.

I am trying to find a way to break the Imperius Curse without eliminating the caster. I refuse to let someone else get hurt, after everything that has happened, after all the war has taken from us. What I need is information. Specifically, old texts. Restricted, if necessary. Anything in the family library relating to the Imperius Curse – particularly counter-rituals, magical disentanglement, and obscure curse-breaking theory.

If father ever collected materials on soul manipulation or magical extraction, those would be relevant.

This isn’t about house loyalties, or politics, or reputation. It’s about someone who didn’t choose this. Someone who’s being stripped away piece by piece. I know what that looks like. I won’t stand by and let it happen again.

Please help me do the right thing. Even if it puts me at odds with the very people we’ve been taught to trust.

Your son,

Draco Malfoy

*

Without a word, the man folded the letter again, then carefully set it aflame with a flick of his wand. The ashes curled upward.

“So,” the man said evenly, “Perseus has dragged the Malfoy boy into this. He never did know when to step down, did he?”

He turned back to the papers on his desk. The glyphs were written in blood red ink.

“I should have expected this,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Too unpredictable. Too wild. Power without discipline … the very thing I’ve spent a lifetime tempering in others.”

Fawkes chirped questioningly.

The man shook his head. “You did good, Fawkes. But we must hasten our plans. The time for subtlety is over.”

He grabbed a nearby quill and drew a new symbol on the paper in front of him, this one harsher – angular, biting. A siphoning rune, etched for the extraction of divine energy.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let’s see how well a demigod swims … when the tides turn against him.”

*

Percy had told Draco to go ahead of him to breakfast. He wanted to catch a quick morning shower – he hadn’t had the time the previous night; after a grueling quidditch practice he had collapsed onto his bed fully clothed. No pyjamas, no brushing his teeth – nothing. He didn’t want to hold Draco back from grabbing something to eat. Draco had hemmed and hawed for a short while before agreeing to save Percy some of the sweet biscuits from the table. And then he had left.

The shower was quick, efficient. A thought dried him off instantly, and he pulled on a fresh uniform. This time, he even tucked in his shirt and tied the tie properly. Draco’s obsession with everything being prim and proper was ridiculous, but in a way, Percy found it almost endearing.

But when he walked into the Great Hall, Draco was nowhere to be found.

A quick scan of the Slytherin table told him nothing, so Percy tracked down Randall Rein, the Slytherin head boy. When asked if he had seen Draco, Randall shrugged. “Malfoy’s owl came by. Looked real roughed-up. I suppose Malfoy took his owl back to the owlery, but he was in a hurry about it.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “Okay … thanks for letting me know. I’ll head up there to check on him.”

Randall took a moment to give Percy a weird look. “You know, no one else went out of their way to befriend Malfoy like you have.”

“He needed a friend,” Percy said simply. “He deserved a real friend, after everything.”

“Not many people would agree with you.”

“Well, I’m not like many people.”

The truth of that settled heavily in his chest as he turned and started for the owlery.

*

The stairs to the owlery creaked under Percy’s shoes, old wood shifting beneath years of weight bearing down on them and constant Repairing Charms. Percy reached the top landing, hand just brushing the owlery door, when he froze.

A voice – low and familiar.

Percy would recognise that soft lilt anywhere: it was Draco.

He pushed open the door only a crack, and he peered into the owlery. In the wide room, Draco stood on the far end, by one of the alcoves. Carina perched limply on a nearby stand, her feathers singed in places, one wing awkwardly bound in a conjured sling of green silk. Draco dipped a cloth in a potion that looked like moonstone, dabbing carefully at the burn on the owl’s side.

“You poor thing,” Draco murmured lowly. Then, to himself: “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. But who could have attacked you? Nothing non-magical could have broken through my protective charm. And those burns … what could have caused them?”

Carina blinked slowly, her eyes fixed on him, but didn’t answer.

Percy stood just beyond the door. Something told him not to interrupt. Draco kept speaking, voice barely heard above the wind’s whistle through the high windows.

“I’m just glad you made it back alive,” Draco said, straightening Carina’s feathers with a soft touch. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. I shouldn’t have sent you on such a long trip, with such sensitive information. You’re a smart bird. You always treat every message and parcel like it’s life and death. You knew it mattered. You … you knew that he mattered to me.”

Draco paused, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked.

“I like him more than I should, you know. It’s the most terrifying, ridiculous thing I’ve ever felt.”

Carina hooted softly.

Draco sighed, almost dreamily. “He’s so … full of light. Chaos, too. Like the ocean. Though, that’s a given, I suppose, with his parentage. And I keep thinking he’ll wake up one day and realise I was just a distraction. That he’s supposed to go back to her.” Another pause. “He’ll leave me, of course. Once she’s free. He’ll remember how much he loved her … how real it was. But that’s not the point, is it? It was never her choice.” His hands stilled. “But by Merlin, Carina … I’m still going to help him save her. Even if it means I lose everything. Because that’s what he would do.”

Percy’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. He felt like he was intruding, but he couldn’t make himself move. He could hardly breathe.

He thought back to every snarky comment Draco had ever made, every sideways glance, every moment they had stood too close in a hallway or sat shoulder to shoulder. He thought about their kisses, chaste and warm, but also sloppy and perfect.

It had all been real. For Draco, at least.

And the thing that caught Percy off guard the most wasn’t the confession. It was the fear in Draco’s voice. The softness. The pain.

Draco leaned forward, resting his forehead against Carina’s stand.

“I just … want to be enough. Even for a little while.”

Percy could physically feel his heart break. He backed away silently, breath caught in his throat, and descended down the stairs quickly. Draco’s words forced him to confront something he had known was coming, but had naively hoped wouldn’t be something he needed to face until much later.

Annabeth had once called him a coward – she had once said he ran away from things when they got real and messy. And maybe she had been right.

*

When Draco finished tending to Carina and had ensured she was properly healed (healing magic wasn’t Draco’s strong suit; his upbringing with the Dark Arts had ensured that), he turned to leave. His mind was spinning with thoughts and confusion and worry, but not so much so that he didn’t notice the owlery door was left open a crack. He was almost certain he had closed the door for privacy, so that he would know when someone came into the owlery after him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Draco’s biggest concern, and he was forced to push it to the back of his mind for the moment.

Other thoughts took priority.

Like: who – or rather, what – would attack a student’s owl so badly that it broke Draco’s protective charm? Draco prided himself on his magic and skill in using it, but his protective charm on Carina … it was backed by almost a decade of emotional bonding and care. Such strong love and emotion only increased the effectiveness of the particular charm he used. Emotion was powerful when used correctly.

No common bird or forest creature would have been able to break the charm Draco cast – that much, he was certain of. That meant that it must have been a magical creature. And Draco knew that it was a creature or beast. The burns could be brushed off as a spell, but the claw marks? It was damning evidence.

But what kind of magical creature would want to attack a messenger owl?

Draco didn’t know the answers to his questions, and it bothered him fiercely. He was only able to admit to himself, quietly, that his panic of losing Carina inspired most of his upset.

Losing his childhood pet would have … it would have ruined him.

He had already lost so much, he didn’t have much more to give. And he wasn’t sure he would have been able to hold himself together had Carina succumbed to her injuries.

Unfortunately, he still had one more thing to lose, and it seemed inevitable.

*

When Draco slid onto the bench beside Perseus at breakfast, the other startled so badly that the pitcher of maple syrup in his hand tipped forward, spilling straight into his orange juice. Perseus quickly righted the pitcher, but it was too late. Draco watched the liquid swirl – sticky gold curling through bright orange, like oil against water. Then he looked at Perseus. He was acting jumpier than usual.

“What was that?” The words came out sharper than he had meant, but something about the way Perseus had jumped tightened the coil of unease already wound in his chest.

Maybe it was because Carina had been attacked last night. Maybe it was because he had found the owlery door wide open when he was certain he had closed it. Either way, the wince Perseus gave at his words didn’t sit right with him.

“Nothing,” Perseus said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

Draco raised a brow, but Perseus lifted the glass and drank the maple syrup orange juice concoction, eyes fixed on anywhere but him. To Perseus’ credit, he didn’t even flinch at the flavour.

“Okay …” Draco said. He let it go. There were more urgent matters, like the fact that his childhood owl had been attacked and the letter she had been carrying – one which held sensitive information and a heavy accusation levelled at a beloved wizard – was gone. Something bigger was at play here, but it was like a puzzle he didn’t have all the pieces to yet. He was hoping Perseus might have more answers, with his background as a demigod.

He leaned in, voice low. “Carina was attacked last night. The letter’s gone.”

Perseus’ eyes snapped to him. “Is she okay?”

Draco worried his lower lip. “Healing’s not my strong suit. But Snape leant me one of the topical healing potions he keeps stocked. She’ll be fine … eventually.”

“I thought – well, the protection spell you used on her – shouldn’t that have kept her safe?”

Draco sighed. “That’s the problem – it should have. It’s a strong charm. The only thing that could have broken through it would be a magical creature. But Carina knows to avoid magic-heavy woods and areas when flying. So, I really don’t know what could have attacked her. And it wasn’t just claw marks, either. It looked like her feathers were singed. I just don’t know what could have burned her like that …”

Perseus contemplated this. “We could try researching fire-using magical beasts … but we already have our hands full with our other research …”

He didn’t elaborate; Draco knew why. Even this late into breakfast, with the table nearly empty, the wrong ears could be listening.

Perseus let out a frustrated huff. “I feel like we’re so close to figuring everything out, but it’s just out of reach. We need to step up our game. We need more answers.”

“But how?” Draco said, unable to keep the hopelessness out of his voice.

His childhood owl had been attacked. He couldn’t heal Carina, and he couldn’t even help Perseus in a way that mattered. And not only that, but he was going to lose Perseus as soon as they figured out how to break the Imperius Curse. He felt like he was drowning in a storm of emotions, and he didn’t know how to swim.

Perseus glanced around the nearly empty Slytherin table, scanning for anyone who might overhear or eavesdrop on them. Breakfast was winding down, and most students had already drifted out toward their classes. Draco and Perseus had a free period first thing on Fridays, but lingering too long risked drawing attention – especially lately, when professors seemed eager to find reasons to single out Slytherins.

“We should sneak into Albus’ office and see if there are any answers there.”

Perseus said it with a straight face, as if he were suggesting something as mundane as borrowing a quill. Draco almost thought he had heard him wrong. He did a double-take.

“Perseus!” He hissed. “We cannot sneak into Dumbledore’s office! Do you have any idea how much trouble we would be in –”

“If we got caught?” Perseus finished for him. “Yeah, I thought about it for two seconds. Then I decided: fuck the consequences. We need to figure out if Albus is actually involved in all this, and what he’s up to. We’ve spent days digging through research on the Dark Arts and Imperius Curse, and we’ve gotten nowhere. We need to do something bigger – something riskier.”

Draco was already shaking his head. “I don’t know …”

“Look,” Perseus said, lowering his voice even more, “You don’t need to come with me. But I need to get to the bottom of this. I need to save Annabeth.”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?

Perseus loved Annabeth, not Draco.

Draco closed his eyes. “I’ll help you get up there undetected … but after that –”

“I understand,” Perseus said. “And that’s all I ask.”

*

The plan went into motion that afternoon, during dinner.

Percy watched as Draco hunched over the desk in the corner of their dorm room, his quill scratching in careful, deliberate strokes. The forged note was written in Snape’s spidery scrawl – so precise, so eerily identical – that Percy almost believed the potions master himself had penned it. Years of staring at Snape’s comments in essays had apparently burned every curl and slash of the man’s script into Draco’s memory.

The message was short, to the point, and just vague enough to avoid suspicion: an urgent summons to meet at the west tower. No extraneous details, nothing that might trip alarm bells too soon.

Draco read it over once, then charmed the parchment to fold in on itself and zip away through the air, a paper bird bound for the headmaster’s office window. “If Dumbledore’s half as paranoid as we think, he’ll take it seriously. Snape’s the one person he’d never ignore.”

Percy nodded. It made sense. Snape had been Dumbledore’s shadow during the war, a double agent trusted with dangerous truths. Even now, years later, the headmaster would treat his word as urgent – at least for the first few minutes. The west tower was about as far as you could get from the headmaster’s office without leaving the castle, but once Dumbledore realised Snape wasn’t there, he would head back fast.

That gave Percy only a handful of minutes to get in, search, and get out.

But he had the password, thanks to receiving a detention from Dumbledore the week before. All he had to do was get in, dig up something – anything – that proved what Dumbledore was up to, and slip away before the headmaster’s robes even hit the office threshold again.

A few minutes wasn’t much. But Percy had fought monsters with less.

*

The spiral staircase groaned under Percy’s weight as it slowly turned upward, each step heavier than the last. He barely breathed as he reached the top. With a muttered unlocking spell he had picked up from charms class – “alohomora” – the door creaked open. The office was dark, lit only by the muted glow of the setting sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows.

Percy stepped inside.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.

For a moment, Percy just stood there, the quiet pressing in. The air smelled faintly of lemon drops and old parchment, and the soft ticking of a silver contraption on a nearby shelf was the only sound. The office was almost exactly as he remembered it from his conversation with Dumbledore – high shelves, lined with books, strange silver instruments that clicked and whirred, the Sorting Hat slouched in its usual spot. But that’s when he realised something else: the room was alive, watching him. Hundreds of eyes blinked down at him from the paintings of former headmasters and headmistresses, their frames rustling faintly with movement. For a moment, no one said anything.

Then a voice – wizened, almost amused – spoke up from the nearest frame.

“Well, it’s about time someone had the sense to come looking.”

Percy startled, but the portrait only chuckled.

An elderly witch with an elaborate lace collar leaned forward in her frame. “If you’re after anything suspicious, try the cabinet behind the globe of Mercury. Second shelf. There are concealment charms on it – basic, but enough to fool most.”

Another painting peered down at him through half-moon spectacles. “I would also suggest trying the shelf to the left, just beneath the Gryffindor banner.”

“And don’t miss the drawer in the desk,” another added. “That one’s locked. Use a wand tip and a little pressure.”

Percy blinked, wary. “Wait – why are you helping me?”

“Because,” a stern witch with a powdered wig sniffed, “We’ve been stuck watching Albus for decades. Some of us don’t approve of how he conducts his business. The man keeps too many secrets for his own good – and yours. It’s about time someone pulled the curtains back.”

That was enough for Percy. He crossed to the Mercury globe, running his hand along the dark wood cabinet behind it until his fingers brushed the faint edge of a charm. A whispered counterspell made the air ripple faintly. The doors swung open with a soft creak, revealing stacks of folders bound with twine, each marked with a different name. He rifled through them – Ministry officials, Order members, and a few other names he didn’t recognise. Then – Annabeth Chase. His heart stuttered. The folder was light, just a single sheet and a still photograph. It was one of the photobooth clips that her and Percy had taken when they went to a mortal mall. How Dumbledore had gotten his hands on it …

He skimmed the page, but the words swam in front of his eyes: behavioural observations, magical resistance scores, projected vulnerabilities.

“What the hell …” He whispered.

“That’s not the worst of it,” a monocled wizard said from his frame. “Bottom drawer, right-hand side of the desk.”

Percy didn’t wait. He crossed to the drawer. The lock was strong, but not strong enough to withstand a few muttered words from a demigod who had picked up a thing or two from wizards. Inside, he scanned rows of yellowing parchment, scrolls, and journals. The titles were damning: On the Containment and Manipulation of Divine Essence; Siphoning Sigils and Sympathetic Wards; Multi-Pantheon Integration in Magical Theory; Extracting Core Energy from Hybrid Beings.

He pulled a leather-bound journal from the stack and flipped it open. It read:

“The girl’s core is unstable but brimming. The twelve great ones mask their children too well – but I can feel it. Divine magic. Older, rawer. Not ours. Her resistance to the Imperius proves the strength of it. I must siphon slowly, or risk fracturing her mind. She would be useless to me if she broke so soon; I would need to start the plan anew with another half-blood. I only have four to work with.”

Percy’s blood turned to ice.

He grabbed another piece of parchment. Scrawled diagrams showed different shapes, lined with ancient runes he didn’t yet recognise – some smudged in what looked horribly like blood. They pulsed red in the setting sun. One note in the margin read:

“The Triple Goddess will yield when the core of her child fuels the anchor.”

The next scroll unrolled with a crackle. It listed magical species, with columns labeled:

“Energy Potential – Stability Index – Core Fragility – Siphon Method.”

It started with magical beasts that Percy recognised from his care of magical creatures class: dragons, fairies, goblins, leprechauns, merpeople, veela, and more.

But then it veered into creatures Percy was more familiar with: centaurs, cyclopes, dryads, ghouls, hellhounds, and nymphs.

Then, at the bottom:

“Demigod (Olympian): Energy Potential – HIGH. Stability Index – UNPREDICTABLE. Core Fragility – STRONG. Siphon Method – CONTROL REQUIRED. Further Notes: Olympian demigods yield high siphon rates, but are hardly worth the amount of control and force it takes to subdue them. Consider lesser demigods in the future.”

Percy swallowed hard. He didn’t understand half the theory, but he didn’t need to. He knew enough.

Annabeth was in danger.

He backed away from the desk, the stolen paper still in hand – runes and circles inked in sharp, jagged red. Something about it made the hairs on his arms rise. It hummed.

Then, from behind him, a voice – not in the room, but from a newly-filled portrait, flickering into view.

“He’s coming.”

Percy spun toward one of the previously empty frames. It now held the shadowy image of a balding man with deep-set eyes, leaning forward in warning.

“You need to go,” the portrait urged. “Now. Before it’s too –”

The door hinges groaned.

Percy’s pulse spiked. He ducked behind a nearby bookshelf. His hand flew to his robe pocket, fingers closing around the small vial of Invisibility Potion. He yanked it free, popped the cork, and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. The liquid tasted faintly of soap – sharp and wrong – but he forced it down.

The effect was almost instant.

His vision shimmered, the edges of his body blurring like heat waves rising off asphalt, until the image of himself thinned and vanished altogether. By the time Dumbledore stepped through the far door, Percy no longer existed to the naked eye.

Dumbledore’s gaze swept the office as he crossed to his desk, but Percy was already moving. Silent and swift, he slipped past the hem of Dumbledore’s robes and through the still-open door, catching it just before it clicked shut. He didn’t stop once he was out the door. The spiral stairs wound down beneath his feet, and he took them two at a time. He was almost at the bottom and – footsteps, quickly, hurrying toward his direction.

Percy darted into a narrow side passage, pressing himself against the cold stone, tight in his chest.

Snape’s tall, dark silhouette swept past the hall moments later. His pace was hurried, almost panicked, his words low and sharp: “Dumbledore is calling me once again – what has he done now?”

Percy stayed still until the footsteps and muttering faded into the distance. Only then did he look down at the scroll still clenched in his fist. Even through the tightly rolled paper, he felt it – as if there were a faint, steady thump. Like a heartbeat.

A chill ran through him.

Something was very, very wrong.

*

The office was still, yet a faint whisper of air brushed past Dumbledore’s cheek as he crossed the threshold. A breeze. How strange. Every window was latched shut.

He let the sensation go as quickly as it came; there was something more pressing than idle drafts. His eyes went immediately to the cabinet behind the Mercury globe. The protective magic he had layered over it – layered, tested, perfected – was gone. Not dispelled, not broken, but gone, like it had been peeled away with a practiced hand.

A slight tightness settled in his jaw.

Crossing to his desk, he saw the bottom right drawer ajar by less than a finger’s breadth. Careless. He slid it open in one smooth motion, his hand immediately finding the worn spine of his private journal. Still there – in the wrong position, but still there.

He sifted through the other contents quickly – loose notes, sketches, rune etchings, calculations half-written. Nothing obviously missing. For a fleeting second, he considered the possibility that the intruder had taken nothing at all.

Then his fingers met empty space where they should have brushed the curled edge of a parchment.

The siphoning rune.

Gone.

He stared at the gap in the stack for a long moment, the implications pressing heavy in his mind. The rune had been a keystone – meticulously crafted, tailored for the Triple Goddess herself. Without it, the next stage of his plan was crippled. Decades of patience, deception, and research balanced on that single piece of parchment.

Five decades – gone, like ashes scattered to the wind.

The door burst open without a knock. Snape entered, his robes trailing behind him like spilled ink.

“You called for me,” he said, his tone as flat as always. “What’s happened?”

Dumbledore didn’t look up from the empty space in the drawer. “I received a note from you, calling me to the west tower.” Snape allowed his flat expression to twist in confusion. He started to protest, but Dumbledore continued calmly, speaking over the other. “The note I received was a forgery, designed to lure me away. My office has been broken into.”

Snape’s brow furrowed. “What’s missing?”

“Only one scroll,” Dumbledore said.

Snape gave a faint scoff. “Then it isn’t a great loss.”

The words struck him as almost comical in their ignorance. His calm mask wavered. He straightened, his gaze sharp as tempered steel.

“Do you know how long I have been working on this plan?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Five decades. It took me five decades of careful planning, research, and magical turmoil to create what was on that scroll. And now it is in someone else’s hands. Do you still think that is not a great loss?”

Snape stilled, his expression guarded. “What was on it?”

“That,” Dumbledore said evenly, “is on a need-to-know basis. And you, Severus, do not need to know.”

A flicker of anger passed over Snape’s face. His pale pallor went red. Dumbledore watched as Snape’s carefully crafted calmness snapped. “I have been your slave for years! I have carried out every order, every sordid little errand, and yet I am still not trusted with the truth. What I do know of your plan – to accumulate more power – is far too close to what You-Know-Who sought. I cannot stand by and watch this any longer. You have gone too far, Albus.”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, letting the silence stretch just long enough to cool the heat in Snape’s words.

“If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he said, “I will have Draco Malfoy in Azkaban by tomorrow morning. It would take only a whisper to the right ears, a little influence in the right corridors of power. He would never leave those walls alive. Do you understand?”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Snape’s eyes searched his face, but Dumbledore did not blink.

Finally, Snape’s shoulders sagged. His voice came out low and unsteady. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said, his tone soft once more, almost paternal.

Snape inclined his head. “My apologies for my … drastic words.”

“Accepted.”

The younger wizard turned sharply and left, the door closing behind him with a muted thud.

Dumbledore remained at his desk, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the drawer. Somewhere in the castle, someone now held a piece of his life’s work.

And they would not keep it for long.

*

The door to Dumbledore’s office clicked shut behind him, muffling the faint rustle of parchment.

Severus stood in the corridor for a moment, staring at the polished brass handle, his hands buried deep in his sleeves. His pulse still hadn’t steadied.

Azkaban.

Dumbledore had said it so lightly, so casually, as though Draco were a chess piece he could knock from the board with a flick of his finger. Not a boy. Not someone who had been walking a knife’s edge for years, with one side promising the Dark Lord’s wrath and the other the cold indifference of the so-called Light.

Severus turned, sweeping down the spiral staircase with measured, silent steps, but inside his mind the stillness was gone.

He thought of Draco at sixteen, pale and drawn, the Dark Mark burning faintly beneath his sleeve. The boy had been trying – desperately – to appear older, harder, braver than he was, because the Dark Lord had given him a task meant for a man. Kill Albus Dumbledore. A death sentence disguised as an honour.

Severus had intervened before the true weight of it could crush him. Shielding Draco from volatile Death Eaters like Greyback, who would have torn the boy apart for sport. Redirecting the more grotesque tasks the Dark Lord had assigned – smuggling cursed artifacts, poisoning victims slowly – to older, disposable members of the fold. When Draco had been cornered by Yaxley after a failed delivery, Severus had stepped in, taking the blame and the punishment with a sneer that invited no further questions.

It hadn’t been affection, not at first. More so an obligation. An unspoken debt to the Malfoys, perhaps. But over time, that obligation had taken on a sharper edge, something close to the reluctant care of a godfather or an uncle. The boy’s stubbornness, his flashes of wit, the way he kept moving forward no matter how deep the pit became – it had been impossible not to feel some measure of pride.

Severus had thought Dumbledore saw that. He thought the old man valued Draco’s survival as he much as he did.

But tonight he had learned differently. One careless accusation, one ounce of political sway, and Draco’s life would be over. Not even at the Dark Lord’s hands, but by the one man Severus had trusted implicitly for years.

The thought scraped against something raw inside him.

Blind loyalty had been his armour for so long. Dumbledore’s word had been law; unchallenged, unexamined. If the headmaster said sacrifice, Severus obeyed. If the headmaster said trust, Severus silenced every instinct and did so. But now that trust was fractured, a jagged fault line running straight through his loyalty.

Not because of the scroll. Not because of the secrets Dumbledore still kept. But because Dumbledore had been willing – no, eager, almost – to destroy a boy Severus had spent years trying to save.

Severus emerged into the empty corridor at the base of the stairs, his robes brushing against the stone. The castle seemed to lean in around him, the torches sputtering in the darkness.

For the first time in a very long time, Severus Snape allowed himself to think something dangerous.

I cannot follow him blindly any longer.

He didn’t know what that meant yet – whether it would mean defiance, rebellion, or something quieter. But he knew this: if Dumbledore moved against Draco Malfoy, he would not stand by and watch.

Not this time.

*

Percy unrolled the scroll across the desk in the Slytherin dorm, the parchment curling stubbornly at the edges like it didn’t want to be seen. The runes gleamed faintly in the lamplight – dark, reddish lines that didn’t look like any ink Percy had ever seen. It wasn’t just the way it looked. The thing felt wrong, like the air around it was thicker.

“I found this in Dumbledore’s desk drawer.” He stepped back and gestured toward it. “It looked important. Felt important. You ever seen anything like this?”

Draco leaned over it, his white-blond hair catching the glow of the lamp. His brow furrowed.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he admitted after a moment. “And I’ve been studying ancient runes for almost a decade.”

He traced a finger over the symbols without touching the parchment itself.

“I can recognise certain runes. Like, this one –” he tapped the top corner “– is for magical transference. And this one here …” He paused, pointing toward a central rune, “it means ‘magic’ or ‘power.’ The two are interchangeable in runes this old. But anything beyond that …”

Draco confessed that was all he knew – and even that was only guess work. He had no explanation for the strange arrangement, the unusual repetition, or for the runes Percy didn’t even think were on record anywhere. After explaining what he could – which wasn’t much – Draco sat back, looking unsettled. “I don’t know what it’s for. But I can feel it, too – the weight of it. Whatever this rune circle was made for was important. And that’s definitely blood – which means this is Dark magic.”

Percy’s eyes flicked to the red-tinged lines again. The idea didn’t surprise him.

“The only question is,” Percy said, “if this is connected to Annabeth and the Imperius Curse.”

“You said you found a file with her name on it,” Draco said. “The other papers, books, and journal – it’s all damning evidence. This is definitely connected.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. There was nothing to say. They were left with more questions than answers. Then Draco stood, “If this is important enough for Dumbledore to hide away in his office, in a locked, concealed drawer … we need to hide it, too.”

“But where?” Percy asked, mind already thinking of all the hiding places in their dorm.

Under the bed. In a dark alcove. Under one of the books on their shelves.

Draco didn’t hide it in any of those places, though. Instead, he fetched a key from his bedside nightstand, unlocking the chest at the foot of his bed. He took out all the clothes and books that were stored in the chest. He then pressed against one side until a false bottom lifted up, revealing a narrow compartment beneath. Percy felt his brows raise.

“Do all the chests in dorms have a false bottom?” He asked, curious.

“Just mine,” Draco said. “I brought it from home, unlike the other students. The scroll – whatever it is – will be safe for now. Nobody would think to look here.”

Percy grabbed the scroll, rolled it up, and slid it inside the compartment.

The wooden panel clicked shut again.

“We’ll copy the rune circle on another paper later,” Draco said. “We’ll need to do more research on those different runes, to see what they mean. Maybe we can figure out what the rune circle is for.”

“Maybe …” Percy echoed, still lost in thought.

They went through the motions of getting ready for bed – blowing out the lamp, pulling the curtains on the four poster bed. But Percy lay awake long after Draco’s breathing had gone slow and steady.

Something was going on. He could feel it in his bones. And now, thanks to what he had found in Dumbledore’s office, he had proof the headmaster was part of it.

*

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Percy Jackson At Hogwarts AU
• Part 3 of Echoely's PJO Fics