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Chapter Text

Percy couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up in his chest as he ran.

Trees darted in and out of sight as the young half-blood wove through them in an attempt to avoid the trail of fire that licked at his heels. A few times, an ill-fated sapling or root was trampled underfoot in his haste, other times he found himself struggling to maintain his footing as he found himself being the one tripped by them instead. Even so, the sound of manic laughter echoed through the wooded area. The source, the raven-haired half-blood that, for all the peril he faced, couldn't help but devolve into breathless giggles.

The situation was just that ridiculous. If anyone happened to be around and hadn't freaked out about the giant fire-breathing lizard flying through the trees with a grace only six tons of muscle could provide, they surely would have thought the teen was crazy. Heck, he probably was. But that didn't stop him from cackling in between pants as he continued pumping his legs faster in an attempt to outrun the lazily gliding dragon. The slightly crazed grin didn't fade even as the constant thrum of wingbeats followed him through his convoluted paths.

Logically, Percy knew he should save his energy and focus entirely on running, on getting away. Emotionally, though, he was riding an adrenaline high that left him giddy and buzzing from energy. It would eventually run out, that much was true, yet while it continued he could push down the rational panic and see humor in a situation that likely was going to end in him being at least maimed if not killed.

That was simply the beauty of his horrible luck.

What was supposed to be a simple trip naturally turned into a disaster. Following Nico's idea, both were going to find Luke's mother in Connecticut in hopes of seeing if there was a way in which they could get through to him. Naturally, though, things went wrong. Hades, that was the story of his life. Anything that could go wrong around him would. So it was no surprise when, somehow, they ended up in Liverpool rather than Connecticut. And to make matters worse, only moments after getting to town and finding out where they were, they were ambushed by monsters, which England apparently had despite the Gods no longer being there.

Now, normally, a monster ambush, while obnoxious, wouldn't have been too big of a problem given the fact that Nico was also there. But alas, the Fates truly hated him, and decided simply having him fight a monster or two with the just-as-powerful son of Hades was too easy.

Which brings him to where he is now, alone and running from a dragon. Because let it be said, Perseus Jackson can't simply fight a pack of hellhounds and be on his merry way. Nope. There just has to be something more, like an honest to Gods dragon swooping in to ruin his victory, knock Nico into the back of the waiting, vicious monster dogs, and chase him for a good two miles.

But hey, at least he can say his life isn't boring.

Percy dodged another gout of fire. He was a demigod and had a demigod's stamina, but that didn't mean he wasn't starting to get tired. Probably more tired than the dragon, who could easily overtake him if it truly wanted to. Only, for once, the monster was smart enough to stay in the air and roast him from there. Gods know if it landed it would meet certain death via an introduction to Riptide. Though, on the other hand, the lack of landing could also have had something to do with the dragon's lack of forelimbs. Nah, just Percy's epicness.

The lack of forelimbs did little to make the dragon any less dangerous. For one thing, it was huge. Big enough that one of the Gods in their giant form could comfortably ride on its back. Its wings were easily twice the size of its gray body, the lighter membranes showing spider webs of veins. That was the only part of the beast that was purely skin and bone. Covering the rest of its entire reptilian body were scales, each one shining like metal and looking just as thick. Larger plate-like structures tipped with spikes traced down its back, protecting the spine from a severing blow should it be caught. Currently, they were dancing with orange, reflecting the light of a fire in a way that would have been undoubtedly pretty had the creature not been currently trying to roast Percy.

The Son of Poseidon refused to go down without a fight, though. Not when he had faced far scarier things in his life than one overgrown, pyromaniac lizard. With each footfall, he continued to think and search, keeping his eyes peeled for something to change the stakes, to give him even a small advantage in this situation.

Finally, he found it.

Up ahead, the trees thinned to reveal the bank of River Mersey, a great blue expanse of refreshing water laid out before him. A pathway to his domain-to turn the tides, so to speak. Pushing himself harder, Percy all but leaped through the sand toward his target, beckoning the water to embrace him. New energy coursed through his veins, adding to the fading rush of adrenaline.

The metallic gray dragon slowed to a hover in the air, opening its mouth to release another blast of fire at the stationary demigod. Percy was quick to counter it with water, liquid bubbling and frothing dangerously as it collided with the fire in a hiss of steam. Hot clouds of air continued to form as the two opposing elements fought for dominance.

All the while, Percy continued to plot and plan. While the dragon would run out of energy before Percy would run out of the water, it would still come down to a war of contrition unless he found a way to at least scare off the beast. Even surrounded by water and being lent its energy, the demigod could only hold on for so long before he grew tired. And exhaustion could very likely overcome him far before it overcame the beast before him.

As reckless as it was, Percy needed to test for himself the strength of the scales and scope out any weaknesses. Otherwise, he would be as good as helpless. So, timing it just as the dragon's fire stopped, he sprung from the water, Riptide expanding and lending its familiar weight in his grip as the river acted as an elevator beneath his feet. It continued to surge and rush under him, the water of the top oddly still and stable despite the geyser below.

30 feet were covered at breakneck speed, raising the teen up to dragon's height in the sky. Crimson eyes looked at him in surprise, the dragon obviously in a state of disbelief at the human's successful feat. Percy used that disbelief to his advantage and lashed forward with Riptide, aiming at what appeared to be thinner scales lining the shoulder of the beast.

Not thin enough, though. With a clash of sparks, Percy's sword ricocheted off the dragon's hide.

A jarring pain shot up his arm and settled into his shoulder as all the power he had just put into his strike was turned back on him. He was barely able to recover from the recoil in time to avoid the creature's jaws; hundreds of razor teeth snapping closed, inches away from his body.

Unwilling to let his attempt be all for naught and completely lose the element of surprise Percy decided to act on instinct. A barely formed, completely idiotic plan came to mind. One that would likely have Annabeth calling him all kinds of names had she been there to see it. But she wasn't.

Percy was all alone to face a beast that could kill him in a single snap of its jaws should the beast be so lucky.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he was in motion. Dodging another snap of fangs with a jump, he pushed off the scaled muzzle with arms outstretched to grab onto the facial ridges. The creature seemed to catch on a minute too late, tossing its serpentine neck in an attempt to throw Percy off. It would have worked as well, had Percy not already vaulted onto the head.

With a grace born of too many close-calls at incredibly painful heights, the demigod power-walked down the dragon's spine. It was one of the few perks that came with the creature having stayed in the air; it couldn't simply wiggle him off without risking plummeting to the earth. Any of the dragon's attempts to shake Percy off simply moved into a flip that would have taken far too long to prevent what Percy had in mind.

Releasing a harrowing battle cry, Percy sprung upon one of the only obviously weak spots the dragon possessed. Its wing.

The membrane gave like wet tissue paper under Riptide's edge. Warm blood hit the teen's skin as he found himself tilting through the new hole his sword had created. The dragon's agonized roar was audible above the rushing of air in Percy's ears as he fell.

White hot pain split his side as he narrowly managed to avoid the grip of the dragon's foot that sought to catch and squeeze the life out of him. Talons still had managed to rake him before he could push himself away from the grasping appendage. Already, blood was beginning to flow fast and freely, thick droplets suspended in the air around him as he fell toward the water.

Already the river was rising up to meet him, pain numbing as water suffused the wound and healed most of the damage. Even so, Percy was exhausted, adrenaline having long worn out and giving way to the aches and pains of his abused body. He had gone from a scrap with hellhounds to a Gods-know-how-many-miles sprint to a battle with a dragon. A battle that, for all intents purposes, the dragon was winning.

The water continued to brush against his senses, easing rather than sharpening his battle-driven mind. In the water's embrace, Percy became acutely aware of all the damage he had sustained in the mad flight with the dragon in addition to the hit he just took. His left ankle was sprained, so many muscles pulled. The slice in his side was high but deep, flaying skin and exposing the bone of his ribs.

It would be oh so easy for Percy to simply let the current take him, sweep him out to the sea and away from the dragon like he should have in the first place. Why didn't he…?

Nico. If Percy fled, the dragon could easily go back for Nico. Hellhounds, Nico could handle, even after that throw. But a dragon on top of it? It would be really dicey.

Summoning the rest of the energy left in his weary body, Percy forced himself to go back to the surface, to keep fighting. If his body refused, well, he would keep moving on determination alone if that is what it took. He may die here anyway, but so long as the dragon couldn't go after Nico as well, then it would be a success.

What happened next was a blur. One minute Percy was struggling to get his footing on the water, to will it to support his tired limbs. The next, his blood was singing with battle, Riptide thrust into the dragon's eye.

The second the sword was removed the dragon roared in pain, its hot breath singing the air in front of Percy's face. As the demigod geared up for another strike, the dragon lashed out with bared teeth. Fangs raked Percy's collarbone before he managed to shove them back with his sword. Blood-slicked hands struggled to keep a grip on the hilt, the blade little more than a toothpick in between the beast's teeth.

The skin of Percy's barely healed side protested even as his collarbone screamed threats to snap under the pressure of the dragon's jaws. It was through pure willpower that Percy managed to avoid dropping Riptide and crumbling under the pain.

The dragon snarled in annoyance at the fact that its prey was refusing to concede defeat. Exhaling in a growl of fire, the dragon's hot flames licked at Percy's body, water barely responding in time to protect the Son of the Sea, blasting him free from the dragon's mouth. The damage was still done, the water boiling uncomfortably around Percy's frame and starting to burn him even as the water worked to heal him.

Percy knew this couldn't go on much longer. If not for his heritage, he would have already been covered in burns. As it was, his wounds were too extensive to be healed any further. He needed to end it and end it now. And to do that he needed to find a way to get the dragon out of the air somehow. Only then would he stand a chance.

He peered through the water shielding him and noticed the slightly awkward flying of the dragon. His eyes focused on the sliced membrane. The other wing was working overtime to compensate for the injury. Surely, if he injured the other wing too he would have a chance. But it would be risky. Even with Riptide coming back, the last time was a little too close for comfort.

But he had to try.

Percy repeated the earlier action and coiled the water underneath him, rising back to the height of the dragon. The second he surfaced from the geyser of water, he lashed out with Riptide, hoping to take the overgrown lizard by surprise. Sadly, the dragon was ready for it and the second Percy jumped, it through its head back. Horns tore through his clothing and skin, almost knocking him off his path. Luckily, it had missed his artery, though muscle and skin still met some abuse from the puncture. Percy refused to divert his path in favor of defending himself so, instead, he rolled himself so he could fall toward the hastily beating wing and slice through its membrane.

The dragon opened its mouth to roar out its rage and pain as it began to plummet to Earth. In the haziness of blood loss, Percy saw his chance and decided to take it.

As the dragon started to fall, the teenage half-blood pulled himself onto its back, looking for a gap in between its plates of armor.

Using the momentum of his fall and water to strengthen his blow, Percy dropped onto the downed dragon's back first, aiming at the space between two of the larger plates. Skin gave way as Riptide sunk clear through the reptile's neck. The beast bucked and growled, but Percy held tight. Finally, with his last bit of strength, he twisted the blade before falling off the dragon and landing painfully, sprawled on the ground.

Small tufts of golden dust fell from the beast, the armored scales pulling away and dissolving. While the dragon itself remained, minus the scales and skin, the dust seemed to have other plans. Rather than fading away into the wind, it whirled upon itself, solidifying to leave behind a spoil of war.

In the place of the dust was a dark piece of clothing. It looked like something between a robe and a trench coat, charcoal gray at the base with metallic gray over-top reinforcing the leather. Upon closer inspection, it could be seen that the coat had thousands of small scales, interlocked and spanning the entirety of the article of clothing.

Percy, deciding this was one Spoil of War worth keeping, reached forward, his wounds protesting, to grab the coat from his place propped up against the dragon. Laying the coat/robe on his lap, Percy willed the water the come and heal some of his injuries.

As he tries to do this, he is distracted by a shout. From the woods appear a group of men, all wearing odd black robes and wielding glowing sticks. They tell him to put his hands up, give up his wand, and come quietly. They mention something about "in the name of the ministry". Percy, being confused, doesn't openly obey. As a result, they blast him with a glowing bolt, causing his focus to fail. The water then falls from his leg making his body spasm, freshly healed skin torn open with the violence of his movements.

His exhaustion then comes back to bite him, leaving him half-conscious as the so-called "ministry officials" close in on him. Right as they move to blast him with the light once more, and possibly take him, the one closest to him is thrown. Vision bleary, Percy watches as new figures in dark robes and silver masks come to his rescue. Percy is barely conscious enough to meet the eyes of one of his rescuers as he, having pulled off his mask to reveal platinum blond hair, tells Percy to hang on.

That was when Percy lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

Silence ensnared the room, not a single noise to be heard at all in the dim house save for the muffled shrieking laughs of Walpurga Black. No one paid her any mind, however, each person waiting with bated breath for someone to break the silence while Dumbledore looked on with an unusually serious expression. Harry himself felt like he just took a Bludger to the chest, each breath coming out as a small gasp.

In a struggle to understand, to come to some form of grips of the news, Harry search the crowd of faces in hopes that at least one could bring some sanity to the otherwise now warped reality he found himself free falling through. Alas, all seemed to be in various stages of shock and surprise, with Dumbledore the lone rock amid the sea of confusion.

The only other exception was one Alaster Moody, whose face seemed to be twisted into something darker and angrier.
The elder man continued to watch patiently with those blue eyes of his for all to digest the news, knowing that many in the room who had long been mired in their own beliefs were stuck trying to let sense reassert itself where there was no sense to be found. At least not as they perceived it.

Finally, it was Sirius himself that seemed to get a grip first as he drew in a ragged breath that was borderline a hysterical giggle and asked the question that was running through everyone's heads.

"Are you bloody serious?"

Dumbledore blinked slowly in response, the usual mischievous twinkle in his eyes oddly missing. All that was there was a grave seriousness that left chills running up Harry's spine.

"I would not joke about such a matter that could very much change the outcome of this war," the Headmaster paused, taking in a measured breath as if steeling himself for the outrage that the news was likely to spark.

"I thought she was dead! You told me she died! That we didn't have to worry about whether or not she or her kin were brought into the fold!" Moody yelled in all his enraged glory, jumping from his seat after the confirmation.

"So did I. But it seems there was an external force-other than death-at work that was preventing me from magically monitoring her." A weary sigh passed the old man's lips as he slumped into the chair, Dumbledore looking every bit his age in those few moments, "With death, she would have at least found peace and we would have had one less person to worry about him attaining. Yet it appears that is not in the cards for us."

"Are you saying you wish for the death of a young woman?" Molly Weasley finally chimed in, her motherly instinct bypassing any of the lingering prejudice weariness that came with the knowledge of the Dark Lord having a living grandson.

"Molly, death would be a kinder fate should Voldemort get his hands on her," Moody replied darkly while wringing his hands in agitation.

"Not just her," Dumbledore cut in, voice ringing in a tone that could only be described as somber, "Sylvia has a son, around Harry's age in fact. It seems she conceived at the time of her absence from our sight, one we mistook for death,"

The silence shattered at that, the added shock of Voldemort not only having a daughter but also a grandson sparking all into motion and anger where before there had been none.

"So we don't just have to deal with one, but two people related to him!?" Sirius was at the front of the mob, yelling with the best of them. Only careful eyes could see the worry and sympathy that the anger struggled to suppress.

Dumbledore, for his part, seemed to merely ignore the chaos, instead simply clearing his throat until, finally, attention fell on him once more. Even then, many found themselves at a loss for words as they noticed the returned twinkle of mischief in the elder's eyes.

"As a muggle-raised Half-blood, I doubt Sylvia's child will be cause for much trouble."

Everyone paused to consider the words shared. After all, would any really wish death on someone so close to the age of their savior? Someone who likely had no real association with the Dark Lord, or even their world other than a quarter of his blood?

Even as logic continued to cry injustice toward assuming the boy evil, Harry couldn't help the suspicious and angry thrum pulsing through him. Voldemort has a family. A living family. While Harry lost his own to the Dark Wizard, Voldemort had a family. Revenge cried out for attention, screaming out a desire to tear Voldemort's own family apart in retribution.

Then a hand was on his shoulder, the warmth soothing the rage, anger, hate, and pain into something calmer. He was still upset, but he no longer felt quite so bloodthirsty.

"Harry, it may not be fair, but you must remember this child did not ask for his family. He did not actively seek the Dark Lord out. He is as innocent as young Ginevra here," Dumbledore's soothing voice rang out from behind him.

Harry's mind drifted unbiddenly toward his best mate's little sister. Ginny, whom the Dark Lord possessed and forced to do his bidding. Ginny, the young red-head whose life he saved after she proved to no longer be a useful tool. The young first year who didn't ask for any of it yet was thrown face first into the chaos just the same.

No one blamed her for what she could not control. Not even Harry, who hated Voldemort more than anything, saw any fault for the girl who suffered from events out of her hands. So what was he doing now, villainizing someone he had never met who was merely a victim of circumstance?

"How does Ginny have anything to do with the Darkspawn!?" Ron managed to holler out between his indignant squawking. Part of Harry cried out in agreement with Ron's comments, but a larger part of him throbbed with guilt at his darker thoughts. Dumbledore was right, it wasn't fair of them to judge someone who likely didn't even know Voldemort existed. To judge someone based off of his blood would make Harry no better than the Dark Lord himself.

"Umm...Headmaster, you said you thought that Voldemort's family was dead. How?" Hermione's voice cut through Harry's thoughts.

Dumbledore withdrew his hand from Harry's shoulder to stroke his beard in thought before looking up at the young Granger with his customarily twinkling eyes.

"Why, it was thanks to you and your love of reading," Dumbledore practically beamed at the brunette before becoming more subdued. "As you heard me say before, his daughter, Sylvia, was born as a result of a fledgling romance between Tom Riddle and Arabelle Greengrass... though looking back on it, it may have been one sided. At any rate, this occurred at a time before Tom Riddle became Voldemort. Given that information, it was likely he didn't need a true heir and was simply seeking an alliance to aid him when he came out. As a result, when he inevitably ascended to the status of Dark Lord, he already had what he wanted and didn't need to keep up with her.

"Given her status though, she was treated with much scorn by the fearful majority. Arabelle was treated as a pariah, often facing down threats as she struggled to find a way to support herself and her baby daughter. Many places refused to hire her, due to her previous association with Tom Riddle. After an incident where someone tried to kill Sylvia, Arabelle decided to send her daughter to live with her estranged sister, Laura, and muggle brother-in-law, Jim."

Dumbledore paused, his gaze far away as if reliving some distant memory. Everyone waited with bated breath for the Headmaster to regain himself and continue the story. He did not disappoint.

"We temporarily lost track of Sylvia after Laura and Jim met their end. From what I was able to gather from Headmistress Adriana, Sylvia attended Ilvermorny in the United States for her magic education up until the death of her adopted parents. When we finally did discover her location, it was only shortly before her magic signature faded entirely, something that only occurs in death," Dumbledore finished.

"But that still doesn't explain how you found out she is alive and has a son," Lupin pointed out patiently, even as Hermione tried to digest the new knowledge she was granted.

It was a question that the old man seemed to be waiting for if the small smile on his lips meant anything.

"It is remarkable how out of touch we Wizards are with the Muggle world. For all our power, they have a way of knowing things even we can't and distributing that information accordingly," Dumbledore chuckled softly. "It seems oddly poetic that such information could exist under our noses, never to be seen because we simply didn't read it. Which is a shame because, despite its lack of pictures, it can still be just as informative."

"Wait...the paper..." Hermione mumbled in thought as she seemed to catch onto some unheard cue. "That story last year, the one of the boy...Voldemort's grandson is the boy who was seen near the site of the Eruption of Mount Saint Helens in the United States!? The same boy who kidnapped his mother and was the focus of a nationwide manhunt a few years earlier!?"

"Yes, the woman who was missing was Sylvia Greengrass Jackson. And the boy is her son, Perseus Jackson."

/|[Line Break]|\

Elsewhere, a large shape lays limply out on silken sheets. Sweat dots the young boy's brow even as a man with hair the color of midnight and eyes just as dark tends to him. Already the green bedding beneath him has been stained red, the same red that coats the thin fingers that tirelessly work to stitch and clean the wounds that dot the child's frame.

Severus Snape watches over his charge, the purse of his lips the only sign of something more than his usual resting announce. Rather, worry seems to grip at him, both for himself and for his unwitting patient. He had half the mind to snap at Lucius if only to release some of the tension coiling in his guts.

Yet Lucius seemed just as stunned and fearful upon returning, towing in the bleeding limp teen with singed clothes and sand-filled hair. The usually stoic pureblood could only seem to mutter "He killed it" under his breath over and over again as more Death Eaters rushed to aid him with his package. The fear in the air was palpable though.

After all, if anything happened to the young teen, the Dark Lord would be most displeased. An heir was only useful alive. Should he pass the Gates of Death, Severus knew he wouldn't be following far behind.

That was his reasoning, the excuse he continued to tell himself over and over again, as he continued to work on his patient. He used that to explain the faint tremor of his limbs. The trepidation that was not of fear-never fear-that continued to permeate him as he staunched the bleeding and fought infection and staved off dehydration. And if he just so happened to flinch when he caught sight of a scar or two...well, no one had to know.

Chapter Text

"And you want to bring him here!? Ain't that dangerous having a criminal related to You Know Who hanging around?!" Ron practically squeaked with the pitch at which he blurted this.

Hermione, for her part, looked merely annoyed at the outburst. With a small, almost condescending huff and a mild glare towards Ron, the brunette Gryffindor straightened up with a puff of a chest like she always seemed to do before giving an impossibly correct answer in class and making everyone else look like idiots.

"Perseus Jackson was the subject of a manhunt in the United States, was a part of a terrorist attack at the Saint Louis Arch, and a few other incidents; all this is true. He has been in the muggle papers almost as often as Harry has been in The Daily Prophet. At least in the United States anyway. But for every incident, it was discovered another party was involved. The manhunt with the shoot-out on the beach was determined to be him fighting back against a kidnapper that took him and his mom. The terrorist attack was attributed to being at the wrong place at the wrong time during the attack of another group. Mount Saint Helens, a coincidence. I personally think that it is just a case of really bad luck. Even if he was secretly aware of being a wizard, there is no way he could have done all that by himself," Hermione finished with a confident little grin that was soon burst by Ron.

"He's probably a Death Eater. And why do you read the newspaper from the United States anyway? They don't even have any wizards or anything."

"It is always best to know what is going on in the world from the source. Especially since...Oh, I don't know, there are a lot more muggles than wizards so it is good to know about them," Hermione snapped back, her cheeks flushed with anger. Harry's neck cried out in pain as his head followed the two going back and forth like he was watching a ball being passed between the pair rather than simply just words.

All the while the Boy Who Lived felt torn between which side he should take. On the one side, there was Ron, his best mate, and on the other there was Hermione, who kept him alive time and time again (even if Harry didn't always admit it). Just because they were all friends didn't necessarily mean Ron and Hermione were actually all that close. The more he thought of about it, the more Harry came to realize that if it wasn't for him, Ron and Hermione probably wouldn't have come to interact really at all. It was his mutual friendship with the two that seemed to keep them together, rather than any real relationship between themselves.

Most of the animosity was Ron's fault anyway. Although he was part of a pariah family known for their great acceptance of muggles, Ron himself didn't seem very accepting or knowledgeable about the world outside of wizards. In fact, now that Harry was even thinking about it, his friend displayed some of the same prejudices as the other pureblood families. The young Potter shook his head, pushing away his doubt. Ron was nothing like the other purebloods, right?

"Point is, shouldn't this bloke be in jail or something?" Ron murmured, an attempt to steer the topic back on course or at least away from what angered Hermione, "I mean causing trouble like that isn't normal amount muggles, is it? Even if he was by some way 'excused' from it."

"He is a minor, Ron. And even if he wasn't, as I said most of the cases were ruled outside of his control. That means they couldn't arrest him even if they wanted to," the young witch's eyes rolled as she answered the question with a scathing tone.

"Um... still, would it really be safe to bring him here?" Ginny's soft voice broke through the debate, audible despite the multitude of other such similar arguments going on all around them.

In the time it took from the announcement, the Headquarters was back in a flurry of motion. Alas, no one seemed to be agreeing, as many senior members engaged in a volley of words and accusations as all tried to determine the merits of opening the Order to a dangerous stranger. Dumbledore himself was drawn into the mess of words, Moody practically foaming at the mouth as a yelled at the aged Headmaster who, for all the world, looked like an old grandparent holding his tongue as he patiently awaited a little child to finish their temper tantrum.

Even as Ginny joined into the conversation with Ron and Hermione, Harry couldn't find it in him to speak at all. His mind was a mess of thoughts, latching onto and then discarding each new idea thrown at him as he tried to make sense of his own feelings on the matter. On the one end, there was Dumbledore's voice telling him not to judge someone he has never met. On the other, there was the constant thrum of paranoia intermingling with worst case scenarios and logic telling him this Perseus could not be trusted. That he was dangerous. But perhaps the most unsettling was the quietest of the voices, humming in satisfaction, silky tones barely above a whisper.

The voice, almost separate from Harry's other inner voices, caressed his mind like the soft flicker of a snake's tongue. It sang words, "Victory. Triumph. I got what I wanted. Expectations exceeded. Perfection." The alien voice was a siren song that left Harry feeling oddly cold.

"You okay there, mate?"

Ron's voice and the snap of freckled fingers in front of his face brought the Chosen One's mind back to attention. Harry blinked in surprise, before turning to look at his friend with confusion.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I wanted to know if you would be willing to accompany us to pick up young Perseus," Dumbledore spoke up softly from his position behind Ron. Looking around, Harry realized that the previous war had all eased into a sort of tense peace.

Behind the Headmaster, looking for all the world like he wanted to protest life itself, was Moody. Next to him, Lupin looked nervously between the two, even occasionally shooting Harry a worried look here and there. Obviously, the werewolf would be trying to act as a sort of peacekeeper. Or at least prevent any undue bloodshed should things go sour.

Bile rose in Harry's throat at the thought of being one of the first people the meet this mysterious Dark Heir. Harry knew, despite Dumbledore making it out to be his decision, he had no real choice in the matter. It was his duty to represent his friends and act as a figurehead for the light side, even if he himself would rather just simply call the kid a lost cause and hide here with Ron playing Wizard Chess.

So, with his heart in his throat, Harry conceded.

"I will."

/|[Line Break]|\

Harry stared up at the apartment building even as the constant zoom of cars in motion prevented him from having a clear line of sight. Muggles of all shapes and sizes continued their daily commute. Aged businessmen and rowdy teenagers alike milled about the sidewalks, none truly giving the odd group second looks. Well, save for one incident in which a girl with hair such a bright pink it would put Tonks to shame and a grotesque number of tattoos and piercings complimented Moody on his "sick body-mod".

It was overwhelming, the sheer concentration of muggles. The likes of which he hadn't seen since King's Cross Station. The constant noise mixed with the smell of oil, sweat, and ozone assaulted Harry's senses. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt inconsequential and the sensation made his teeth ache.

Here he wasn't "The Boy Who Lived", wasn't "The Chosen One". He was just another pedestrian, a single face in a sea of hundreds. Not worth even a second thought. And, quite frankly, Harry hated it.

In London, as Harry Potter, he knew he meant something. That he was worth something. Heck, he had been told as much ever since he first became a Wizard. Fame had been a consistent, whether for good or bad. Here, not only did he have zero connection to this foreign land, but he was also supposed to keep his role a secret. At least until it was determined whether Perseus would agree to come or not.

Even as he followed Dumbledore to the worn-down building, misgivings rang out as loud as the horns blaring in the New York traffic. A single hand reached out to trace the stained brick as if to ground himself to the here and now. The occasional graffiti drew his eye, helping Harry in his quest to forget just exactly where he was and what was about to happen.

At last, they found the door, the glass smudged and cracked near the handle. A soft tinkle of chimes rang out their entrance to the cool lobby, even as the door behind them crashed closed with an ominous thud.

The young wizard's heart pounded painfully in his ears, rage and fear sending his nerves on edge. It was only the constant grounding presence of Lupin at his side, the assured strength of Dumbledore, and the paranoid determination of Moody that kept Harry from bolting back the way they came.

Cold, impersonal concrete stretched out before them, the sparsely placed rugs doing little to muffle their footsteps. A heavy wooden desk, polished and neat stood between twin metal doors. The faint snores told much of the status of the supposed security guard, leaving the gleaming elevator buttons open to free use.

It took only a few heartbeats between pressing the button before the elevator door creaked open, the sound of creaking metal leaving the party staring at each other with expressions showing various degrees of uncertainty. Dumbledore recovered first, stepping into the metal deathtrap and beckoning the rest to follow.

The ride up was oddly silent save for the occasional rattle of the aged elevator making its ascent.

What greeted them when the elevator finally stopped was an impossibly long hall, doors mirror images of each other save for the number on them stretching out in both directions before them. With an ease born of knowing where one was going, Dumbledore lead the group down the hallway, stopping in front of a door with the number 423 on it.

Harry's heart practically stopped as Dumbledore knocked.

A voice on the other side bleated out something incomprehensible in what appears to be another language before the door swings open. Standing there was a boy who couldn't look further from what Harry imagined Perseus to look like. Rather than a coolly handsome teen with eyes of slate and the smile of the snake, he is instead greeted by someone who could only be compared to an animal of prey rather than a predator.

Before them was a teen with mocha skin and wiry brown hair with curls that were barely restrained by the Rasta cap on his head. Despite his supposed young age, the teen possesses a noticeable goatee and an impressive of sideburns. His eyes, a nervous doe brown, seem to widen in the perfect imitation of a spooked animal.

"Yeh-yes? Can I h-help you?" The teen stutters out after a moment of silence, fingers gripping the wood with white knuckles barely visible through his surprising amount of knuckle hair.

"You're Perseus Jackson!?" Harry winces even as the incredulous words leave his lips. But he doesn't regret them, already finding himself eager for an answer if only in hopes of making some sense of all of this.

"You think...? Oh, no no no. I'm not Percy," The brunette chuckles nervously but with obvious warmth. His expression softens with fondness as if thinking about a dear friend.

"Well do you think you could go fetch Perseus for us? It is important that we speak with him."

At Dumbledore's words, the teen's tentative smile twists into something dark and wistful, the warm chocolate of his eyes becomes flinty.

"Percy is not here. I suggest you move along," He enunciates the word Percy as if making a point. Just as he is close to closing the door another, younger male voice drifts from the doorway.

"Do you have information on Percy?"

The door is pushed back open with a vengeance, a new shape appearing and bracing itself in the doorway. The first teen reaches out to steady the staggering figure, but the newcomer pushes it off and turns to face Harry and the rest with eyes that are so dark they look practically black.

What garners the most attention, however, are the bandages.

They're coiled over his torso, white linen spanning tightly over a pale stomach with only the scraps of a black t-shirt to maintain some of his modesty. Dark denim jeans torn and coated in a generous amount of blood and dust cover his legs, the occasional fluffy whiteness of gauze appearing through some of the holes.

His lips were red and scabbed in some places, evident of a previous split. Hollow cheeks and bruised sockets add sickly color to his pale olive skin, a few gashes above his arched brows held closed with butterfly bandages.

Even without counting his injuries, he looked like hell warmed over.

The sheer weariness in his eyes, the exhaustion and pain in his stance, the blood matting his black hair and leaving dried streaks on his skin; all stand at odds with the childish roundness of his face betraying his young age. Harry couldn't help but wonder what could happen to a kid to make him look so old and broken.

"Gothic brat," Moody snorts under his breath, the only one to speak as the rest just stand there in confused silence. Lupin looks over at the smaller man with an expression of exasperation but knows better than to waste his words trying to chastise the Auror.

"I'm afraid not, my boy. We were not aware something else was going on. We were merely here to talk to Perseus about something. Could you perhaps inform us more of the matter? Perhaps we may know something relevant to help you," Dumbledore remains the epitome of calm and collected, pulling everyone back on topic as he looks down at the boy he is speaking to. His eyes twinkle merrily, the old wizard seemingly trying to appear as harmless and benevolent as possible.

The boy, for his part, simply huffs.

"I'll take that as a no. If there isn't anything else you need, I suggest you leave."

Harry's teeth clench, fingers digging into his palms as anger floods through his veins. He, who didn't even want to be here, isn't simply going to leave with an 'Oh well.' Not after all the stress, all the pressure, and wrongness of this trip. Of coming here. With strength he knew not of possessing, the young wizard grabbed at the door and jerked it back open from where the dark boy had begun to close it.

"What the bloody hell is your problem!?," Harry snarls, face twisted in rage, "All we ask is to talk to one bloody bloke and here you are acting like we are asking you for your arm! Either let us talk to Perseus or tell us that the hell is going on!"

The boy whirls back around, his eyes somehow even darker, becoming like two super-massive black holes swirling with rage and madness. The smooth lines of his face twisted into something feral, shining white teeth bared and gleaming even as the shadows seem to lengthen and stretch across his face.

What was once a tired and somewhat mean child now stands puff up before them. Any advantage in height Harry had on the boy has become irrelevant in the face of his eldritch fury. The wizards' blood runs cold. It was like looking into the face of death itself.

"Percy's missing you idiots! You seriously think we would have asked if you had news on Percy if he was just happily sitting on the couch!? You looked similar to some of the people who I saw at the train stop so I was hoping you had information on Percy! But no, instead of you giving me any clue where he went, you are sitting here yelling at me you Αχθος αρούρης*," As he paused for breath, body trembling slightly with rage and excursion, the brunette teen grabbed onto the younger boy's arm with a concerned look in his eyes.

"Nico calm down."

"No! I won't calm down, Grover! It's all my fault! I was the one..." the boy's—Nico's words were cut off with a strangled growl that could almost be mistaken for a sob, "—was the one who came up with the idea to go meet Luke's mother! I was with him when we ended up in the wrong place! I was the one who let myself be distracted by the pack of two damned hounds while Percy was chased or taken to who knows where! Now, thanks to me, Percy is missing in England!"

He finally runs out of breath, left red-faced and panting before stumbling and face-first into the other's shirt. Grover looks up at the group, glaring, before shutting the door in their faces. The group, for their part, were too shocked to react.

The first one to speak was Moody, his gaze fixed in a glare toward the door, before turning to look at the rest of the small group.

"So the grandson of Voldemort went missing in England. This can't be anything good. How many want to bet that the Death Eaters got to him first?"

"Let's hope, for all our sakes, that that isn't the case," Dumbledore is quick to reply. It would be almost reassuring if not for the grim twist to his lips, expression devoid of joy or mischief.

Harry, only dully aware of Remus wrapping a reassuring arm around his shoulder, doesn't react. Instead, the young Wizard just continued staring forward as the others moved to lead him back the way they've come. He wasn't scared, though, despite the frightening display he'd witnessed. No, rather he was outraged.

The grandson of Voldemort shouldn't have friends who care for him like that. The thought takes the young wizard by surprise even as the sour taste of envy bubbles in his gut.

"Wait," a soft voice makes the wizards pause. Standing before them with puffy eyes is a familiar face. She is older than the picture, hair streaked with gray and the start of lines in the corner of her eyes. But there is no denying it.

Before them was someone who could only be identified as Sylvia Jackson.

Chapter Text

"Just wait," Sylvia repeated, her words cracking softly around the edges. Her eyes shown with sorrow, fingers knitted into her coat as if to ground her lest she float away. Even so, there was a fire in her, a determination that Harry saw in his mother's eyes whenever he looked at her picture. Mrs. Weasley called it a mother's love.

As all the wizards turned to face her, though, she deflated like a popped balloon. Defiance faded away into something akin to regret, as though this entire thing was her fault.

"You're Wizards, right?" Her question was barely above a whisper, looking all the world like a child prepared to be chastised. But Dumbledore merely smiled sadly.

"Yes, my dear."

"So then you are here? To try and bring him into your world? I feared this day would come," there was no outrage, no denial. Just hollow reservation.

From the door, the two boys looked at Sylvia with surprise and confusion. Grover tightened his grip on Nico, the latter somehow paling further than he already had been. Dumbledore merely looks at her pityingly.

"We have much to discuss. May we come inside?" Lupin speaks for the first time, his voice soothing despite the faint scratchy quality to it. It holds no judgment, only the desire to handle everything as calmly and peacefully as possible. Harry can't help but think she isn't worth such things, but the venom of the thought surprises him. True, she is Voldemort's daughter, yet there is something almost like personal betrayal and disgust that underlies the thought. Foreign emotions that don't feel like his own.

Sylvia nods and beckons them inside, gaze still fixed on the ground. The two boys still flank the door, Grover looking for all the world like he wants to be anywhere but there. Nico, though, Nico seems to have deflated back into the tired boy he was before.

They all look as though the weight of the world was on their shoulders. But it isn't.

It is on mine, Harry thought. After all, I am the Chosen One, right?

/|[Line Break]|\

Harry looked over at the woman, the teacup in his hand uncomfortably warm. Next to him, Nico was glaring, still managing to look threatening while eating a nauseatingly blue cookie. On the other side of him was Grover, chewing nervously on what looked like a throw pillow which he, oddly enough, had succeeded in destroying.

The adult wizards all sat on the sofa, leaving Harry and the other boys to sit together in a cluster of beanbag chairs that didn't quite match but were obviously a part of some kind of set, each one seemingly picked out for a particular person.

His own was a soft silver, smelling of vanilla and pressed parchment, a weird combination that sort of reminded him of Hermione. Nico's was rich plum color, matching the boy's obvious penchant for dark things, while Grover's was the same brown as his hair. The last one was pulled up right next to Sylvia—no, Sally (as she introduced herself)—the bright blue matching her eyes.

Given her negative reaction when Harry tried to claim it, the young Wizard assumed it belonged to Perseus.

Sally sat her tea down, the clack of the cup sounding deafening in the silence. All the while her other hand continued to finger a framed picture.

It was of a boy who looked the exact opposite of what Harry had imagined. Instead of sickly pale skin, the boy in the photo seems to possess skin that is an impressively tanned olive. His obnoxiously orange shirt is ripped, displaying faint bandages that seem to be wrapped around his torso but he still smiles brightly at the camera. Green eyes peered up from the frame, the only other feature visible from the distance at which Harry is sitting, but enough to paint a picture very different from the one supplied by his imagination.

"Alright, so why did you come here looking for Percy?" The woman leaned forward, her voice gentle but demanding in a way that broke no argument for denial or deflection.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk in complete private?" Lupin stressed the word complete, his attention drifting over to the two boys present. Harry watched as the cold eyes that had been boring into him turned their attention onto Lupin who barely concealed his wince at the attention, "Not that I am implying you aren't..."

"They have as much right the hear what you have to say as I do," Sally pointed out in that infuriatingly calm tone. Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep silent lest he say anything to ruin the peace. But the desire to point out just how little right she had to act like she was calling the shots was practically eating him up.

There was something about the woman that made Harry's brain itch. A constant buzz of distress telling him that however nice she may seem, she was a dirty traitor. Who or what she betrayed, however, he hadn't the slightest clue.

Lupin, for his part, appeared to be highly conflicted. A confliction that likely had to do with the Statue of Secrecy and the violation of it should they speak of wizard matters in front of muggles.

His worried amber gaze continued to dart between Dumbledore and Sally, occasionally brushing over the boys only to immediately shift away when he caught the pale boy's own. Yet it seemed to linger just long enough for Nico to catch the faint golden hue in the werewolf's gaze.

Childlike moodiness immediately shifted into cold calculation as the boy leaned forward, fingers flying to the shadowed shape on his hip.

"Mrs. Jackson, make no sudden movements," the words, dripping with caution, immediately made Harry nervous. The young wizard could barely keep himself from flinching away as the child rose with deadly grace and purpose. At his side, Grover seemed to catch on to the weariness and inhaled deeply through his nose as if scenting the air.

All the color drained from the brunette's face. The pillow fell, discarded, from his hands, allowing little bits of stuffing to leak out. A single word dripped from his lips.

"Lycan..."

The following motions happened so fast Harry struggled to even process them.

The second those words passed through Grover's lips, two things happened simultaneously. Sally, who had been sitting on the chair, dove off with practiced ease as her fingers withdrew a gleaming bronze shield from seemingly nowhere (though if he had looked carefully enough he would have noticed it matched the charm on the bracelet around her wrist which had elongated to form it when she pulled it off).

At the same time, Nico had withdrawn a sword from the shadows and closed the distance between him and Lupin almost instantaneously. One moment Lupin was backing away nervously, the next a pitch-black sword was resting a hair's breadth away from his jugular. Only the faint widening of the elder wizard's eyes betrayed his knowledge of what was transpiring.

"Grover, why did it take you this long to notice?"

Harry was ashamed to say that it was only when Nico chastised Grover that he managed to get a grip on his shock and not simply stand there staring dumbly at the scene occurring before him. Even then, he still felt slightly inadequate as he rose to point his wand at Nico. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that he was the last one to move in the awkward stalemate, something he couldn't help but find frustrating.

"They all smelled of it, so I just thought it was a part of their weird scent. I didn't realize it was because they were actually spending time with a lycan…" The brunette grumbled back as he shifted from foot to foot nervously. His hands were fingering the reed pipes sticking out of his pocket as if trying to debate whether or not to take them out.

Nico merely seemed to huff a whispered curse before turning to face down Lupin with those impossibly dark eyes of his.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now," the words, spoken so calmly, sent chills down all the wizard's spines. The way it was said was almost conversational, spoken with such flippancy it was almost as if he could care less that he was threatening to take someone's life. Harry's stomach couldn't help but flip-flop nervously, this boy bringing to him a true fear that no one short of Voldemort himself could.

"You're right, I am a lycan," Lupin seemed to deflate as he spoke, the action sparking some anger in the young wizard despite his fear. "But I promise I mean you no harm."

Each word was measured with the ex-professor's quiet insurance, the soothing tones contrasting greatly with the image of a monster that they seemed to think he was. True, Lupin suffered from lycanthropy, but he was only dangerous on the full moon. The rest of the time he was a mild mannered and kind man, someone that would always be a sort of mentor toward Harry due to the fact that he was one of the few decent Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers they ever had.

The fact that the kindly brunette was being put in a situation like this irked Harry. It took all of Harry's willpower not to just fire off an expelliarmus*. But his trust in Dumbledore stopped him. His trust that the wizened old Headmaster would come through despite the recent spells of mistrust that still prickled at the edges of the Boy Who Lived's mind stopped him from moving.

Moody, though, was in no mood to wait as he shouted out an immobulus** charm.

/|[Line Break]|\

Nico really didn't like these people. One could even go so far as to say he hated them. They just had to show up and make a complicated situation even more complicated. They were running out of time, the prophecy was on the verge of coming within the next year. He had hoped he would have time with Percy, to try and make sure Percy survived the battle with Kronos. (A darker part of him whispered that only he was allowed to kill Percy.)

The point was that, even as he was frozen by the faint light that collided with his form quicker than he could move, Nico was already long into cursing these "Wizards". The revelation that one among them was a lycan did little to endear them to him. If anything, it made him even more wary of trusting them, uncertain at how volatile even a tame lycan could be should it ever be introduced to demigod blood.

The decision seemed to be taken out of his hands, however, much to Nico's annoyance. A small part of him was impressed that the lycan continued his harmless facade in the face of a perfectly restrained demigod. The rest of him wanted to send the monster to Tartarus before it could show its true colors.

"Enough!" The stereotypical wizard of an old man called out in the room before the freaky-eyed one could do anything further, "We are here to speak civilly!"

If the son of Hades could move, he surely would have rolled his eye at the statement. As it was, a snort of air managed to pass through his nostrils. The lycan in front of him seemed to notice, stepping back and even going so far as to free him.

The sensation of mobility rushed back into his limbs, even as his headache flared, leaving gold stars dancing in front of his vision. Damn head injuries. They were one of the worst things to a demigod. Impaired cognition was deadly, especially with a monster standing barely a foot away.

"Then why did you bring that monster here," the dark-eyed boy couldn't help but grumble as he disguised his temporary loss of balance as merely a slump of indifference.

"He is not a monster!" a painfully annoying voice rang out, bringing a wince to Nico as the cracking tones hurt his already sensitive ears. It appeared that Harry kid couldn't go five minutes without butting his head in with some kind of personal outrage. Even silent, his eyes said it all.

The emerald gaze of the young wizard reminded Nico painfully of his cousin. Green and expressive, but on Harry they looked like a cheap knock-off. The colors were too uniform, no soothing grays and blues swirling in tandem with teal-tinted green. Instead, they burned like acid, lacking any of the easy-going warmth of Percy.

As with many old sayings, they were rooted in truth. Eyes truly did give a glimpse at the soul beneath, especially for a child of Hades. And the soul he could see through Harry's eyes was one of perverted innocence, a taint leaking in from an outside source and feeding on the already present darkness. Even without abilities, however, the arrogance and the holier-than-thou narrowing of the boy definitely put Harry off the list of people Nico could tolerate.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," were the words the demigod finally settled on in place of the million insults burning like hellfire on his tongue. "Point being, if you wanted civility, bringing a creature that can turn into a monstrous wolf that hungers on flesh wasn't your brightest plan."

Harry's eyes seemed to sharpen, his grip tightening on the stick in his hand as if he was tempted to try and use it. As funny as the thought was, Nico had long learned not to take anything at face value. A practice that had saved his life a handful of times.

Dumbledore, a name he had struggled not to snort at when the man introduced himself, seemed to be looking upon the young half-blood contemplatively. Nico struggled not to wilt under those heavy eyes and practically sighed in relief when the old man finally looked away nodding to himself.

"Remus, it may be best if you wait outside."

Remus was quick to nod and concede, happily moving to stand outside the door. Harry, on the other hand, looked enraged, an expression that seemed to be obnoxiously common on his face. He could give Ares kids a run for their money in the "pissed at the world" department.

"Now that that is settled, let us be seated and resume our conversation." The strange old man clapped his hands, a grin on his face that could rival Apollo. His companions seemed more reluctant but obeyed despite both still shooting Nico various looks of distrust. A sentiment Nico shared.

Sally, bless the woman, looked incredibly lost as she let the shield fade back into a charm. The stress of Percy vanishing had left her slow and worn in a way that Nico had never seen the woman. Even in the worst of situations, she was a force of nature. Now, however, she seemed as if she had aged decades in only a few days. Her eyes were puffed and red, bags bruising the splotchy skin around them. The shadows made the faint wrinkles on her features even more obvious, giving her face an unnatural gauntness that made Nico uneasy.

Despite Sally being Percy's mom, she treated all of the demigods that came across her with absolute kindness. Her home had become a Safe Haven; she was always ready to greet everyone with a smile and a place to rest. Nico couldn't help but adore the woman.

He was getting off track.

With a shake of his head, Nico tuned back in to hear the tail-end of exchanged apologies and other such pleasantries deemed societally necessary before they could resume getting back into the real meat of the situation. It was needlessly long and pointless, which easily explained why he had been so quick to zone out and even making him thankful he did.

"So what do you know about your family Mrs. Jackson?" Dumbledore finally asked, knitting his hands together on his lap.

"Mom never kept anything from me. I am well aware she was my aunt and not my birth mother, and the situation that lead to my birth mother giving me to her sister. She told me when I was accepted into Ilvermorny," Sally's voice was like steel, the same voice she used to curse the Gods when she thought nobody was around. It broke no argument, unwavering in conviction.

"So you are aware of the status of your father?" Dumbledore seemed to be an exception, or just really good at acting.

"That monster is not my father. But yes, I am aware of the man whose blood I share. Why does it matter? He is dead, right?" Sally's tone grew distressed as Dumbledore's face grew grave at her question, "He was killed, he is dead. Right?"

"I am afraid not. Voldemort has risen and we fear he is after your son."

"Oh gods."

Nico watched as the strong woman who became almost like a substitute for his own mother... who would let him in and who would take care of him even when Percy was gone...He watched as this amazing woman crumbled apart. Tears began to leak from her eyes as shaking hands raised to clasp in front of her face. All the while she shook and rocked, "My poor baby," repeating the phrase like a mantra under her breath.

For all that he wanted Percy to pay, Nico couldn't stop himself from coming over to the woman's side, from smoothing his cold hands over her shaking shoulder in a weak attempt to comfort her.

"It'll be okay, Mrs. Jackson. Percy is strong. He will find his way back."

Grover, who had been silent ever since the previous outburst of activity, seemed to be staring at nothing with eyes glazed and locked on a distant point.

Nico knew there was nothing wrong with the satyr, who had taken a very similar position before these wizards arrived earlier. Grover was doing his part the only way he could, by monitoring the empathy link for any sign of Percy and his well-being.

In some ways, Nico was grateful that the satyr wasn't conscious enough to notice the demigod's frankly pitiful attempts at comforting. Yet that didn't change the creeping anxiety that made him want to twitch and duck away, to leave the comforting to someone else while he hid in the shadows.

The eyes that set him off the most, however, were not the judgmental stares of Harry or Moody. No, what made him uneasy was Dumbledore's own blue gaze which seemed to go right through him, clinging to his form and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The smell of death that gathered around him, reeking of impending demise like from an illness did little to help ease the half-blood's nerves.

Luckily those eyes were soon off him and settling back onto Sally as the elder man rose up and walked to stand near her. His gnarled hand fell on her shoulder, the unfamiliar grip causing her to lift her head to meet the old Wizard's gaze.

"I promise you, if Voldemort has your son, we will find him and rescue him. No child should be left alone to his devices," Dumbledore spoke will all the grace and charisma granted in his long life. Even Nico himself felt his emotions eased by those words, something that he couldn't help but find suspicious.

Sally, however, was too distraught to notice. Instead, she grabbed his papery hands in her own, squeezing them for all she was worth.

"Swear on the River Styx you'll save my son."

The begging of an Oath took all in the room by surprise, even those who didn't know what it meant. Those who did could practically feel taste the power in the air, the invocation of ancient powers.

"I swear on the River Styx I will save your son," Dumbledore repeated without missing a beat, his expression giving nothing away. There was no telling if he truly understood the strength or meaning of the Oath or if he was simply humoring a distraught woman. But the telltale rumble of distant thunder bound it either way.

Still, Sally cried, gripping tightly to the hands of the old man like a life-line. Long had things grown uncomfortable to watch for Nico and, judging by the other averted eyes in the room, he wasn't the only one.

Even Grover, locked in his own thoughts as he was, seemed to have the presence of mind to turn away.

Nico though, Nico felt something warm in his veins. A burning heat surging with determination and another emotion he couldn't quite put his finger on. Whatever it was, he knew he would need to be involved in this whether anyone let him or not. He wouldn't simply sit back and let strangers who didn't even know Percy right his mistakes.

Even with his desire to be the one who chooses Percy's fate, his claims of hatred and vengeance, his fatal flaw was making itself known…

In the end that emotion he was feeling had a name. And that name was jealousy.

Chapter Text

Thalia's tree seemed to wave to him, welcoming. At its side sat a familiar blonde, her curly hair dancing in the wind even restrained as it was in her ponytail. Annabeth Chase, in all of her glory, rested against the great pine, working in her design book. All the while at her side sat Daedalus's laptop, opened to some idea or another.

He waded through the sea of calf-high grass, a familiar easy-going grin lifting his lips. It was good to be back home, for that was what Camp Half-Blood was to him, a home like no other.

His beautiful Wise Girl lifted her head, as if hearing him coming. Yet what greeted him wasn't her beloved stormy gray eyes. No, her eyes were an acid green glowing unnaturally like the Oracle's own.

"Beware, Perseus Jackson; soon you will face a decision. You must prepare for your path to turn, lest your time come to burn," a thousand voices rang out, each overlapping one another in a chaotic symphony. The final word-burn-continued to echo out ahead off all of the other words, the voices amplifying and gaining strength into a caterwaul that grated upon his ears.

Blocking his ears did little to silence the choir of a million of voices, each no longer simply talking but outright screaming the word. And then suddenly it was all silent.

No one was there, no voices there. Yet the second he unclogged his ears, it came, a whispered breath in his ear in a voice so familiar and so sinister.

"Remember your fatal flaw,"

Percy Jackson shot awake, the faint hissing of snakes lingering from that dream. Demigod dreams were common, yes, but Percy could happily say that such dreams featuring the Oracle wasn't common.

Sadly he had little time to give it much thought. As the adrenaline dulled, a deep seated pain made itself well known as it tore across his collarbone and shoulder, tracing its way across his side before finally settling in his thigh. It brought from his lips a grunt though it came out as more of a huff. His mouth felt like something crawled inside of it and died, the fur on his tongue as uncomfortable as it was disgusting.

Now in his short Demigod life, he had come to learn that such a feeling came with being unconscious for more than one day. That was something that had happened to him more times than he wished to acknowledge. To give an actual number would be like asking any well respecting demigod how many bones they had broken and expecting an actual number for an answer. Well most demigods, because Athena's kids were weird enough to actually know. Hades, Annabeth probably had a perfectly labeled list of all the times he had gotten hurt somewhere.

Actually... no, he needed to stop thinking about that. The possibility of a list of his recklessness somewhere was seriously creeping him out more than he was even willing to admit.

It took the sound of a door slamming somewhere to drag Percy out of his ADHD riddled thoughts while also simultaneously reminding him why he was hiding in his mind in the first place. While it didn't compare to getting shot out of a volcano, the pulsing ache of the burns did their job of making him regret so many things. Like fighting a dragon, even if he had no choice in the matter.

Actually that was pretty cool. Deadly and painful, but also cool.

Speaking of cool, the mattress under him was oddly cold despite the sweat rolling off his skin. Almost as if someone had shoved an ice-pack under the sheets below him. Yet there was no awkward lumps sticking him in the back. No, the bed was still oddly soft despite everything. Soft and well, green.

Casting his gaze around the room, it became quickly apparent that whomever had furnished the room was fond of the color green. From the satin sheets beneath him to the drapes, many things in the room shown a rich emerald interspaced by the occasional silver or black accent piece.

To be honest, it kinda was like how Percy would decorate his room if he had half the chance, well changing green for blue and minus all of the fancy bobbles. Though he really was digging the bed he was in.

Perhaps the only problem with the scenery was the fact that he had no clue where he was.

Seriously, try as he might, the last thing Percy could remember was bleeding out on the beach and those masked men. Anything after that was a blank. And he would happily get up and go look for someone if he could actually move. But for all that the son of Poseidon was a Seaweed Brain, he wasn't dumb enough to wander around a location he didn't know while risking tearing open the stitches that someone was obviously kind enough to put in him.

Even if they had stripped him to do it, though it wasn't as if he had much to strip anyway given the likely state of his clothes, what with the multitude of tears, rips, and impalements. Thank the Gods Chiron had an endless supply of Camp Half-blood T-shirts, ah la Aphrodite, because Percy had easily turned destroying them into an art form.

Another door slammed shut, this one closer and bringing with it voices that steadily seemed to be getting closer. Two men from the sounds of it, one of which was likely involved with the other almost begrudgingly.

Finally they seemed to settle outside of his door.

"He is healing well. It is remarkable, really. Even with potions, he shouldn't be in such good condition," the lower of the voices echoed out, darker notes sliding like oil over the air.

"It is fortunate. It wouldn't do us well if he were to die. He is the heir after all," another higher pitched but still distinctly male voice answered back. Despite the attempt at firmness, there was a faint waver of fear audibly curling around the edges of the words.

"A pitiable position. The Order will stop at nothing to have him, while others of our group will vie for his favor in hopes that they can increase their standing,"

The young son of the sea had little time to try and process their strange words. No sooner than the first voice finished its reply did the door swing open on smooth hinges to admit the duo.

The two men couldn't have been more contrasting. The first was dark, distantly bringing to mind memories of Hades. His hair was shoulder length and black, hanging flat around his face in greasy locks. His eyes were as dark as Nico's, set into an angular face highlighted by his sharply hooked nose. His companion was his exact opposite, femininely lean with long platinum blonde hair and bloodshot gray eyes. The only thing the two shared in common was their pale skin and dark robe-like garments.

Such garments brought to mind thoughts of Halloween, a holiday Percy had often seen but never truly participated in due to the influx of monsters as the Mist grew thin during said celebration. Annabeth claimed it was because that was the one day a year Hecate was allowed a complete vacation, so the Mist thinned without her stabilizing influence. At any rate, the men did well to resemble the stereotypical wizard for whatever reason they decided to do so.

The men, for their parts, seemed to be examining him as much as he was them. The darker haired one's lip seemed to curl into a sneer as his eyes met Percy's own. All the while the lighter of the two hung back, fear and arrogant disgust warring for presence on his face.

"I do dearly hope you were not so foolish as to move in your condition," the black haired man all but growled out, "I would rather not waste my time fixing you again,"

"Aren't doctors supposed to be warm and nurturing?" Percy rasped back, his voice scratching painfully but the snark fulfilling its job if the narrowing of the other's eyes was any good indication.

"I am no doctor, I am a Potions Master. And you, boy, would do well to be grateful I was here to stop your untimely demise."

"I typically make it a rule of thumb not to be thankful until I know whether you saved me out of the kindness of your heart or simply because you want something," bit back the demigod, the sharpness of his words slightly diminished by the cracking of his voice.

"You are either incredibly foolish or wise beyond your years." The reply was disinterested, any anger or heat evaporating into indifference as the older man briskly pulled the blankets off of the injured teen.

The blonde, on the other hand, seemed content to hang back, staring at Percy awkwardly as though he was unsure what to do with himself. It was oddly funny to see a grown man so discombobulated, unsure whether to act or simply stand there and watch.

"Is there anything you need?" The blonde finally seemed to break the silence as the black haired man pulled off the bandages on Percy's side to check the wound.

"A glass of water pleh-ease," Percy himself couldn't help but moan in pain as the tear in his side was exposed to open air. Or, well... what was supposed to be a tear. Under the bandage was nothing but smooth, if not raw, skin. If not for the tenderness and red tone of the skin, Percy would have merely imagined the slice that exposed his ribs.

"Of course,"

The gray eyed man was quick to excuse himself, practically seeming to flee from the room as the self proclaimed Potions Master (whatever that meant) moved on to check his collarbone.

The throb there was more in the bone than the actual skin as cool fingers ghosted over it, pushing and prodding in some places much to Percy's vocal displeasure. It took all of his self-control not to bat away the man's hands after a particularly painful poke that left white hot pain rushing across his skin.

For his part, the man seemed to care little of Percy's comfort, his expression decidedly blank even as a small amount of skin caved under his prodding. Oh so easily he replaced the bindings with fresh ones, not thinking twice about the blood on his fingers.

Perhaps the least healed of the injuries were the demi-god's thigh, perfect stitches still sluggishly leaking blood where the horn of the dragon had completely impaled him. The man appeared to have been suspecting it, if the faint tsk but immediate withdrawal of supplies from his robe meant anything.

Without so much as a "by your leave" the man was upending a vial of foul smelling liquid upon his leg. With it came a nasty sting only for the sensation to immediately fade away leaving the skin tingling a bit.

"With my intervention, your injuries should fade completely within a few days. Getting up and attempting to walk today however would be foolish and a waste of both of our times. And you do not want to waste my time, Mr. Jackson,"

Any sort of trust Percy had in the man evaporated, over-ridden by an instinct screaming at him to prepare for the worst.

"How do you know my name?"

It was such a simple thing, to know someone's name. But as demigod life had long taught him, someone knowing his name before he introduced himself usually meant they were going to kill him. Even in school, with a teacher reading his name off of a list, Percy couldn't help but find himself twitching when his name would pass through foreign lips, preparing for the worst. Preparing for the otherwise normal person to turn into a monster after his head.

If Percy's obviously alarmed reaction bothered the man, he did little to show it. Dark eyes, dark as Nico's, lifted and bore into Percy's own cerulean ones with a dryness that would rival the desert.

"It is written on the tag of your shirt, Mr. Percy Jackson,"

All tension evaporated from the boy's frame at the surprisingly reasonable explanation.

"Oh… I forgot about that… So, um… since you know my name and everything, what's yours?" Percy trailed off lamely, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair nervously.

"My name is Severus Snape. You may call me Snape or Severus only," the man, now mentally dubbed Snape by Percy, all but snarled out, punctuating his words by harshly fastening on the new bandages.

Tears came to the young demi-gods eyes at the wave of pain as the tender skin was rubbed by the bandages jerked into place. A burst of metallic blood flooded from his lip, teeth tearing through the fragile flesh as he resisted the urge to shout every Greek curse he knew.

"My my, Severus. I would almost think you are not fond of the task I gave you," a voice as smooth as velvet and chillingly cold cut through the fading haze of pain.

Percy's attention flickered to the new individual almost automatically, taking in the dark-cloaked form braced against the doorway with almost startling ease.

He was handsome. Shadows spanned his cheeks, the cool darkness clinging to his features and painting them with an impersonal sort of flawlessness.

From the ivory skin, to his inky black hair... to the dull gray eyes the color of slate; the man was oddly monochrome in a way Percy would have thought impossible had he not spent the past few years among demi-gods. The man possessed physical traits comparable to the Grecian statues Annabeth was fond of making Percy look at with her, all the while looking decidedly not Greek at the same time.

If not for the gray eyes and the Zeus-like arrogance in them, Percy would have thought he found a brother of Nico's, well after Snape himself. But the chances of even Snape being Hades' son was practically non-existent due to the fact that Hades had never broken the pact. Still, it was fun to think about.

"M-my Lord…" It was the stammering of Snape that brought Percy back out of his thoughts. ADHD had again decided to strike. With any hope, the demi-god hadn't missed much of the conversation.

"No matter." Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Mysterious all but dismissed Snape before pushing off of the wall and stalking closer to the two. "It seems you are finally awake. How are you feeling?"

"Well other than feeling like I lost a fight with a wood chipper, I'm fine." For once it seemed almost beneficial that the Son of Poseidon's mouth ran on automatic. Otherwise, he would have been like Snape, standing a few feet off to the side with barely concealed shock.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Thankfully… no. Though I've gotten pretty close to it," Percy admitted sheepishly.

Being mauled by a Hellhound like he had been during his first year was definitely comparable to being in a losing fight with a wood chipper, just less flesh shredding and more disembowelment. Didn't need to even get him started on the time he almost became a chew toy for the one and only Nemean lion. That was a mess he'd rather not contemplate for too long.

"I see. Aren't you even slightly curious where you are or why?" In the time that Percy had looked away, the man had moved so that he was practically perched on the dresser, staring down at the boy beneath him.

"Well naturally. But I've come to learn that if I am not told right away, my host usually doesn't want me to know," Percy shot back sardonically.

The man chuckled in response.

"I could see why you would think that way. Don't worry, I promise you aren't a prisoner here." The man's eyes seemed to sparkle in mirth as he leaned forward to rest his chin on his folded hands. "In fact, I would gladly let you go if I didn't think I would find you bleeding out a block away. After all, it would make the fact that my men saved your life pointless if I simply let you go get yourself killed the moment I released you from my care,"

"You make it sound like someone is out to kill me," replied Percy with a wry curl of his lips.

"Would you be shocked if I told you that assessment is correct?"

"Honestly? No, not in the slightest,"

The feeling of being hunted was nothing new to the Son of Poseidon, the frequency of immortals coming after his head so great Percy would be more shocked if someone wasn't trying to kill him. As it was, he couldn't even manage a tinge of anxiety, so desensitized to the entire thing. A sentiment that seemed to shock the man, if the faint rise of an eyebrow was anything to go on in this crowd of neigh emotionless people.

"Most people would take news like that a little more negatively," those bland words were all he had gotten in return, a testament to his previous observation.

"I am not most people."

"Well at any rate," the man trailed off, head tilted in thought, "I failed to introduce myself it seems. My name is Tom Riddle, though most around refer to me as Voldemort,"

/|[Line Break]|\

Nico cursed under his breath as for what felt like the fifth time that hour. While Ms. Jackson was still talking to the old man and his group, the young demi-god was sent to use that time to relay information to Chiron and possibly get a prophecy. It seemed that upon coming into his powers, the young son of Hades had earned the designation of messenger bird, a designation that didn't actually bother him as much as he claimed it did.

Well save for the shadow-travel. Even at home as he was among his father's domain, the shadows still had the horrible habit of leaching the warmth right from his skin, leaving him both exhausted and practically shivering cold as he appeared through them.

Luckily the sun was pulling away from its perch in the middle of the sky, allowing longer shadows to dot the landscape. It was almost too easy to appear behind the Big House, the wards allowing him through given his demigod status despite the fairly monstrous way in which he traveled. Usually he didn't think twice about it other than the passing amusement at the intelligence of the inanimate thing. Today, however, he was on a schedule.

Annabeth looked up from where she was hunched over a map with Chiron, the Hero Trainer for once rising up completely from his chair inside of the house to stand at his full 16 hands of height, his head practically brushing the ceiling. Nico couldn't help the traitorous burst of jealousy and loathing he felt when he looked upon the blonde girl, but he shook it off as he came to lean near the group.

"Ah Nico. I take it you have news?" Chiron jumped right into it, ignoring the burst of tension that had filled the room mere seconds before on Nico's part.

"Ah yeah… Seems he is likely being held by some kind of wizards." Nico did his best to stay nonchalant despite the sheer absurdity of the comment. If he hadn't been there, the young demigod would have scarcely believed there was such thing as true witches and wizards beyond Hecate.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" It was no surprise the first one to jump on it was the daughter of the wisdom goddess. That didn't stop Nico from growing agitated as Annabeth practically looked down her nose at him with an expression of disgust toward the information he was sharing.

Chiron, ever the peacekeeper, chose that moment to step in before things could escalate.

"I am afraid not. I can't quite say who or what they are, for the Gods have seen fit to keep it from me. But I do know for a fact that they exist and whoever they are, they are bad news for us,"

"What do you mean you don't know what they are?" Annabeth's eyebrow was practically touching her hairline as she sought out the knowledge to sate her inborn curiosity.

"Just that, my dear. There are some speculations, but they usually stay away from us and us from them. Occasionally we will get a demigod who is also a part of this wizarding world, but they are generally sworn to secrecy to not divulge anything of it. It seems that both sides are at a tentative peace with each hiding from one another." Chiron's tone was almost uneasy. "At least, that is my guess. I have no concrete information for or against the hypothesis… However.."

At this Nico felt the brunt of the ancient centaur's gaze resting on him, untold wisdom and age swirling through the elder's dark eyes even as he seemed to be looking for something unspoken in the young man before him.

"If you truly have met wizards and Perseus is indeed involved with them voluntary or no, then it seems even more change is ahead of us as we stand upon this brink of war. For better or for worse, it appears it is time for our two worlds to collide. I just hope that we all come out unscathed and ready for what is to come,"

A tense silence overtook the room as both Nico and Annabeth processed those words. If he intended to clarify or offer orders, Chiron chose not to do so. He merely stood in infinite patience as he waited for both parties to reanimate themselves. He could order, push them into place. Yet they needed to learn, to think and act for themselves now more than ever. With what was coming, there was no guarantee he would be able to lead them all. As it was, the aged centaur would be hard pressed to find a way to sufficiently aid the children of the gods.

Finally Annabeth seemed to grow tired of the silence, her gray eyes gleaming with a thousand thoughts teeming at the surface, eager to be released and left to grow. Like the force of nature they reflected, she immediately began to jump into making plans.

"Alright. Well as much as I hate to say this, I will stay behind and coordinate things from here. Nico, you should go see the Oracle for a prophecy,"

"Why me?"

"Because you were there when they arrived. You've met them and they have met you. I know you are still mad at Percy, but you are in the best place to act,"

Nico wisely bit his tongue and refrained from dignifying that vast over-simplification with a statement. Instead, he just simply nodded, knowing it would be no use to argue with the plans of a child of Athena. At least that was the justification his brain gave rather than admit the sheer relief that he would get to go instead of having to leave everything in another's hands.

Annabeth seemed satisfied with his non-verbal response, immediately going back to her bustling plans with renewed vigor and leaving the son of Hades to excuse himself to make the walk to the attic.

Ah! The attic of the Big House. For all the morbid glory that was the Underworld, there was still something about this place and its mummified oracle that set Nico on edge. It played upon the childish fears of the dark and the monsters that he had left behind when he had stepped into his birthright but never truly outgrew.

For all of his darkness, Nico was still young. And here, in this room of artifacts and Spoils of War, he felt for all the world like he was 11 again and scared of this strange new world he found himself in. The nagging fear didn't abate even as he finally set eyes on the corpse, tie-dyed fabric hanging loosely off the boney frame.

Green mist began to gather, overtaking the shiny doll-like eyes that stared into the distance at nothing. From the toothy maw spilled the green spectral python that symbolized the imprisoned spirit of the Oracle of Delphi.

Almost too soon it began to speak, the poisonous green fog taking on phantom shapes that Nico couldn't bring himself to identify.

"You shall follow the flames that chase the dark,

And seek out the traitor who bears death's mark.

A long lost secret; a bloodline the snake will find,

Written in the path of hero and villain intertwined.

A flaw to end all days the sea shall face,

And in the end both shall vanish without a trace."

The voice rasped, each word punctuated by a chorus of a thousands snakes hissing. Any attempt to physically block out the sound failed, the voice instead in his head rather than outside of it. Even without the horrible voice, the words themselves were still ominous. And the promise they suggested worried him even more than the child of death was willing to admit.

For the last two lines sounded like a death sentence. If not just for Percy, but for both of them.

/|[Line Break]|\

While everything else was going on, unknown to the boy in question, Harry was laying on the floor of the tiny Manhattan apartment staring up at the swirls in the ceiling. A fleece blanket and a pillow that smelled oddly like salt water was what he had been gifted to keep him warm. It was modest and it worked, but for someone so used to the extravagance of Hogwarts when away from his Aunt and Uncle, Harry couldn't help but feel a little less than grateful.

Somehow Sally managed to talk Dumbledore into not only letting the dark boy, Nico, come with them to help look for Percy but also to stay the night and wait for Nico to return to wherever he went when their backs were turned.

Nico wasn't exactly mean to Harry, at least not in any way the young wizard could pinpoint as being specifically towards him. Even so, he was not afraid to say he wasn't fond of the dark eyed boy. There just was something about Nico that spoke of dark power and it made Harry nervous.

Above him on the sofa, Moody snorted out odd puffs of air. It was odd that for as paranoid as Moody was he seemed content to sleep in this strange place and even managed to ignore the constant sounds of crowded life drifting in through the thin windows. Then again, Moody could have set up countless traps, something so likely that Harry was sure to at least keep a yard between himself and the sofa no matter what.

His mind drifted back to not only Sally but her missing son, Percy. Throughout dinner had she told them all about him under the prodding of Dumbledore. If anything, his friend Grover seemed to be the most forthcoming, happily telling stories of a boy who was bullied himself but chose to keep on standing up for others even if it would make things worse for himself. It was a kind of person Harry would have admired, if not for the undercurrent of suspicion that refused to go away. After all, Percy was Voldemort's grandson. For all he knew, Percy could have played virtuous to get people on his side.

It was to these thoughts and conflictions that the wizard drifted off too, all the while his dreams spun tales of a hero fighting against impossible odds as every manner of monster tried to kill him; a hero with eyes like Harry's own if not more luminescent and any other features obscured by the darkness.

All of a sudden the scene was overtaken by pure black. Watery blue light began to leak through the darkness and Harry was aware of the sensation of sinking. In his ears were whispers as he drowned in the suffocating calm and melancholy.

"You were a mistake."

"You promised! You promised you would keep my sister safe! It is your fault she is dead! It is your fault Bianca is no longer here! It should have been you!"

"Zoe was killed by her father... She fulfilled the prophecy…"

"Let's go blow Kronos back into a million pieces."

"Don't you understand!? They only use us! We are only tools! They could care less about us! We are just weapons to be used to fight their battles!"

Suddenly all of the voices seemed to blend together as it said the next lines, reverberating endlessly through the hazy blue of this endless abyss…

"A half-blood of the eldest gods

Shall reach sixteen against all odds

And see the world in endless sleep

The hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap

A single choice shall end his days

Olympus to preserve or raze.."

Gold eyes filled Harry's vision as a blonde boy with a scarred face tore through the water and stabbed him through and through with a two-colored sword. The water around Harry blossomed red with his blood as he stared into the shadowed face inches in front of his own.

"Whatever side you choose, you will die. It is inevitable. What a pathetic fate, little hero," the golden eyed boy growled before slicing the sword sticking out of him up. With that, the dream erupted, crumbling apart into blissful nothingness.