Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was storming on the night of July 31st. Wind and rain beat against the hospital windows. Strangely enough, it wasn’t supposed to rain. It had been constant heat for the past several weeks — sunny skies and bright days — and as New York reached the cusp of August, it was hot. Many were grateful for the rain when it first started in the late afternoon, even if they were confused as to how the forecast could have been so wrong.

However, it didn’t slow as the night wore on. The rain picked up, the streets began flooding, and many caught in the storm hurried home as lightning split the sky and thunder boomed. And it didn’t slow. The hospital staff began to worry about outages as an influx of patients poured in from car wrecks caused by the heavy downpour. The waves on the harbor in the distance were at an all-time high, nearly reaching for the sky and slamming the coastline with brutal force. Lightning struck. Thunder rumbled. Wind blasted against the building. And the sea rose, and rose, and rose.

The waves seemed drawn to the sky, as if locked in a desperate battle — pulling the storm’s fury toward themselves, away from something else.

There was a break in the storm for a small moment as a newborn cry broke through the hospital room. The waves receded briefly, no longer focused on their battle. Then they resumed — but not with the same enthusiasm. It was as though they had been… distracted.

Inside the room, the storm raged on, but the baby was cradled gently in his mother’s arms, his cries quieting as she soothed him.

However, despite its best efforts, the sea couldn’t distract everyone. One being noticed the hesitation. One being began to search for the reason behind the pause. And when she found the small child resting in the bassinet beside his sleeping mother, she saw everything.

Hecate knew a child of magic when she saw one.

She could smell the ocean on him — sea salt and summer breeze clung to the air around the newborn. Power hummed in the room, ancient and wild. She knew this child would do great things. She knew he needed to be hidden from Olympus — especially from the king who would destroy him out of fear. She knew her descendants had long waited for someone like him. She knew the weight of the prophecies that curled like smoke around his tiny form.

She knew he must be taken from his mother and placed in a vastly different world.

With a gleam of power in her eyes, she lifted the child from his bed and held him close. She sniffed his hair, shushing him gently when he whimpered. Then, with a tinge of guilt, she glanced once more at the woman in the bed. Then, she layered so many charms on the child that no deity besides her could see him and she left.

Elsewhere in England, a mother with hair the color of autumn sobbed in the arms of her husband, grieving the loss of her baby, born just three hours before and taken much too soon. And to Hecate, that seemed like the perfect place to set all her pieces on the board — to begin her great game.

One mother screamed when she awoke to find her baby gone. She cried and begged and sacrificed for answers. One god searched and raged until he couldn't any further without alerting other interested parties but he couldn’t find his youngest son. Cities across the coasts would suffer months of irregular weather, flooded streets, and waves so violent no soul dared enter the waters.

But across the ocean, another mother awoke to a god holding her second chance — a boy who needed a mother to protect him.

And she was given instructions: blood adopt him. Take him into hiding. The prophecy that the leader of the light had told her still applied to this child — he must be protected. The god told her to tell no one, not even Dumbledore, save her husband, for the child’s safety.

And so, she and her husband, hearts shattered by the loss of their true son, rejoiced in this new one. They told no one what occurred in that room. To the world, the Potters only had a son. Only they knew the truth.

It was a year and a half later, on Halloween, that a father sat on the couch with his son and cast bright lights from his wand. The child’s laughter made him smile so wide it brought laughter to his own lips. He picked up his son, his baby boy, and tossed him into the air, catching him with a soft kiss to his downy hair. The giggles drew the attention of his wife, who leaned against the doorway, arms folded as she watched them with adoration.

Her sunshine boys.

It had been a hard year. Losing friends, losing family, fighting a war that refused to slow. But in this moment, her husband held their whole world in his arms — and for a moment, it felt okay.

He noticed her watching, stood, and pulled her into his embrace too. Neither of them noticed that his wand was left on the couch behind him.

When the wards fell, he felt it like ice in his veins.

The door exploded inward on its hinges.

“Lily! Take Harry and run!” he shouted, shoving them toward the stairs before turning to face the monster in the doorway. “I’ll hold him off,” he muttered under his breath.

He knew he wouldn’t survive. This wasn’t a fight — it was a stall. A sacrifice. A hope that his world would keep turning, even if his arms could no longer hold it. And as he lunged toward the monster, wandless and terrified, his last thought was love — fierce and full — for his wife and son.

She felt it in her bones.

Magic snapped inside her like a thread torn in two. She had only felt that pain once before — when the baby she had carried had been born too early to survive. She had known the moment he was gone.

She knew now.

James was dead. Her husband was gone.

Still, she ran up the stairs, her son clutched to her chest. Her wand was on the bedside table. She couldn’t Apparate — the wards wouldn’t let her. She knew she was going to die. But she refused to let her son share that fate.

She had no time to think. The stairs creaked. The monster was coming. She cut her palm and drew a rune on her son’s back, whispering words of protection, embedding him with love and hope and sacrifice. Even if the monster spared her, the magic she invoked meant she wouldn’t survive it.

She kissed her son’s forehead and placed him in his cot as he cried. She couldn’t comfort him. She could only face the monster.

She died knowing he would live. That her magic would protect him. And that baby survived. The monster was temporarily destroyed. And Hecate’s pieces had all fallen into place.

She had no reason to keep her charms on the boy anymore. So, she released them.

As an old man laid a baby on a doorstep. It might have been a home for him where he could have found love and joy or it might have been a prison. Before anyone could ever find out, a god stirred. He felt something he hadn’t in a year and a half — a tether, a whisper of his bloodline.

With a single thought, he was there. Before the child. Holding him.

The scent hit him immediately — sea salt and summer breeze. His son.

And for a moment, all was right with the world.

The seas calmed.

He took the baby to his true mother. She wept when she saw him. She held him to her chest and didn’t let go. It would take weeks to uncover the whole story — for Poseidon to piece it together, for him to explain what had happened, and for her to accept that her son now belonged to two worlds.

That he was part of two prophecies.

That he would have to leave again when he turned eleven — to maintain the fragile balance that had been built on lies and sacrifices.

But for now, she held him. Her beloved Perseus. Her Starfish.

And she wept for their reunion.

Chapter Text

Percy had officially decided that this was the best birthday yet. Smelly Gabe had actually been called into work—miracle of miracles—and his mom had taken the whole weekend off just for him. She’d even made his favorite breakfast. The blue chocolate chip pancakes had been delicious and he had stuffed himself until it felt like his stomach might pop the button on his shorts. 

Tomorrow, they were driving out to Montauk to escape Gabe and the city entirely. Salt air, sand between his toes, and no one yelling at him for even existing in the space he lived or breathing too loudly. Eleven was already off to a banging start. Obviously, this was a cosmic sign. This was going to be his year.

They’d finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen together while humming along to the radio, and Percy had just curled into the couch beside his mom. The TV glowed quietly in front of them, the kind of low background noise that made everything feel peaceful. Warm. Safe.

Then something started taping on the window.

Percy blinked and glanced at the window. There, perched on the window panel and looking completely out of place was an owl. It was tawny, wide-eyed, and a bit too judgmental-looking for Percy’s liking and it was staring straight at him with wide, glowing eyes. Even weirder, it had a piece of paper tied to its leg. 

His mom inhaled sharply.

She stared at the window for a moment, one hand frozen mid-reach toward her mug. Percy turned to her, about to ask what was going on, when she stood and slowly made her way to the window.

It tilted its head at her. Just a little, enough to be a bit unsettling.

His mom reached out and slide the window open with a loud scraping noise, but unexpected the owl seemed unaffected. It just hopped half into the room and held out its leg towards his mom. Hesitantly, she untied the string from its leg. The moment the letter came free, the owl let out a shrill squawk and launched itself into the air in a flurry of feathers.

Percy jumped and nearly fell off the couch as the owl left. “What was that?”

“I forgot this was going to happen,” Mom muttered, so soft he almost didn’t catch it.

“You forgot what was going to happen?” He sat up straight on the couch, leaning over to set his own mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of him as her fingers trembled slightly around the letter.

She sighed. At was long and drawn out, like she’d been holding it in for years. “Percy...” Her voice cracked with some strange emotion, something close to regret. “There’s a lot I have to explain to you. Something that’s going to change everything. But… not here.”

Her knuckles whitened around the envelope. Percy’s leg bounced. That nervous tic he hated. He bit the inside of his cheek and searched her face for a clue—any clue.

She softened then. Her shoulders dropped, and she rubbed her face. Then she looked down at him and game him a small, closed-lip smile, mouth pulling at the corners.

“What do you say we leave for Montauk tonight?” she offered, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “We’ll roast marshmallows, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Percy blinked at her. “Seriously?”

She nodded.

He didn’t even hesitate. “That would be amazing!” he shouted, already halfway to the bedroom to grab his bag and maybe toss in a few extra snacks and games. If this was some sort of secret birthday bonus round, he was in. 

 Nothing could go wrong now. 

The ocean always sounded better at night.

The way the waves crashed lazily against the shore, as if even the sea was too relaxed to try very hard, soothed something deep in Percy’s chest. The fire crackled beside him, casting flickering golden light across the sand. His marshmallow was a little too charred—okay, completely black—but he was calling it “crispy deluxe” and pretending it was intentional.

Mom was laughing, her cheeks rosy from the firelight and the cold breeze, her voice lilting over the sound of the surf. They’d been swapping stories for over an hour—mostly Percy’s, most of them exaggerated, all of them hilarious. He was at the end of reenacting how Sammy from gym at his latest failure of a school had tripped over his own shoelaces and then blamed the dodgeball for “existing in his airspace,”. His Mom’s laughter trailed off when he finished and she didn't ask any other questions about school of his friends.

Percy paused mid-bite of his smore, noticing the sudden quiet.

Her smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. She stared at the fire for a long moment before finally setting down her own half-eaten s’more.

That was when he knew something was off. 

“Percy…” she began softly.

Oh no.

That was her serious voice. The one she used when rent was late or when she was about to say something like “You’re not in trouble, but...”

“I have a story to tell you. About your birth.” She looked over at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s not going to make sense. And you’re going to have a lot of questions. But everything I tell you is the truth.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “Mom?”

“Strange things happen to you, don’t they?” she asked instead, watching him closely. “Things you don’t understand. That no one can explain.”

Percy blinked. “Uh… you mean like that time in second grade when Mrs. Flores swore I turned her wig blue?”

Because yeah. That had been weird.

She’d been yelling at him about reading the board in front of the entire class—and okay, maybe he had muttered something about her wig looking better blue, but he didn’t do anything. One second it was an ugly red that only served to make her red complexion uglier, the next second, it was an electric blueberry disaster. And then he’d been blamed for it like he’d smuggled dye into the room in his backpack. He didn't, they checked.

That memory still made his stomach turn.

“That,” Mom said gently, “was one of many times.”

She reached over and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Her touch was soft, but there was something sad in it too—like she was memorizing him, or maybe bracing herself for what came next.

“You’ve been doing things like that since you were a baby,” she said quietly. “And I was so afraid of losing you… I tried to hide it the best I could.”

Percy leaned into her hand instinctively. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Absolutely nothing is wrong with you. You’re just a little more special than the rest of us Starfish." She took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she said next. "You are magic.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Percy snorted. He couldn’t help it.

“Magic isn’t real,” he said, trying not to laugh. “I mean, come on. Blue wigs? Maybe. Coincidence? Sure. But magic?”

Sally didn’t laugh. She just pressed her lips together and wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. From this angle she was shielding him from the crisp wind coming off the ocean, one of his sides encased in her warmth, his other side warmed by the small fire.

“I’m afraid not, Starfish.”

Percy sat there, letting the warmth of the fire and her hug battle the cold realization crawling down his spine.

“I’m magic?” he asked, quieter now. “Is… is that from my dad?" His mom’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders, solid and warm, grounding him to the earth while his entire world tilted sideways.

“No.” Sadness crossed Sally’s face as she got trapped in a memory. Her eyes went a bit out of focus as she began to talk. 

“When you were born, I held you in my arms for an hour. You were so tiny, but you were perfect.” She tugged his ear playfully, and despite everything, Percy gave a small, startled huff through his nose. “You had this tiny little bum and your eyes were so blue, and your face was scrunched up. Yes, exactly like that!” She smiled.

His face flushed with heat as he groaned, “Mom,” burying his face into her side like a little kid again, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Sally laughed, the sound a momentary bright spark, but then she went quiet again, and the mood retook its somber feeling. Percy felt the shift like the wind changing directions.

“I had you for an hour. The nurse came in to lay you in your bed next to mine and told me to sleep while I could because she knew I would be up to feed you soon. But when I woke up, you were gone.”

Percy’s brows furrowed. His heart thudded hard in his chest, slow and uncertain.
 “Gone where?”

“I didn’t know.” Sally’s grip on him tightened, as though the memory alone might steal him away again. “You were taken from me.” Her voice took on a shaken manner. “Someone very powerful took you from me and I didn’t get you back for a year and a half.”

The words knocked the air from Percy’s lungs and his body stiffened.

“What do you mean!” he asked, voice cracking. A tremble started in his chest and worked its way up. Was he even her son? What did any of this mean? The questions came too fast to catch. Was mom really his mom? Am he a replacement? A mistake? His thoughts spun and spun until they looped into panic. The worst cases flashing through his head. His breaths came heavier and shallower.

Sally must have felt it. She curled around him even more tightly than she had been.

“Ohh my starfish.” Her voice was a whisper, soft and raw. She kissed his wild curls and took a deep breath. Percy let her, clinging to her like a lifeline. She kissed his head again and leaned her cheek against the top of his head.

“I know it’s a lot but what matters is I got you back.”

His throat ached. “What happened?”

“Well, you were taken from me and I didn’t see you again for a year and a half.” She rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. Percy let himself sink into the rhythm. “Your father found you and returned you to me. It wasn’t until later that I even found out what happened.”

“My father found me?” he asked, confused. “I thought you said he was lost at sea.”

“From the moment you were taken from me, he looked for you. When he found you, he returned you to me, then he left again.” She took a deep breath, face pressed into his messy curls, like she was memorizing him. “Your father gave me two miracles, and I will always be grateful to him for them.”

Percy was silent. His chest felt too full. The fire popped, a log had shifting in the embers.

“He gave me you. My baby boy. And then when you were taken from me, he found you again. I will always be indebted to him for that.”

It took him a while to speak. The sound of the waves filled the gaps in his thoughts. His voice was quiet. “Who had me?”

“Your father told me that someone very powerful took you from me. And they gave you to another couple. This couple had just lost their own baby. Born a few hours before you, and when she showed up with you, she told them to take you in. To love you as their own—and they did.”

Percy swallowed, his throat tight. They did love him, then? Whoever they were. “What happened to them?”

“In Britain, there was a war going on. And this couple was fighting in it. A very bad man targeted them and you. When he attacked one night, they sacrificed themselves so that you could live. That’s when your father found you.”

It was too much. Percy’s thoughts scrambled, so many thought were whirling around in his head, he couldn't piece them together. His voice broke. “But I don’t understand. Why does this matter now?” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, frustrated and a bit overwhelmed. “And if Dad doesn’t have magic, how do I?”

Sally’s face softened, and she reached out to tuck his hair back behind his ear.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. This couple who had you were magic. And in magical communities, they have something called blood adoptions. It’s when you adopt someone by blood and by magic. It means that you received some of their family magic and biologically they are your parents.”

His voice was small, trembling. “Does that mean you're not my mom anymore?”

Her face softened, her eyes turned a bit glassy as she seemed to realize exactly what direction his thoughts were turning. “No, my love. I will always be your mom. You just have four biological parents instead of two.”

His head ached now, a dull pressure behind his eyes and at his temples. Too much. Too many people, too many lives, too much pain and sacrifice tied up in his name.

“Does this have something to do with that owl?” he whispered, though he already knew the answer.

Sally sighed, brushing his bangs back from his eyes. “When a witch or wizard turns 11, they are allowed to start wizarding school. There are a few around the world, but the one your other parents went to is called Hogwarts. It’s in Scotland. The owl was for you. It’s an admissions letter.”

Percy’s mouth went dry. He stared into the firelight, his thoughts hazy. Then, in a voice so soft she barely heard him, he asked, “Are you sending me away?”

Sally squeezed him tightly again. “Never, Starfish. You don’t have to go if you don’t absolutely want to. Someone will come and try to take you there anyway, but we can hide if we need to.” She exhaled, her voice thoughtful. “But I think it’s worth considering. We already need to find a new school for next year. And it’ll be safer for you there. It’s also not traditional learning, so I think you’ll do better there too.”

He hesitated. “But I’ll be so far away.”

“Not forever. You will come home for Christmas break and the summers. It's not much different than a boarding school.”

He looked up at her, searching her face. “You think I should go.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do. There’s something else I need to tell you. The night your other parents died, something happened. Your father told me that there was some powerful magic. But apparently, when your other mom sacrificed herself for you, it allowed you to live. And when the bad man tried to kill you too, his magic bounced off of you and it destroyed himself. That’s how you got your scar.” She reached out and gently brushed her fingers over his forehead.

Percy blinked. He’d always thought the scar was just… a birthmark or something. But under her touch, he could feel it pulse faintly. 

She continued, “A lot of magical people think of you as a savior because of your mother’s sacrifice.”

“But I was a baby. I didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t say these people were smart, Percy.” She smiled sadly. “Apparently, you're famous for it and no one knows that you were returned to me. If you don’t go to this school like everyone expects, they will try to find you and take you from me because I’m not magical. No one knows that you were adopted.”

His heart dropped. His voice came out steady. “There’s no question then. I have to go.”

He looked out across the sea. It was dark, nearly midnight now, but the sea breeze was comforting. The salt air kissed his skin and the breeze felt like a whisper just for him. He shut his eyes and leaned into it, imagining the faraway, magical place that awaited him.

“What were their names?”

“James and Lily Potter. And they had named you Harry.”

Percy squinted at her. He didn’t mean to—but humor slipped into his tone. “I’m not hairy,” he told her.

Sally chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Of course not, Starfish. H-A-R-R-Y—Harry.”

Percy grimaced. “Their naming is just as bad as yours.”

Sally nudged his shoulder with mock offense. “Hey, Perseus is a strong name.” She said in mock offense, but she smiled down at him, eyes shining. “Besides, I like the name Harry.”

“Of course you do.” Percy couldn’t help but smile. Just a little.

He leaned back into her side again, the solid warmth of her anchoring him.

“Do you think they loved me?”

Sally’s voice was soft, but sure. “Without a doubt in my mind. And even though I hate that you were taken from me, I’m so thankful that Lily and James were the ones to get you.”

“How do you know?” he whispered.

“Only good parents will ever know what it’s like to sacrifice everything for their child.”

She kissed the top of his head and then reached into her coat pocket. From it, she pulled out a small, folded square of paper.

“Your father brought me this when he returned you to me. He found out what all happened and told me.” She handed it to Percy.

In the flickering firelight, he squinted to see. Two people stood smiling in the photo, waving. The man had wild black hair and round glasses, mischief lingering in the corners of his eyes. The woman beside him had brilliant red hair and eyes that shimmered with warmth. She bent down and kissed the cheek of a baby between them.

Percy stared.

“I can see how much love they had for you in that one picture. And I hope they know that I love you just as much as they do.”

Percy ran his fingers over the image. His hands trembled. His chest ached. His breath hitched—and then broke entirely. Tears welled up again, unbidden and confusing. These people were strangers. And yet… he felt something.

Something like grief for a life that could’ve been. Something like gratitude for a life he still had. And something like being understood, truly seen, by people he never met.

“It’s okay to not know how to feel, Starfish,” Sally whispered, brushing away his tears with her thumb. “You can love them or hate them or hate me, but just know that I will always love you. And so will they.”

And finally, Percy let himself cry—gripping his mom like he’d never let her go again.

Chapter Text

Days later, Percy got his first taste of magic.

He had replied to the mysterious owl-letter, accepting his place at the oddly-named “Hogwarts” and asking for a little help—like, say, how a kid from Manhattan with a mom who worked double shifts was supposed to buy a wand and spellbooks. The next day, a thick parchment envelope appeared via owl tapping on his window very early in the morning. Inside was a surprisingly detailed pamphlet outlining everything from how to reach Diagon Alley to exchanging muggle (non-magical, apparently) money for wizarding currency.

His mom had put in for a day off almost immediately. She hadn’t said much, but Percy caught her looking at him a little longer than usual, like she was memorizing something.

They took the train into downtown New York on a humid morning, Percy watching the city blur by with his knees bouncing anxiously. They entered what looked like a nondescript stone building, half-eclipsed by a scaffolding project, and were greeted by stone-faced wizards in pressed suits who directed them toward something called the International Magi Portkey Network .

And that was where the day got rough.

The portkey trip felt like being launched through a vacuum cleaner tube made of gravity and broken rules of physics. Percy’s entire body had been squeezed, twisted, and turned inside out like a taffy pull before he crash-landed onto a cold stone platform in a room that looked like it belonged in a medieval castle. The Ministry of Magic, apparently.

He groaned and clutched his knees. “That... sucked.”

Sally was crouched beside him, one hand on the floor, breathing heavily. “Never again,” she muttered.

"We have to go home mom." She let out a long groan.

After a few long moments to recover and shake off the full-body nausea, Sally straightened, pulling the pamphlet out of her tote bag and flipping it open.

“Okay,” she said, still slightly pale but determined. “First step is wizarding money. It says in your letter that Gringotts is the name of the wizarding bank.”

“Sounds like something you'd name your troll sidekick in a video game,” Percy mumbled, but followed her as she scanned the twisting, cobblestone street that curved through Diagon Alley like a river of color and chaos. There were cauldrons bubbling in shop windows, cats on leashes, robes fluttering on racks, and more owls than Percy had ever seen outside a zoo.

They finally stopped in front of a large, gleaming white building with gold accents like it was dipped in money. Tall marble columns supported the front, and golden lettering spelled out GRINGOTTS WIZARDING BANK above the doors.

He and his mom exchanged a look.

“This looks promising,” she said.

“Or like a cult headquarters,” Percy added, earning a small eye-roll and a nudge.

Inside was cooler, darker—lit by a chandelier of crystalline icicles that looked like it could stab someone if you sneezed too hard. At the far end of the room, perched behind rows of polished desks, were creatures that definitely weren’t human. Short, sharp-featured, with leathery skin, long fingers, and noses that could probably sniff out lies, the goblins were working diligently under low light, their sharp quills scratching across scrolls and ledgers. Two goblins stood guard at the door. They wore armored vests and held weapons that looked way too serious for a bank. One had a curved axe slung over his shoulder; the other gripped a war-hammer like he was just begging for a reason to use it.

Sally “no fear” Jackson barely flinched. She squared her shoulders, walked straight up to the nearest guard, and smiled like she was talking to her building super.

“Good morning!” she chirped. Then blinked. “Wait, no. Good afternoon?”

The goblin stared at her like she’d just asked to lick the walls.

Sally’s smile faltered only slightly. “Umm—do you have any other traditional greeting for your kind?”

The goblin’s brow rose, clearly taken aback. Then he grunted: “Greetings. May your coffers never be empty.”

Percy blinked. That was... metal.

His mom, undeterred, repeated the phrase with impressive poise. The goblin gave her a short, approving nod.

“May your vaults be filled with gold. How may I be of service today?”

Sally reached back and rested a hand on Percy’s shoulder, squeezing once.

“This is my son. We’re here to exchange some human money for wizard money.”

“You may do so at that desk.” The goblin gestured with a long claw toward a smaller desk guarded by a very officious-looking goblin in a pinstripe vest.

“Thank you.” Sally inclined her head.

“May your enemies' blood run rivers of red.”

Sally raised an eyebrow, but only for a second before replying, “May your enemies fall by your blade.” Then, turning briskly, she marched toward the desk like she had just wrapped up a business negotiation with a mafia boss.

Percy lingered for just a second longer, tilting his head. “May your enemies’ gold be melted and poured down their throats until you have a gold statue of them to admire forever.”

The goblin barked a laugh so loud that it startled a couple of nearby witches in silk hats. The other goblin grinned at Percy, revealing razor-sharp teeth in a way that was probably meant to be friendly but definitely looked like ‘I could eat your liver, but I won’t because I respect your creativity.’

Percy beamed and turned on his heel to catch up.

It didn’t take long for them to get through the short queue and arrive at the desk. The goblin behind it peered down at them with calculating eyes that flicked briefly to the muggle bills Sally was holding.

“May your rivers flow with gold,” Sally greeted, sounding just a tad rehearsed.

The goblin blinked once. “May your coffers never empty.” A nod. “How may I help you today?”

Sally gestured to Percy, who stood on his tiptoes to see over the desk and gave a small, awkward wave. “We’re new to the wizarding world,” she explained. “We need to exchange funds to purchase supplies for Hogwarts.”

The goblin’s gaze flicked to Percy again, sharper this time. “How much do you wish to exchange?”

Sally grimaced, the corners of her mouth pulling tight in a way Percy recognized as her “I’m doing math I don’t want to deal with” face. While she was financially capable herself—thanks in part to careful saving, hard work, and creative budgeting—her husband was...not. Gabe would absolutely blow a gasket if he saw the amount they were likely to spend on “wizard boarding school,” and Sally didn’t have the energy to explain it to him.

“Do you know how much it will cost to buy the necessary school supplies for a first year student?” she asked, her voice carefully polite, but edged with apprehension.

The goblin, looking up from the worn ledger on his desk, rattled off a number of galleons—so fast Percy wasn’t even sure it was a number. His confusion must have shown on his face, because the goblin added the conversion to muggle currency.

Percy blinked. That was... a lot. More than he was comfortable spending on anything , let alone school. His entire fifth-grade education so far had been provided by public school and the occasional thrift store backpack. This was insane.

Sally gave a single tight nod and reached into her handbag, fingers moving with practiced ease as she fished out her wallet.

The goblin began filling out paperwork with a thick feather quill. “Names,” he grunted, ink already splattering across the parchment.

“Sally Jackson and…” she hesitated, just for a beat—barely a breath, really—before continuing. “Harry Potter.”

Percy felt the weight of the goblin’s gaze drop onto him like a brick. The goblin didn’t blink. Percy resisted the urge to duck below the counter, even though only the top half of his face was visible over it anyway. His spine stiffened instinctively, like prey pretending not to be seen.

“You claim you're new to the wizarding world?” the goblin asked, eyes flicking back up to Sally with a note of suspicion—though whether it was distrust or curiosity, Percy couldn’t tell.

She nodded, calm and composed as ever, despite the intensity of the goblin’s stare.

“Have you checked with the Potter account manager and seen the Potter vaults?”

Sally’s brows drew together. “No sir. I was unaware that they existed.”

There was a flicker of interest in the goblin’s eyes now. He straightened just slightly. “Heir Potter,” he said, clearly directing the title at Percy.

Percy blinked. “Heir?” he muttered, too soft for his mother to hear, but apparently not quiet enough for the goblin. It was the ears, he figured. The were massive, twitching satellite dishes and could probably picked up heartbeats.

“Yes. Heir to the House of Potter,” the goblin confirmed, reaching for a parchment and a ceremonial-looking knife. “We will conduct an identity test to prove who you claim to be, then I will direct you to your account manager. Prick your finger and allow three drops of blood to hit the paper.”

Percy looked at his mom, unsure. Her expression was tight with worry, but she nodded—slow and steady. He took the knife, wincing as he jabbed the tip into his finger and squeezed out the required drops.

The parchment shimmered.

The name Harry James Potter unfurled in elegant script across the page.

Apparently, that was enough. The goblin pressed a small brass button atop his desk, and moments later, another goblin emerged from a carved wooden door behind him. The two exchanged a series of guttural clicks and growls that sounded to Percy like someone gargling rocks. Then the goblin turned back to them.

“This is Gripcutter,” he said, gesturing. “He is a member of the goblin Grip clan, which has served as the Potter financial advisors for thousands of years. He will take you to meet the head of the clan.”

“Thank you,” Sally said cautiously, offering the goblin a nod. “May your enemy’s blood run red.”

Percy grinned, already loving these hardcore goblin pleasantries. As they moved away, he added, “May your enemies die by your hands, their skulls crushed and their gold melted into a statue of your victory.”

The goblin barked out a laugh sharp enough to turn heads. The one beside him bared gleaming, serrated teeth in approval. Percy shot them a smirk before turning to follow Gripcutter and his mother.

They followed the new goblin through the doors and down a long, winding corridor carved from ancient rock—rails glinting faintly in the torchlight like veins of metal. Percy’s footsteps echoed beneath him, and his heart thumped with every turn. At last they came to an ornately carved door, and Gripcutter rapped sharply. Inside, a goblin with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes looked up from a polished desk. Gripcutter bowed deeply; Percy imitated the gesture as best he could, neck stiff he aimed to be a tad respectful in his posture. He wasn't sure he achieved it, however. Espically when the goblin behind the desk snorted.

He folded his long fingers together. “Greetings, Heir Potter. May your investments be plentiful,” he rumbled. He straightened, eyes alighting on Percy. “I am Gripbones. It is wonderful to see Potter blood walking through Gringotts again.”

Percy swallowed, cheeks warming as he managed, “Err—Hello, sir. May your gold never run low.” He nearly tripped over his own tongue, but the words came out.

Gripbones inclined his head once. “Yes, may it.” He tapped a clawed finger on a ledger then turned his sharp eyes on his mom. “You’re relation to the Potter heir?”

Sally rubbed the back of her neck, then squared her shoulders. “I am his birth mother.” She stated strongly.

Gripbones raised a single eyebrow—the only sign he showed of his surprise—and regarded her for a long moment, allowing his mom to continue. “My son was taken from me at birth by a powerful witch. The Potters adopted him by blood and by magic. When they were killed, my son was returned to me,” Sally added, her words steady but soft.

Percy felt a tug in his chest; the weight of her loss echoed in the hush of the vaulted ceiling. Gripbones’ mouth twitched, skeptical, but he nodded once.

“You claim you are both unfamiliar with the wizarding world?”

They nodded together.

“You were not aware of the Potter vaults or titles?” Gripbones asked, shuffling through neatly stacked parchments. They nodded again. “I see.” He tapped a paper. “I have been informed that you are here for school supplies. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Sally replied curtly, glancing at Percy and laying a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Gripbones eyed Percy over the desk. “Then we only have time for brief explanations today. I will send you off with your account records to review and a list of texts on Heirships and Wizarding Kind.”

He leaned back. “Heir Potter, do you consent to Sally Jackson managing and reviewing your finances until you come of age?”

Percy’s answer was immediate. “Yes, sir.” He felt a surge of gratitude—his mother was the one person he trusted more than anyone.

Gripbones grunted and stood. “Follow me. We shall proceed to your school vault to collect the funds for your classes. Gripclaw will prepare your statements; I will explain the next steps in the Heirship process as we proceed.”

The cart ride down was exhilarating. Percy gripped the narrow wooden seat, eyes bright with excitement. His mother, however, clutched the side rail in one hand and his shirt in the other, knuckles bleached in the dim cave light. Percy was tempted to tease her, but he knew he would get glared at in retaliation, so he relented.

When they stopped, Gripbones jumped from the cart with ease and walked to the heavy stone doors. When he placed a key in the door and pushed it open, it revealed a cavern piled high with gold coins. Torchlight danced across the gleaming hoard as Percy’s jaw dropped.

“Is all this ours?” he whispered, voice trembling between awe and disbelief.

“This is for your school supplies. It should cover your seven years at Hogwarts and any mastery or apprenticeship you wish to pursue. Lord Potter set it aside the day after you were supposedly born.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “You mean there’s more than this?” His whisper squeaked.

Gripbones chortled—a deep, rolling sound. “Much more. You have an heir vault you may draw upon until you turn seventeen. It has a standard 300 Galleon limit, replenished monthly. At age fourteen, when you may formally claim your Heirship, it will increase to 500.”

Percy swallowed, trying to picture the numbers in his head. His mother glanced at him, pride and a touch of worry in her eyes.

Gripbones turned to Sally. “As Heir Potter’s guardian, you have full authority over his vaults until he comes of age. You may access it for any of his needs beyond his allowance—provided you vow not to abuse the power.”

Sally exhaled, steadying herself. She met Percy’s gaze and nodded.

Gripbones folded his arms. “At our next meeting, we will review the existing Potter investments and discuss which you wish to continue or cancel.”

The remainder of the visit blurred together: Sally accepting pouches of gold, Gripclaw handing over crisp documents, lights shifting as they returned to the surface. Percy only snapped back to reality when a blast of sunlight hit his face and the distant hum of the city returned.

“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Percy Jackson!” Sally’s tone was half amusement, half exasperation. “Watch that language.”

“But Mom!” Percy turned toward her, earnest and fired up. “You should divorce Gabe!”

Sally sighed, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “It doesn’t work like that, Percy. He—”

“He’s awful, Mom,” Percy interrupted, hurt and hope warring in his voice. “You could be so happy. We’re rich now. We can take care of ourselves. You don’t ever have to work again. We could—”

“Percy!” Sally’s voice rose, drawing glances from passersby. She softened immediately, lowering it to a hush. “There are reasons for Gabe, okay? You have to trust me.”

Percy’s shoulders slumped. He opened his mouth to argue but found he couldn’t. He nodded, voice small: “Okay.”

Sally’s relief was palpable. She slipped an arm around him, drawing him close in a quick, reassuring hug. She kissed his head. “Now come on. You need to be fitted for school robes first.”

He let himself be tugged onward, heart still racing from the vault—and from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he could help his mother find her own kind of magic in a better life.

They slipped into the narrow alley, where lanterns hung from crooked iron brackets, their soft glow revealing a faded sign: a golden tape measure curled around a pair of scissors. Madam Malkin’s. Sally squeezed Percy’s hand, guiding him through the small shop door.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wool and fresh-cut cloth. Racks of robes in every shade—from deep emerald to stormy gray—lined the walls. Parents chatted in hushed excitement; children jostled one another, robes pooled at their ankles. Percy’s stomach fluttered.

“Good afternoon,” called a stout witch in high, lilac robes that brushed the floor. She barely came to Percy’s shoulder. Her round face was framed by a neat bun of silver hair. “Welcome to Madam Malkin’s. How can I help you?” She scanned Percy and Sally with bright, assessing eyes. “Ahh, Muggleborn, are you? About to go to Hogwarts?”

Percy opened his mouth, then closed it. Sally tried to respond, but the witch waved them forward.

“Come, come. Right up here, dear. Stand tall and let the tape measure get your measurements. I’ll be right back.” With a flourish of her robes, she whisked away, disappearing behind a curtain.

Sally watched her go, one eyebrow raised, then turned to Percy and gave him a reassuring smile. She drifted toward the bolt of midnight-blue fabric, fingering the folds. Percy, meanwhile, felt a curious weight behind him. Floating in midair, a slender tape measure coiled around him, probing elbows, shoulders, waist.

He swallowed. Not exactly how he pictured sizing up my school robes, he thought, trying to stay still as the tape whispered measurements.

Next to him stood a blond boy with sharp features and a linen robe tucked neatly at the waist. He stood straight as fabrics whirled around him, testing to see what looked best against his pale complexion. “Hello,” the boy drawled, voice smooth as silk. “Hogwarts, too?”

Percy nodded. “Yes.”

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” the boy continued, yawning theatrically. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?”

“No,” Percy said.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” The boy shrugged and peeled his gaze away, but Percy felt the eyes linger a moment longer, sizing him up clearly wearing non wizard clothes.

Just then, Sally reappeared and stood in front of Percy. “Harry, who’s your friend?” she asked, her voice warm.

The blond boy’s eyes snapped to Sally. They widened as if he’d spotted a unicorn in the shop. Percy could only shrug.

“I—I’m Draco Malfoy,” the boy stammered, voice suddenly sheepish.

Percy blinked. Draco Malfoy? What kind of name was that?—but he shook it off. Sally’s smile was bright, and her eyes sparkled as she extended a hand. “Hello, Draco. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Sally. I’m Harry’s mom.”

“M-Merry meet, ma’am,” Draco stammered, gaze flicking between Percy and Sally like a spotlight.

Percy snorted. “I’m Harry,” he said, voice small but proud. Draco, however, was still staring at Sally—his mother’s easy grace clearly left an impression. Percy understood, his mom was amazing. Kindness and warmth and beauty filled the entire room when she entered. Percy would never grow tired of it.

Then the shop door opened again, and in drifted a woman of ethereal presence: tall, willowy, with platinum hair that fell like silk and robes the color of pale moonlight. She paused beside Draco, voice soft as candlelight.

“Dragon, are you ready to go?”

Draco snapped upright, mortified. His blush deepened—Percy couldn’t tell whether it was from being caught staring at Sally or from the embarrassing “Dragon” nickname—but he managed a quick, “Yes, Mother.”

Sally stepped forward, hands folded, and she smiled at the new woman. “Merry meet. I’m Sally.”

The woman inclined her head, expression cool but not unkind. “Merry meet. I’m Narcissa Malfoy. I couldn’t help but notice your accent.”

Sally’s smile never wavered. “Ahh, yes. We’re from America. My son’s other parents attended Hogwarts and wished for him to do the same, so we came to collect his school supplies before term.”

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, as though appraising a gemstone for flaws. Then she turned on silent shoes and guided Draco out of the shop, Draco turned towards Sally as if reluctant to leave her behind.

As the door swung closed, the air seemed to exhale.

Sally let out a laugh that was half-relief, half-exasperation. “What a weird family.”

They slipped out of Madam Malkin’s into the bright afternoon, rubbing shoulders with students hauling trunks and parchment rolls. Sally steered Percy toward the apothecary next. The walls inside were lined with dusty jars of unidentifiable ingredients—glimmering powders, cloudy liquids, and things that looked like bat wings in formaldehyde. Percy’s stomach churned as he loaded his list:

• 2 jars of Dittany
  
  
• 1 bundle of powdered moonstone
  
  
• 3 vials of Dragon’s blood extract
  
  

By the time they reached the trunk shop, Percy’s arms ached from hefting books and potion supplies that felt as if they weighed as much as him—until the clerk winked and produced a “Feather-Light Bag” that held all of his required books and still felt, well, featherlight.

Sally then tugged him down a narrow lane to the owl emporium, where a sour stench hit him like a slap. His eyes watered, and he wrinkled his nose.

“Do we really need an owl?” he hissed. Breathing through his mouth only let him taste the funk. Owls had always creeped him out a tad. They stared at him whenever he passed one by with beady eyes that seemed all knowing, as if they could see all his flaws and didn't like what they saw.

“How else are you going to write to me?” Sally dismissed him, voice patient but firm.

Percy shrugged, resigned.

He needed a sturdy, long-distance flyer. One that could travel across long distances and be fine. The clerk introduced them to several owls: tawny ones that hissed and snapped when he tried to touch them; eagle owls- though he didn't know why they called them eagle owls; they didn't look like eagles all that much- that squealed and flapped when he tried to pet them. One seemed to be okay for him to approach but as soon as he tried it snapped at his fingers then soared to a dusty shelf, eyeing him like he owed it money. 

The store owner scratched his head. “It’s like no owls like you.”

Percy’s shoulders slumped. It had to be a curse doomed to reject every potential flying companion.

Then the clerk’s face brightened as an idea came to him. “I have one in the back,” he said, propelling Percy through a curtained doorway. “She doesn’t like people. Or other owls. Can’t sell her, even though she’s beautiful. Maybe she’ll like you.”

In the dim back room, Percy found a snowy owl with eyes like polished onyx. However, when Percy looked a bit closer at them, there was a ring of sea green along the edges, a perfect match to his own. He held out his hand; she cocked her head, then let him gently stroke her downy crown. She nipped his finger once—gentle, almost shy—and folded herself onto his arm as if she’d been waiting for him all along.

“Perfect,” Percy breathed. Hedwig, he named her on the spot. It had been the one name he could read with his dyslexia when he flipped through his history book earlier.

Their final stop was Ollivander's. The moment Percy stepped inside, he felt magic swirl like wind through his bones. Walls stacked with dusty wand boxes loomed overhead. A thin man with wild silver hair and bright eyes emerged from the shadows.

“Greetings!” the man said softly.

“Hello,” Percy replied, voice small under the weight of all that magic.

The wandmaker’s gaze locked onto Percy. “Ah yes. Harry Potter. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Your mother was here buying her first wand only yesterday—willow, ten and a quarter inches, swishy. Excellent for charm work.”

Percy glanced at Sally; she nodded, a bittersweet smile touching her lips.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored mahogany—eleven inches, pliable, more power for transfiguration. Of course, the wand chooses the wizard.”

Ollivander’s long finger hovered over Percy’s scar. Percy held his breath, trying not to flinch back on instinct as the man traced the lightning bolt. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it—yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches, a phoenix core. Powerful, very powerful—and in the wrong hands... If only I’d known.”

Percy’s chest tightened, the past pressing in on him.

Mr. Ollivander blinked, then noticed Sally. “And who might you be, my dear? I would know if I had sold a wand to you before.”

Sally straightened. “I’m Harry’s mom—muggle, as you witches call us.”

Ollivander’s face puckered in thought. “Hmmm—very interesting.”

“Well now, Mr. Potter,” he said, producing a long silver tape measure that fluttered like a living thing. “Which is your wand arm?”

“I’m right-handed,” Percy said.

“Hold it out.” The tape curled around Percy’s shoulder when he did so, down his arm, across his chest, and around his head with a soft glow. “Every Ollivander wand has a core of unicorn hair, phoenix feather, or dragon heartstring. No two wands are the same, just as no two wizards are.”

He snapped the tape away. “That will do.” He plucked a slender box from a high shelf. “Try this—beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, flexible.” Percy lifted the wand and flicked it; nothing happened.

Box after box followed: some erupted in uncontrolled sparks, others lay inert. Percy’s arm started to ache, and his hopes dimmed with each failed attempt. His mother watched calmly from a corner, Hedwig perched on her knee, eyes luminous.

“Tricky customer, eh?” Ollivander murmured, excitement flickering in his eyes. He selected one last wand: holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple. He handed it to Percy. When Percy raised it, a gentle warmth pulsed through his fingertips and the tip glowed softly.

Then the wand grew hotter. Percy wanted to let go, but it was like the wand was stuck. The wand began to catch fire in his fingers. 

Olivander practically squealed with excitement at the same time his mom jumped from the chair, his name a cry on her lips. But the flame didn’t hurt him, it was only hot.

“Ohh it’s been so long!” Olivander exclaimed. “I haven’t made a custom wand in ages.”

“What’s happening?” Percy asked, watching as the wood ate away in the flames.

“The core is a phoenix feather and it’s perfect for you. Can’t you feel it calling for you. The warmth it is pushing through your entire body?” All Percy could do was nod as he watched the wood finish burning leaving a flaming feather in its wake. 

“However, the wood doesn’t agree. It doesn't suit you quite right so the Pheonex feather burned it away so that I may make you a wand with a wood that suits you.” He grabbed Percy by the shoulders. “Come- come this way.” Percy was guided to the back of the store. He was stopped in front of a very long, very tall wall of wood blocks. It would have been impossible for the wall to be so large. Percy might have asked had he not just assumed magic was holding it in place with a mental shrug of his shoulders. 

“Feel. Close your eyes and allow your hand to move towards a wood that feels right.” Percy hesitated but did as he was told. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he raised his hand and pressed it against the block of wood in front of him. It felt icy, like walking barefoot in a New York blizzard. Immediately Percy wanted to snatch his hand back; it wasn't right. Instead he moved his hand to the right. The wood grain changed to a smooth wood but his magic felt like it was trekking in mud when he touched it. Percy moved his hand again. This time focusing less on the feelings he was receiving from the wood and going by instincts and moving away from what felt automatically wrong. His fingers skimmed block after block of wood following his gut on which direction to try. 

He came to an abrupt halt when his fingers skimmed one piece of wood. This one felt right. He pressed his entire palm against it and everything snapped into place. The feather in his left hand warmed in delight, a sharp contrast to the cooling sensations of the wood in his right. The wood smelled of the sea. It felt like cool waves dragging him out to sea and pushing him back to shore. Like cool, strong arms supporting him and wrapping around him. It felt right. 

Percy opened his eyes. The block of wood had every shade of red he could think of. It swirled together like flowing rivers and swirled together like waves crashing down. It was beautiful. 

Olivander smiled widely. “Ahh Mangrove wood.” he exclaimed, taking it from his hands and taking it further into the back. “Yes, yes a fine choice albeit interesting.” 

Percy looked on as he began to prepare his wood carving station. “You see, Mangrove trees are found on saltwater beaches. They feature roots that start above the water and reach deep into the sand to reach for sustaining nutrients. They are one of the only trees to be able to thrive in salt water and provide habitation to many different animals. They also help prevent erosion of many coastlines and are natural filters to pollution and provide protection to the coast and its inhabitants from storms and tsunamis.”

Olivander began to carve into the wood. Narrowing it with every swipe and turning to do the same on the other side. He began to talk again when a more detailed shape began to form. 

“The feather on the other hand has a very interesting history. I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter." He paused briefly to look at Percy, staring deeply into his eyes with an intensity that didn't allow Percy to look away. "Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.” 

Percy swallowed. What was that supposed to mean? What did that imply?

Olivander turned his back towards Percy so that he couldn’t see what he was doing. He took the Phonex feather from his hand and completed whatever finishing touches were needed before he held the wand up to admire his work.

“This wand combination is very powerful. If you don't learn to work with it, it will destroy everything in its path. However it is also extremely loyal. Should you earn its loyalty, it will never work for anyone else even if it is won in battle.” He handed the wand to him and Percy found himself standing straighter.

“Serve it well Perseus Jackson and it shall serve you.”

Percy did a mental flinch as he was snapped back into reality. “Wait.” Percy called. “How did you know my name?” But Ollivander didn’t answer, just shoved him towards the door front where his mother was waiting. 

“No charge Mrs. Jackson.” he called without stepping into the front. “It’s not often I get to make a custom wand. I truly enjoyed it.”

Next thing Percy knew, he and his mom were standing outside the shop, and all the lights were off and the shop was closed. 

“Strange man.” His mom muttered. “Well let's see?” 

Percy lifted his new wand, for the first time really looking at it. It was a little over a foot long and it featured a spiral down the wand. The red wood glimmered in different patterns that accented the grip perfectly. The grip fit perfectly into his hand and small wave-like features protruded around where his hand would grip. It was beautiful. 

“That’s a lovely wand, Percy.” His mom told him. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and placed a kiss on it. “Now come on. We’ll go pick up your robes, get some dinner and head home. What do you think?” 

“Yeah.” Percy murmured but his thoughts were elsewhere as he was led back through Diagon Alley. 

Chapter Text

“I’m going to miss you so much, Starfish.” His mom’s voice trembled as she pulled him into a tight hug on Platform 9¾.

They had arrived in Diagon Alley the night before by international travel. Percy had sent Hedwig ahead to meet him at Hogwarts, and then they found a small, quiet Muggle inn tucked behind a secondhand bookstore to stay the night.

But this—this moment right here—was by far the hardest part.

Percy wrapped his arms tightly around his mother, burying his face in her shoulder for just a second longer than he probably should have. The loud whistle of the train pierced the air behind them, the final warning before departure.

With a lump in his throat and stinging eyes, Percy pulled back just enough to look up at her.

“I love you, Mom,” he said softly.

“I love you too, Perseus.” She cupped his face in her hands. “Write to me, okay? As much as Hedwig can bear to carry. And don’t forget to try your best. I’ll love you no matter what—even if you get expelled again.”

She gave a watery laugh, then brushed his messy hair aside, deliberately revealing his lightning bolt scar, and kissed his forehead one last time.

Percy managed a crooked smile, though his heart was heavy. He finally let go, picking up the handle of his trunk and starting toward the train.

As he stepped up onto the platform, he couldn’t help but notice a familiar blond boy staring at him through one of the carriage windows. Malfoy. His gaze darted back and forth between Percy’s mom—okay, fine, yes, she was beautiful, but the staring was still a bit much—and the clearly visible scar on Percy’s forehead.

Percy smirked. Feeling just a little smug, he turned and threw his mom one more exaggerated hug before climbing onto the train. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.

He moved quickly through the narrow aisle until he found an empty compartment at the back of the train. With a grunt, he shoved his trunk into the storage rack and collapsed into one of the padded seats, sprawling out to watch the world outside.

The train began to move, slowly at first, then faster, and the platform—and his mom—began to shrink into the distance.

This was it. The beginning of something entirely new. A world he didn’t know, a school he couldn’t predict, and rules that probably made even less sense than the ones he’d already broken.

As the station faded into a blur, Percy leaned his head back and let out a long sigh.

So far, no chaos, no trouble, and nobody yelling at me for doing nothing. We’re off to a good start.

Just then, the door to the compartment slid open.

A slim red-haired boy stood in the doorway, looking hesitant, shoulders hunched like he expected to be chased out.

“Err—” the boy started, then rushed out a sentence so fast Percy barely caught it. “CanIsitinhere?”

Percy raised an eyebrow, sizing him up silently. The kid looked about his age, a bit tall and gangly, with the kind of expression that screamed awkward youngest sibling energy. The boy’s ears turned bright red to match his hair.

“I mean—can I sit in here?” he repeated, slower this time. “All the other compartments are full.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

Percy shrugged with a vague motion toward the seat across from him.

The boy’s entire body deflated with visible relief, like he’d been holding his breath since arriving. He dragged his trunk into the compartment and, with a grunt and some awkward maneuvering, managed to shove it onto the upper shelf.

Then he turned back to Percy and stuck out a hand. “I’m Ron,” he said.

Percy took it with a firm grip. “Harry.”

Ron’s eyes lit up with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Percy nodded in return, then leaned back against the window, letting the rumbling of the train carry them further into the unknown.

The door slammed open again, this time with much more dramatic flair, and in rushed a pair of redheaded boys who were obviously twins. They barreled into the compartment, already in the middle of a conversation, completely oblivious to Percy sitting quietly across from their brother.

“Hey, Ron,” said one, not missing a beat.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train — Lee Jordan’s got a tarantula down there.”

“Right,” Ron mumbled, clearly used to the chaos they brought with them.

Only then did the two boys seem to notice Percy.

“Well hello there,” one of them said with a theatrical lilt.

“Who do we—” began the other.

“—have here?” the first finished.

Percy gave a lazy wave from his seat, not even bothering to sit up straighter. He could already tell these two were a handful.

“He’s Fred,” said the one on the left, gesturing at the other.

“That’s George,” the second added, returning the gesture with a dramatic bow. “And you are?”

Percy arched an eyebrow. “What’s it to you?” he asked, amusement flickering in his voice.

“An American!” Fred gasped, as if Percy had just admitted to being a centaur.

George immediately launched into an awful southern accent. “What you doin’ ‘round these parts, stranger?”

Percy barked out a laugh. “That’s a horrible accent. Besides, I’m from New York.”

Fred mock-staggered. “Oh, even worse! Fast-talking, skyscraper-scaling, taxi-hailing New Yorker!”

George grinned. “And what’s a New Yorker doing going to Hogwarts?”

Percy shrugged, folding his arms behind his head. “Change of scenery. Wanted to see how—” his voice shifted into an exaggerated posh British accent “—you islanders compare to the superior country.”

He smirked. “So far, I’m unimpressed.”

The twins laughed uproariously.

“Suddenly, Forge, a tarantula doesn’t seem all that interesting.”

“Yes, Gred,” Fred nodded solemnly. “We can scare the first years with it later.”

Fred turned back to Percy, eyes gleaming. “And you said your name was…”

Percy’s grin widened, sharklike and playful. “I didn’t,” he said with a chuckle. “That would be too easy.”

Mischief danced in both twins’ eyes. “Very well, Mr. American,” George said. “We can play your game.”

Together, they stood and began slowly circling him like he was some kind of exotic zoo exhibit.

“Black hair,” Fred began, tapping his chin.

“Messy,” George added.

“Tan skin.”

“Short.”

“Skinny.”

“Obviously Muggle-raised, if not trained.”

“Definitely, Forge. The clothes say it all.”

“First year for sure.”

“That one’s a troublemaker. I can smell it on him.”

“High cheekbones.”

“Bright green eyes—"

Then, suddenly, both boys froze. Fred gasped dramatically, eyes locking onto Percy’s face.

“It can’t be, Forge,” he whispered.

“But it’s not possible,” George said, equally overdramatic. He pretended to swoon.

“The Savior—corrupted by the Americans!” they shouted together, pointing at Percy like he had committed some unspeakable scandal.

A gasp broke the theatrics as Ron finally caught on, eyes wide. “You’re Harry Potter!”

Percy, unfazed, sighed through his nose and pushed his fringe back to show the scar on his forehead.

“I told you my name was Harry,” he muttered.

Ron’s mouth flapped like a dying fish. “But—what are you doing in New York?”

“I live there,” Percy said simply.

“But you’re Harry Potter! You’re British!”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, I’ve lived in New York most of my life. I’d say I’m more American than not.”

Fred leaned in, curiosity bright in his eyes. “So…” he drawled. “How does Harry Potter end up an American?”

Percy shrugged again, a lazy grin playing at his lips. “Magic,” he said with mock whimsy, wiggling his fingers like he was casting sparkles into the air.

George laughed and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Delightfully mysterious. I expect a full tale of cross-continental wizard duels and dark lord chases through Manhattan. Anything less would be crushingly disappointing.”

“Nothing that extravagant,” Percy replied, but didn’t elaborate. His gaze flicked to the window, jaw tightening for just a beat. “And I’m not some dark-lord-slaying-monster-fighter.”

There was a quiet steel in his voice now, just for a moment.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Fair enough, mate. But either way—you’re clearly a proper troublemaker. I can tell. This year’s bound to be the best one yet.”

George nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. But now, if you’ll excuse us, Lee Jordan’s still waiting on us for that tarantula demo. Can’t leave the first years un-traumatized.”

Ron, for some reason, shuddered at the mention of the spider. “Ugh, tell him to keep it in its box this time.”

With a dramatic bow and a flash of matching red hair, the twins ducked out of the compartment, already discussing arachnid acrobatics.

Ron watched the twins disappear down the corridor, their voices fading behind the clatter of shoes and laughter. He sighed and turned back to Percy with an apologetic grimace.

“Sorry about them,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fred and George can be… eccentric.”

Percy leaned back in his seat, raising a hand to push his fringe over his scar. The stubborn hair barely stayed down a second before bouncing right back into place. Typical.

“Eccentric’s one word for it,” Percy said dryly, letting his arm drop. “Though honestly? I can hold my own in the oddball department.”

Ron’s lips quirked into a crooked grin. “Well, that makes two of us then.” He shifted in his seat, his ears pinking slightly. “I guess we ought to properly introduce ourselves.”

He extended a hand, a little more confident this time. “Ron Weasley.”

Percy gave him a sly smile and reached out to shake. “Merry meet, Ron. I’m Harry Potter.”

Ron’s eyes widened again—though thankfully with a bit less shock than earlier. “Still not over that, honestly,” he said, then quickly added, “Not in a bad way! It’s just… you’re not at all what I expected.”

Percy quirked an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You thought I’d be wearing robes, glowing, and maybe floating two inches off the floor?”

“Something like that,” Ron admitted with a sheepish chuckle. “Definitely didn’t picture you talking back to Fred and George like that, though.”

“They seemed like they could take it,” Percy said with a smirk. “I like people who can throw a punch and laugh about it later. Verbal punch,” he clarified. “Mostly.”

Ron laughed. “Oh, they can take it. Fred and George live for that kind of thing. Honestly, you might be their favorite person now, and that’s saying something. I’m their younger brother and they mostly use me for pranks.”

Percy raised a brow, amused. “Younger brother, huh? That explains the dynamic. How many of you Weasleys are there?”

“Too many,” Ron replied immediately, grinning. “I’m the sixth out of seven. You’ll probably meet all of them eventually. They sort of… fill a room.”

Percy gave a mock-horrified gasp. “Seven? That’s a lot.”

Ron nodded sagely. “Yeah. Never a quiet moment..”

Percy leaned his head back against the seat, smiling faintly. For the first time since arriving in this new, magical world, he felt something settle in his chest. “Well,” he said after a pause, “cheers to meeting weird families and forming unlikely friendships.”

Ron nodded, raising an imaginary glass. “Cheers.”

______________________

Percy and Ron got on splendidly for the first half of the train ride. When the trolley lady came by, Percy bought an absurd number of sweets, and the two of them gorged themselves on chocolate and various kinds of wizarding candy. Ron was adamant that Chocolate Frogs were the best—solely because he was collecting the cards.

When Percy tried one for himself, he got Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts. The card listed numerous achievements that Percy’s dyslexia wouldn’t even attempt to parse, and just when he tried to focus on the tiny, moving text, the picture of Dumbledore waved and wandered right off the card. Percy blinked at the empty frame. “Rude,” he muttered before shoving it into his pocket.

His favorite ended up being the blue sugar quills. They reminded him of the blue Pixy Stix his mom used to bring home from work—sweet, crunchy, and guaranteed to dye his tongue electric blue.

They chatted easily, covering topics from Ron’s enormous family to Hogwarts classes and what they might like best. At one point, Percy admitted that he had no idea what Quidditch even was, which sparked a passionate and slightly overwhelming monologue from Ron on the rules, positions, international teams, league rankings, and the glory of the Chudley Cannons.

Percy did his best to nod at the right moments and not let his eyes glaze over completely.

Sometime after lunch, their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. It slid open to reveal a round-faced boy peeking inside, clearly nervous.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

They both shook their heads.

“I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!” the boy wailed, clearly on the edge of tears.

“He’ll turn up,” Percy offered, trying to sound reassuring. But the boy only looked more miserable.

“Yes… well… if you see him…” he trailed off and wandered off down the corridor.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” Ron said, leaning back in his seat. “If I’d brought a toad, I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” He gestured to the lump of fur curled up in his lap.

The rat was fat, its grey fur patchy, and it looked well past the age any self-respecting rat should live to.

Percy leaned forward for a better look. The rat didn’t look like any he knew—and coming from New York, that was saying something. Percy knew rats. This one was… off. He couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the weirdly shaped feet. Or the way it twitched when it slept. Or maybe just the vibes.

He mentally shrugged. Probably just a magical rat thing. Still, as a born-and-bred New Yorker, his instinctive dislike of rats kicked in hard. He quickly sat back and decided not to think about it again.

Ron was still talking, but Percy hadn’t caught any of it—his brain stuck on whether or not the rat was going to explode or transform or start talking. He was still wondering about it when the door slid open again.

The round-faced boy was back—but this time, he was being marched into the compartment by a bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl who looked like she’d already memorized the Hogwarts rulebook. Twice.

Teacher’s pet, Percy thought immediately. And loud. Definitely loud.

He’d been through a lot of schools over the years. American ones, mostly. And if there was one thing he’d learned, it was how to spot the “smart” kids from a mile away. They always had the same air about them—stiff posture, fast-talking, eyes scanning everyone like they were an essay to be graded. And the girl who burst into the compartment now? She didn’t disappoint.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she announced without preamble, her voice clipped and bossy.

Percy blinked. Ron groaned.

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” Ron said, a bit of exasperation leaking into his voice. At some point during their earlier conversation, he’d taken out his wand. The girl’s eyes latched onto it like a hawk.

“Oh! Are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.” She sat down as if she owned the place.

Ron looked like he’d been caught trying to cheat on a test. “Er — all right.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound confident.

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”

He waved his wand with a dramatic flourish.

Nothing happened. Scabbers didn’t so much as twitch. He stayed curled up in Ron’s lap, gray, lumpy, and entirely un-yellow.

Percy burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it—it just snorted right out of him before he could clamp it down. He immediately felt guilty when he saw Ron’s face go the exact shade of a tomato.

“I’m sorry,” Percy said, trying and mostly failing to muffle his giggles. “I just— that didn’t sound like a real spell. Sounds more like something out of a bad Halloween movie with those evil green witches.”

Ron scowled. “Witches aren’t green.”

The girl rolled her eyes like she’d been waiting her whole life to correct that statement. “Muggles make up scary stories to frighten children or keep them away from things they don’t understand. In a lot of them, witches are evil and usually portrayed as green.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Ron said, nodding along. “If there were evil witches, they’d wear green.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is there some fashion rule I don’t know?”

Ron’s face twisted in disgust. “Because Slytherins wear green.”

Percy tilted his head. “Okay… but that doesn’t mean green is evil. Why are Slytherins evil in the first place?”

Ron stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Every bad witch or wizard’s come out of Slytherin. Everyone knows that. Even you-know-who was one.”

Percy frowned; he didn't really know who Ron was referring to but decided to ignore it for now. Obviously it was something he was supposed to know. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s a weird way to judge people. That doesn’t make everyone who wears green evil. It’s just a color. And even if Slytherins are ambitious or whatever, that doesn’t make them bad.”

Neither Ron nor the girl seemed to have a response for that, though Ron looked deeply unconvinced.

Percy turned to the girl, nodding toward her in mild amusement. “You know, you never introduced yourself.”

She blinked, blushing faintly like the thought had only just occurred to her. “Oh—right. I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered, still nursing his wounded pride.

“Harry Potter,” Percy said, offering a small smile.

Hermione’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Are you really?” she asked. Percy sighed and lifted his fringe again to reveal the infamous scar.

“I read about you,” Hermione gushed. “You’re in Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century—”

“Am I?” Percy muttered. That was unsettling.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “If I were you, I’d have read everything I could by now,” she said eagerly.

Percy’s expression flattened. He hadn’t even gotten through the first chapter of Hogwarts: A History without getting a headache from all the swirly letters.

Hermione must’ve noticed something shift in his expression because she suddenly changed topics without warning. Or maybe she hadn’t noticed at all.

“Do either of you know what House you’ll be in?” she asked, back to her brisk pace. “I’ve been asking around, and I really hope I’m in Gryffindor. It sounds by far the best. I hear Dumbledore himself was in it—but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad.”

Ron sat up straighter. “Everyone in my family’s been in Gryffindor,” he said proudly, though his hands fidgeted nervously in his lap.

Percy had read a little bit about the houses—or, more accurately, his mom had read them to him when the writing in the books got too confusing. He still wasn’t sure what house would fit him best. None of the house traits leapt off the page and scream you belong here . All he knew was he liked the color blue, and Ravenclaw was blue. So, that was something.

He just shrugged instead of saying anything. The last thing he wanted was for Hermione to launch into an academic breakdown of the pros and cons of each house.

Eventually, Hermione left to go help the toad kid again, and the conversation shifted once more. Percy leaned back in his seat, looking over at Ron as he continued to talk about his family—six siblings. That was crazy. Percy was an only child. A little part of him—tiny, barely a whisper—was jealous.

But he smiled anyway and let Ron ramble on. 

_________________________

They were deep in a discussion about Quidditch—teams, positions, leagues Percy had never heard of—when the door to the compartment slid open again.

White-blond hair. Pointed features. A permanent expression of superiority. Draco Malfoy.

He stood in the doorway, flanked by two bulky boys who didn’t bother introducing themselves. Draco’s eyes locked onto Percy like he’d just spotted something scandalous in a shop window.

“Is it true?” he demanded. “I saw your scar at the station. Are you Harry Potter?”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “I told you at Madam Malkin’s my name was Harry.”

Draco stared at him, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he exclaimed. “I could’ve introduced myself properly!”

Percy leaned his head back against the seat with a sigh, already regretting this interaction. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

Draco looked outright offended. “Didn’t—? You’re Harry Potter. You’re famous.”

“And?” Percy said flatly. “It’s a scar. I have a name. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Draco blinked, visibly struggling to decide whether to be insulted or just confused. “You don’t make any sense, Potter,” he muttered.

Then his eyes flicked over, finally noticing Ron, who was sitting stiffly across from Percy. Draco’s entire posture shifted—shoulders tighter, mouth twisted into a sneer.

“I suppose you didn’t mention who you were because you’ve already made friends with them .” His voice dripped with disdain. “You’ll find some families just don’t belong, you know.”

Ron tensed, eyes narrowing as his ears turned red. “At least we don’t have to buy our friends,” he snapped.

Draco’s eyes flashed, and he turned back to Percy with an exaggerated sneer. “Really, a Weasley. Ginger hair, secondhand everything... You could do so much better.” He stepped forward, extending a pale hand. “We could be friends. I could be a much more powerful ally.”

Percy stared at the offered hand, unimpressed. That’s what this was about—positioning, image, attention. Not friendship.

He didn’t move.

“I don’t need an ally,” Percy said calmly. “I’d like genuine friends. People I trust. We’re not there.”

Draco’s lips tightened. Slowly, he lowered his hand.

“Think about it, Potter,” he said coldly. “Come find me when you realize there are better—” his eyes flicked to Ron “— options than blood traitors.”

Ron surged forward, half-rising from his seat, jaw clenched.

Percy lifted a hand without looking away from Draco. “Don’t bother.”

Ron hesitated, then sat back down reluctantly.

Percy tilted his head, eyes cool. “He doesn’t get to decide who I’m friends with. And if he ever wants to be my so-called ‘ally,’ he’ll need to pull his head out of his ass and realize he’s being a dick.”

Draco’s nostrils flared. Ron snorted.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco snapped.

“Probably not,” Percy replied evenly. “But neither do you. So we’re even.”

For a moment, Draco looked like he might retaliate, but instead, he gave a frustrated huff and spun on his heel. The two hulking boys trailed after him like awkward shadows, the door sliding shut behind them.

Ron let out a long breath. “Merlin, he’s awful.”

Percy didn’t respond right away. He watched the door for a beat longer, then leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs.

“He’s dramatic,” Percy said finally. “Felt like I just watched a soap opera scene break out in real time.”

Ron blinked at him—then barked a laugh. “You really are weird.”

“I get that a lot,” Percy said, smirking faintly. “Usually from weird people.”

_________________________________

A short while later, a voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately.”

Percy and Ron scrambled into motion, diving into the chaos of the compartment. They threw on their robes in a tangle of sleeves and half-zipped pockets, stuffing the last of the sweets into any space they could find—Ron’s mouth included.

The hallway outside was already packed with chattering students, pressing shoulder to shoulder, all trying to edge toward the exits. Percy could barely move without elbowing someone in the ribs. Still, the low buzz of nerves and excitement around him was contagious. The train finally hissed to a stop, and the doors clattered open.

They were immediately swept forward by the tide of older students shouting instructions. Percy tried to look for some kind of sign or direction— Where were the first years supposed to go? Was someone meeting them? But the choice was quickly made for him by a booming voice that cut through the crowd like thunder.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years this way! C’mon now—hurry up!”

The man calling out to them was massive—easily twice as tall as anyone Percy had ever seen, with shoulders as broad as a grizzly bear and a beard that could hide entire woodland creatures. His clothes looked like they’d been sewn by hand out of old carpets, and he smelled faintly of woodsmoke and damp moss.

He smiled warmly though that countered his harsh outer appearance.

Percy followed Ron and the crowd of nervous first years toward him. The man waved them forward with a large lantern swinging in one hand.

“All right, follow me! Boats are waitin’. Four to a boat!”

They trudged down a narrow trail in the cool evening air, the ground crunching beneath their feet. When they reached the lake’s edge, Percy paused. It was stunning. The surface was like polished glass, so still and quiet it reflected the stars above perfectly—until the ripples of the boats disturbed the illusion.

The small boats bobbed gently in place, and Percy climbed into one alongside Ron and two other students he didn’t know. The giant man clambered into a much larger boat at the front and raised his lantern high.

“Forward!”

The boats glided off smoothly, as if tugged by invisible strings. Percy glanced down at the black water and shivered—he could’ve sworn he saw movement beneath the surface, a pair of eyes watching from the depths. But when he blinked, the lake looked empty again. Just shadows. Right?

He didn’t have long to dwell on it.

Because then they turned a corner—and there it was.

Hogwarts.

The castle rose above the cliffs like something out of a dream. Towers and turrets reached into the sky, windows glowing golden against the deepening dusk. It was magnificent, ancient, and entirely overwhelming. Percy leaned forward slightly, mouth open, taking it all in. The warm lights twinkling from high windows. The wind curling off the cliffs. The feeling that he was sailing straight into another world.

“Heads down!” the giant man shouted from his boat.

Percy ducked just in time as the boat passed under a curtain of ivy concealing a wide, mossy opening in the cliff face. They glided through a cool, damp tunnel lit only by the lantern ahead, the gentle sound of water lapping at the sides of the boats filling the silence.

Eventually, the boats drifted into an underground harbor. A rocky bank stretched ahead, slick with mist and scattered with pebbles.

“All out now! Up you get!”

Percy clambered out, nearly losing his footing on the wet stone before steadying himself. Around him, the others were gathering, whispering in awe or nudging each other nervously.

He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling—stone arches framed with glowing moss—and took a breath.

The door swung open at once, revealing a tall witch with sleek black hair and striking emerald-green robes. Her expression was sharp and no-nonsense—Percy’s first thought was that this was not someone you’d want to cross.

“The first years, Professor McGonagall,” the large man announced.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” She pulled the door wide, beckoning them inside with a subtle but firm gesture.

They filed in, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the room. Just before they reached another set of grand doors, Professor McGonagall stopped and turned to address the entire group.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said crisply. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly. But before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses.”

Percy nodded politely but his attention had already drifted. The walls were lined with portraits—paintings of people who moved, whispered, and occasionally winked at the new arrivals. Percy’s eyes flicked from one to another, fascinated by the way they seemed almost alive, chatting amongst themselves like old friends.

Suddenly, a translucent figure floated forward. A man in ghostly robes caught the attention of nearly everyone. His face was serene but mournful, as if carrying centuries of stories. Another ghost, looking like he belonged in a Renaissance painting, paused his conversation and turned towards the crowd.

“New students, eh?” the ghostly man said, his voice echoing slightly. “Here’s hoping they end up in Hufflepuff, eh?”

The students exchanged amused glances as the ghost drifted away, fading back into the shadows. Percy blinked, momentarily surprised to realize Professor McGonagall had quietly stepped aside during the ghostly interruption. When had she left?

“Now, form a line,” she instructed sharply, returning to her role. “And follow me.”

Percy lined up behind a boy with sandy blond hair, Ron following close behind.

The doors swung open into the Great Hall and Percy’s breath caught. Hundreds of candles floated in lazy circles overhead, casting a soft, flickering light that made the room shimmer with enchantment.

Four long tables stretched out before them, each lined with students in matching house robes—red, green, yellow, and blue. Percy suppressed a snort to himself. Being color-coded like that seemed so... limiting. He much preferred mixing and matching colors. The idea of sitting surrounded by only one color felt stifling. Except for blue, of course. Blue was different—blue was cool. He could live with blue.

The tables were set with gleaming golden plates and goblets, catching the candlelight and sparkling like treasure.

At the far end of the hall, a long table stretched perpendicular to the others. Seated there were what Percy assumed were the only adults in the place—professors, no doubt, all watching silently.

The best part, however, was the ceiling. It was a masterpiece—a vast expanse of stars twinkling in a perfect mimicry of the night sky. Just as Percy was wondering if it really was the real sky, he heard Hermione’s soft voice nearby.

“It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside,” she whispered excitedly. “I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. ”

Percy nodded, impressed despite himself.

At the front of the hall, on a simple stool, sat the Sorting Hat—worn, battered, and frankly, a bit disgusting-looking. Percy grimaced at the thought of it touching his head. What if it’s full of lice?

Then, to his horror, the hat began to sing.

The song was... atrocious. It was scratchy, off-key, and full of strange rhymes. Percy winced and exchanged a look with Ron.

“So we just have to put that on our heads?” Ron whispered nervously. “I’ll kill Fred—I heard he was going to wrestle a troll to avoid this.”

Percy gave a weak smile. “Honestly, I’d rather wrestle a troll.”

“When I call your name,” McGonagall announced, “you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.”

The hall quieted as she called out, “Abbott, Hannah!”

A small girl hurried forward, climbing onto the stool. McGonagall gently placed the hat on her head. The hall held its breath until the hat shouted:

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Cheers erupted from the yellow table, but nowhere else. Percy chuckled quietly—already sensing the fierce loyalty that the houses inspired.

The names blurred together, one after another, until finally it was his turn—or rather, his new name.

“Potter, Harry!”

As Percy stepped forward, a ripple of whispers spread through the hall like sparks igniting dry tinder. “Potter, did she say?” “The Harry Potter?”

The last thing Percy saw before the hat slipped over his eyes was a sea of curious faces, all craning to get a better look at him.

The brim of the hat was rough and scratchy against his forehead, and the inside smelled faintly of old cloth and... something else—dust, maybe? Ugh, nasty.

Then, unexpectedly, the hat chuckled softly—not out loud, but inside his mind. A voice, both ancient and mischievous, spoke directly to him, echoing in his thoughts.

“Hmm,” the small, ancient voice whispered inside his mind. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent — oh my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting… So, where shall I put you?”

Percy tried not to let the nervous flutter in his chest show. He swallowed and thought back firmly, Can I go to the blue table? “Can I go to Ravenclaw?” he asked aloud quietly, hoping the hat would hear him.

There was a pause, almost as if the hat was thinking carefully, then the voice responded with a teasing firmness:
“You are not fit to go to Ravenclaw. They value knowledge and wisdom — and you, young Harry, do not.”

Percy frowned, genuinely surprised—and, if he were honest, a little offended. Not fit?
“But... it’s blue,” he muttered, voice low, half-joking but mostly confused.

The hat gave a soft, amused chuckle.
“Yes, well, color preferences aside, you are no Ravenclaw. You don’t seek knowledge for its own sake. Curiosity, yes—but yours is rooted in instinct, practicality. You question the world around you, but not to study it. You question to survive it. That is a very different thing, my boy.”

Percy fell quiet, chewing on that. The hat wasn’t wrong. He didn’t study for fun—he studied when it was necessary. He learned what he needed, when he needed it, and he moved on. He didn’t want to know how something worked unless it was about to blow up in his face.

“How about Hufflepuff?” the hat offered next, its voice warm, even encouraging. “They value loyalty — to their friends, to their house, to the ones they love. They are a noble, fair, and honest lot. You would find companionship and kindness there. You could thrive.”
There was a pause.
“However... they also value patience. And that, I fear, is a virtue you do not yet possess.”

Percy sighed inwardly. He wasn’t wrong about that either.

The hat shifted its tone slightly, contemplative now. “Then there is Gryffindor. A house of courage, determination, recklessness, and pride. Bravery is their guiding force, and justice, too, though they may go about it clumsily. They stand tall when others fall. They fight loudly when others flee.”

Percy blinked under the brim of the hat, heart thudding once.

“They are impulsive, hot-headed, stubborn,” the hat continued. “They leap before they look, shout before they speak—but they are true. And you, Perseus Jackson, you have faced more than most your age. You’ve stood your ground when others might have given in. You’ve endured. That is bravery, even if you don’t name it as such.”

Percy swallowed. That word— endured —hit harder than he expected. He had endured. All the moves, the schools, the fights, the confusion. He hadn’t gone looking for adventure or hardship. It just kept finding him.

“But,” the hat added, “there is one thing that sets you apart from most Gryffindors: you’ve never sought glory. You don’t want attention or fame. In fact, you’d rather disappear into the background if it meant keeping your peace. That makes you unique... and more difficult to place.”

It paused then, letting that sit.

Then, softly, it asked, “So tell me, Perseus — what do you value more? Courage... or loyalty?”

Percy hesitated. His mind flickered back over everything he’d been through so far. He’d been to countless schools, bounced around from place to place, never really fitting in anywhere. Most of those schools had quietly—or not so quietly—asked him to leave. Loyalty? He hadn’t been loyal to any of them. Not to the teachers, not to the classmates, not even to the people who'd hurt him.

He thought about Gabe, the man who raised him. Would I be loyal to him? No. Not really. Percy didn’t owe Gabe anything except distance. He hadn’t formed bonds strong enough to call loyalty. The only person in the entire world he would follow to the ends of the earth was his mom.

But courage? Was he brave? Somehow, he was standing here, halfway across the world at a magical school—when just a month ago, he didn’t even know magic was real. Was that courage or just pure luck? Maybe a mix of both, or just survival instinct kicking in. He was here because the wizards would come for him whether he liked it or not, not because he’d sought it out.

What is loyalty, anyway? What even counts as courage?

His thoughts slowed as he stared into the darkness beneath the hat, waiting for an answer—not from the Sorting Hat, but from himself. Was he ready to be brave? Was he ready to trust? He wasn’t sure he even knew what those words really meant yet.

The hat was silent now, as if it, too, was waiting.

 “My parents went to Gryffindor,” he said instead.

“Yes, they did,” the hat replied softly. “Many years ago, they sat under me and were both sorted to Gryffindor.”

“Eugh,” Percy said under his breath, a little amused despite himself. Has the hat ever been washed? He thought, imagining the musty old thing.

The hat chuckled in his mind. “The fact that you even ask about Gryffindor shows how truly loyal you are to your family. However,” it said, “you are one of the most evenly split between two house characteristics I have encountered. Courage and loyalty fight for your soul.”

Percy felt the weight of the decision. He knew the hat was right — he was a mix, a blend of different things, just like his life had been so far.

“Very well,” the hat said aloud, projecting its voice for the entire hall to hear. “Better be… GRYFFINDOR!”

Cheers erupted around him as Percy pulled the hat from his head, his heart racing. He hadn’t gotten the blue he wanted, but maybe there was something to this red and gold after all.

He removed the hat from his head himself when Professor McGonagall didn’t immediately step forward to do it. There wasn’t a single clap. No cheers. No warm welcome. Just silence. Everyone was staring at him, eyes wide and mouths slightly open as he slowly got to his feet.

For a second, Percy hesitated—unsure what to do—then awkwardly placed the Sorting Hat back on the stool.

Right. Guess he’ll just make himself at home, then.

He turned toward the Gryffindor table and began his walk. As he passed the Ravenclaw table, his gaze lingered. The blue robes. The bronze details. The calm, intelligent air of the students sitting there.

So close, he thought wistfully. I could’ve looked so good in blue.

Then, finally, the rest of the Gryffindors seemed to snap out of their daze. A few gasps, and then—

“WE GOT POTTER!” a pair of voices shouted in unison. Fred and George Weasley were practically climbing onto the table, pumping their fists in the air as they led a triumphant chant.

The rest of the table quickly joined in, applause erupting like someone had flipped a switch.

Professor McGonagall, clearly unimpressed by the display, raised her voice to call for order. But it took a full minute before the noise settled enough for her to continue the sorting.

Percy didn’t hear any of the remaining names. He wasn’t listening. He just found an open seat and sat heavily, still processing the moment. A few seconds later, Ron dropped down beside him, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

Percy managed a small smile back but kept his gaze unfocused. All he could think about was the feel of the hat’s voice echoing in his head and the lingering question of whether he’d made the right choice… or if the hat had.

When the final student was sorted and the stool and Sorting Hat were carried away, the man at the center of the staff table rose to his feet.

“That’s Dumbledore,” Ron whispered quickly. “He’s the headmaster.”

Percy turned to look. The man was older than any wizard he'd ever imagined—long silver beard, half-moon glasses, a robe that shimmered faintly with stars. And yet… something about him didn’t quite sit right. Not in a dangerous way. Just... something off. Something unpredictable.

“Welcome!” Dumbledore said brightly, spreading his arms. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

He gave a satisfied nod. “Thank you.”

The hall erupted into applause and laughter.

Percy just blinked.

Yeah… definitely off.

But then, just as his stomach let out a loud growl, the empty golden plates in front of them filled with food—just like that. One blink and there was a feast.

Percy stared at the spread with wide eyes. Okay… maybe he’ll take that back. Magic is awesome.

He didn’t hesitate, grabbing a thick slice of ham and practically inhaling it. He hadn’t even finished chewing before a voice called his name.

“Harry!”

He turned to see another redhead—older than Ron, and sitting nearby. The boy wore a shiny badge that said Prefect and looked vaguely familiar.

“Yeah?” Percy asked, his mouth still half full. Across the table, Hermione wrinkled her nose in disapproval.

The older boy smiled. “I’m Percy. Percy Weasley.” He gave an awkward chuckle. 

Percy blinked. That’s going to be confusing.

“What was the Sorting Hat saying to you?” Percy Weasley asked, curiosity in his tone.

Percy Jackson raised a brow as he swallowed. “Just trying to figure out where to stick me, I guess. Why?”

“Well,” Prefect Percy said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, “you were up there for quite a while. You know that, right?”

Percy shook his head. “Didn’t really notice. Felt like I was alone in there.”

The older boy nodded. “Yeah. You were a hatstall. One of the longest ones in years.”

Percy blinked. “A hatstall?”

“It means the Sorting Hat had a hard time deciding where to put you. Most students are sorted in under a minute—forty-five seconds on average. You were up there for over five.”

“Oh.” Percy paused, thinking back. “Yeah… it said I was one of the most evenly split kids it’s seen in a long time.”

That grabbed Hermione’s attention like a magnet. “Between which houses?” she asked quickly, her eyes lighting up with something between excitement and mild alarm.

“Hufflepuff and Gryffindor,” Percy answered with a sigh. Then he cast a wistful glance over his shoulder. “But I wanted Ravenclaw.”

Hermione tilted her head, puzzled. “Why Ravenclaw?”

Percy let out a dramatic sigh. “They’re blue.”

Ron, in the middle of stuffing a roast potato into his mouth, choked and burst out laughing.

“Of course you wanted Ravenclaw because they’re blue!” he said between fits of laughter.

Percy just shrugged. “What? It’s a good color.”

Even Hermione cracked a reluctant smile.

Chapter Text

So maybe Percy had underestimated just how famous the name Harry Potter was around here.

Sure, the people he’d told before the Sorting had stared at him like he’d grown a second head, but that was nothing— nothing —compared to the full-on circus that followed afterward. The next morning, he couldn’t so much as sneeze without someone gasping like it was a historical event.

Apparently, he was a walking legend. A living myth. A hallway celebrity.

Kids literally lined the corridors if they heard he was coming. Some even brought notebooks. A second-year girl actually tripped and fell down a flight of stairs trying to catch a glimpse of him. Percy had tried to help her up, but she’d blushed and ran off.

He was so sick of it.

Percy had always prided himself on being invisible—or at least as invisible as a kid with a disciplinary record a mile long could be. Sure, he always got noticed eventually—usually right before being expelled—but there was always someone worse in the room to take the heat. The loud kid. The violent kid. The one who lit a trash can on fire. Percy? He was more the quiet smartass who got in trouble for mouthing off once too often.

But here? Here he couldn’t blink without someone whispering about it. And not even subtle whispering. Like full-volume whispers that made him want to crawl under the nearest table and stay there until summer break.

Ron, however, was thriving.

He walked next to Percy like he’d just been knighted, shoulders back, smile wide, waving at people like he was in a parade.

“Do you think I should start practicing my signature?” Ron asked casually as they passed a group of third-years who all stopped talking and stared at Percy like he was about to sprout wings.

Percy didn’t look up. “If you sign one more person’s arm pretending to be me, I will jinx you.”

Ron grinned and didn’t deny it.

Honestly, the next person who asked Percy to sign something was getting that signature carved into their forehead with a quill.

The one bright side to Hogwarts? The ghosts.

The ghosts were hilarious. They swooped out of walls, startled first years, floated through ceilings with dramatic sighs, and offered unsolicited advice like opinionated grandparents. One of them—a cackling menace with a bowtie and an alarming habit of chucking chalk at students—wasn’t even technically a ghost. Ron called him Peeves. Apparently, he was a poltergeist, which explained a lot.

“Just keep your head down when he’s around,” Ron advised, after Percy nearly got flattened by a rogue ink bottle. “He’s like a toddler with explosives. Best if he forgets you exist.”

“Good,” Percy muttered, dodging a flying eraser. “For once, someone I want to forget I exist.”

Despite the chaos, the castle itself was incredible.

The place hummed with magic. The walls practically breathed. Stairs moved, doorways shifted, and paintings had their own lives—chatting, laughing, bickering, even trading frames when they got bored.

One time Percy was lost on the way to Herbology, and out of frustration he muttered, “Okay, castle, help me out here.” And the hallway shifted. The right staircase aligned like it had been waiting for the cue.

He hadn’t told anyone. It was probably nothing. Coincidence. Or a hallucination from skipping breakfast. But still…

The place felt alive.

The classes weren’t normal either. No sitting still copying multiplication tables or reading out loud from textbooks about corn production in the Midwest. These were hands-on, chaotic, sometimes slightly terrifying, and shockingly engaging.

In Transfiguration, they were literally turning matchsticks into needles. In Potions, they brewed concoctions that smoked and hissed and smelled like burnt hair. Even History of Magic—taught by a ghost who droned like he was stuck in a century-long lecture—was somehow less painful than his old schools.

And Percy? Percy was actually paying attention. Voluntarily.

He didn’t even recognize himself.

Professor Flitwick was already seated at his desk when Percy walked into Charms. The small man barely cleared the height of the table and had distinctly goblin-like features—sharp ears, sharp nose, and sharper eyes. Percy didn’t know if he was part goblin, but he certainly looked like someone who could negotiate a blood contract and steal your shoes while doing it.

Naturally, Percy greeted him in kind.

“Greetings, Professor,” Percy said solemnly as he approached the desk. “May you vanquish your enemies by stealing their teeth, grinding them into paint, and creating portraits of your victories.”

Flitwick blinked once. Then burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

“And may you write your enemies’ names with their blood, Mr. Potter,” the professor cackled, eyes gleaming with delighted mischief. “Take a seat, take a seat!”

Percy grinned, nodding before heading to the desk beside Ron.

Charms, as it turned out, wasn’t half bad.

Transfiguration had also been fascinating—arguably the most useful class Hogwarts could offer. You didn’t have a quill? Turn a twig into one. Need a toothbrush? That leaf will do. Shirt’s torn? Transfigure a matchstick into a needle and sew it shut.

Percy hadn’t quite managed to pull it off yet, but his wand had grown warm in his hand when he tried, like it was paying attention. Like it was ready, almost. Hermione was the only one who came close to success on the first try, and Percy would bet money she’d spent the entire train ride reading up on wand movement theory.

Still, he’d get it next class. He could feel it.

Astronomy was surprisingly peaceful. Percy hadn’t expected to like it, but sitting under the stars reminded him of being back in Montauk with his mom—her pointing out constellations and telling stories about gods and monsters like they were just old family drama. Now he was being graded on spotting the stars. Honestly, it felt like cheating.

History of Magic, though?

Absolutely miserable.

The classroom was cold, dusty, and somehow always too bright. Professor Binns—who was quite literally dead —droned on about goblin rebellions and wizarding wars with the energy of a sleep-deprived audiobook. Percy sat in the back, next to Ron, trying desperately not to fidget. His dyslexia made the writing on the board twist and blur, and half the names sounded like someone sneezed into a mouthful of alphabet soup.

By the end of each class, Percy's legs were bouncing under the desk and his fingers were raw from tapping on his chair just to stay awake. He didn’t even bother taking notes. He’d learn more reading the back of a cereal box.

But now, he and Ron were winding their way through the castle’s lower corridors, headed to their first Potions lesson. The dungeons were colder than expected, damp and shadowy, with walls that seemed to breathe like they’d trapped a storm behind them.

Ron looked nervous.

Percy, on the other hand, was intrigued.

Potions sounded exactly like something he’d enjoy. Mostly practical, barely any theory, and just enough danger to make it interesting. Plus, it wasn’t that different from cooking—which he’d always liked doing with his mom. Measure carefully, stir in the right order, don’t breathe in the smoke unless you want to lose your eyebrows. Easy enough.

“I bet we’ll get to make something that explodes,” Percy said under his breath.

Ron grinned. “Only if we do it wrong.”

“Even better.”

They filed into the cold, low-ceilinged classroom where jars lined the walls—things floating in murky liquids Percy didn’t even want to try identifying. He took a seat beside Ron and waited patiently, listening as Professor Snape stalked toward the front of the room with the same grace and menace as a jungle cat.

Snape began roll call in a low, silky voice that seemed to fill the room like smoke.

“Abbott, Hannah… Bones, Susan… Finnegan, Seamus…”

He was not expecting the outright hatred that rolled off the Potions professor the moment he reached his name.

“Ah, yes,” Snape said softly, his voice like silk stretched over broken glass. “Harry Potter. Our new— celebrity .” From the back of the room, Draco Malfoy and his shadows, Crabbe and Goyle, snickered behind their hands.

Percy’s eyebrows furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? He hadn’t done anything to this guy. He tried to brush it off. Maybe the guy thought Percy used his fame for glory when it was really the opposite. 

When Snape finished roll call, he launched into a speech with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d rather be talking to a wall. And yet, strangely, Percy found himself leaning in.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” Snape intoned, stalking along the front of the classroom. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you to truly comprehend the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes… the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…”

Percy blinked. Okay, creepy—but in a cool way.

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…” Snape's voice grew more intense, more theatrical. “ If you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Percy’s excitement was steadily rising—until it was promptly dropkicked into the floor by Snape’s sudden turn.

“ Potter! ” Snape snapped, eyes sharp and cold. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Percy didn’t appreciate being chosen as Snape’s chew toy for the day, especially without provocation. He glanced at Ron beside him, then shrugged.

“Probably a potion, sir,” he said with a polite smile that was anything but sincere.

Snape’s sneer twisted, his lip curling in disdain. Paired with the shadowy lighting and the size of his nose, it made him look like a bat mid-snarl. Percy half-expected him to flap away into the rafters.

“What type of potion, Potter?” Snape pressed, teeth clenched. His tone suggested that Percy had personally insulted his mother, his cauldron, and his favorite quill all in one breath.

Percy lifted his chin. “One that does something, I assume?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” he announced coolly. “For clearly not reading the required textbook.”

Percy heard Malfoy laugh again across the room.

“Hold on—” Percy started before he could stop himself, “I did look over the book.”

Well. Sort of. ‘Looked over’ was generous. He’d opened it. Several times. But something more interesting always managed to happen around page two. Like a bird flying into the window. Or a spot on the wall that kind of looked like a giraffe.

“Another ten points from Gryffindor for talking back,” Snape snapped. “Would you like to continue?”

Percy stared at him. Not with fear—he was used to grown-ups who hated him on sight—but with the flat, unimpressed look of someone who’d seen worse and wasn’t about to play nice just to avoid trouble. He didn’t say another word, but he didn’t drop his gaze either.

Snape held the stare for a few more seconds, then turned away.

Only then did Percy shift in his seat and shoot a glare at Malfoy, who was still smirking like a cat in a canary shop. Percy’s glower seemed to dim his satisfaction just a little.

“Does anyone else know,” Snape said, now addressing the room, “what would happen if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Hermione’s hand shot up like a wand missile. Percy didn’t even listen to the answer. He just stared at the table, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Potions, he realized, was not going to be the class he’d hoped for.

Don’t get him wrong—the brewing itself was actually fun. Especially when Seamus blew up his cauldron and half the table had to be evacuated. Percy liked working with his hands. He liked the exactness of measurements, the heat of the flame, the swirling colors. It reminded him of helping his mom cook—only with a slightly higher risk of dissolving your eyebrows.

But the hovering presence of Snape, sneering down at him with every stir, every cut, every flick of the wand—it ruined it. It didn’t feel like learning. It felt like surviving.

And Percy had enough of that in his life already.

When the class finally ended, Percy all but bolted for the door. Ron trailed after him.

“Cheer up,” Ron said as they emerged into the slightly-less-damp hallway, “Snape’s always taking points off Fred and George. You’ll get used to it.”

“Oh good,” Percy muttered. “So I’ve got years of baseless character assassination to look forward to.”

Ron snorted.

“What are you doing the rest of the day?”

Percy gave a shrug, rolling his shoulders to let go of the tension. “Want to explore the grounds?”

Ron perked up immediately. “Come on—George told me how to get to the Quidditch pitch. Let’s go check it out.”

“Only if there’s a guaranteed lack of angry bats in black robes.”

“No promises.”

They headed toward the courtyard, leaving Snape’s classroom—and his sour mood—behind.

It was hours later, with the sun just beginning to dip below the treetops, when Ron and Percy made their way back up the sloping path toward the castle. George did infact tell Ron how to get to the Quiddage pitch, but it was definitely an extremely long way with way too many stairs and way too many turns down the wrong corridor. 

The chatter of students in the distance told them dinner would be served soon, and Percy’s stomach grumbled in agreement.

They were halfway to the courtyard when something enormous and fast barreled straight into Percy’s side.

“Oof—!” Percy grunted as he went down hard, the wind knocked out of him.

An avalanche of fur and drool landed on top of him. It was a massive black boarhound—easily the size of a small pony—that immediately began slobbering over Percy from his chest to his hairline with joyful, enthusiastic abandon. Percy tried to push it off, sputtering and squirming, but the dog’s tongue was faster than his hands.

Ron just stood there laughing helplessly as he watched him struggle.

“Fang!” a booming voice bellowed from somewhere behind them. “Fang, get off 'im—bad dog!”

The weight was suddenly lifted as the massive dog was hauled back by his collar. Fang gave a little whimper and looked thoroughly ashamed, tail tucking between his legs as he shrank behind the towering man who’d grabbed him.

Percy sat up slowly, brushing grass and drool off his robes. He was fairly certain his hair was sticking up in every direction—even more than usual. “It’s okay, sir,” he said, catching his breath. “He didn’t hurt me. Just slimed me.”

The man—easily twice the size of a normal human—offered him a hand up. Percy took it and was nearly pulled clean off the ground.

“Blimey,” the man said, beaming down at him. “Harry Potter! Look at yeh! You’ve grown loads since I saw yeh last!”

Percy blinked. “Uh… have we met?”

The man’s face went red beneath his beard. “Ah. Right. I forgot to introduce meself, didn’t I?” He chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Name’s Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds here at Hogwarts.”

“Nice to meet you… again?” Percy said hesitantly.

“Well, I met yeh when you were just a babe,” Hagrid said fondly. “Could hold yeh in one arm, I could. You were tiny, you were. After yer parents died, Professor Dumbledore—” He stopped mid-sentence, the warmth draining from his face. “Ah. I’ve gone and said too much, haven’t I?”

Percy’s expression faltered. His heart did a weird little dip at the mention of his parents. “It’s alright,” he said after a beat, brushing his robe off again. “I… don’t really remember anything from back then anyway.”

Hagrid gave him a sympathetic look, then brightened again. “Well! Why don’t you boys come back to me hut for a bit? Got some tea on and a fresh plate of rock cakes.”

Percy hesitated. It wasn’t exactly in his nature to follow giant strangers to secluded forest cabins. But Ron’s face lit up at the mention of food, and he was already nodding eagerly.

“Sure, Hagrid,” Percy said, resigned. “Lead the way.”

Hagrid’s hut stood on the very edge of the Forbidden Forest, small and squat, with smoke curling from its crooked chimney. It looked cozy, in a lopsided kind of way. He opened the door with a creak and gestured them inside.

“Make yerselves at home!” he said cheerfully, dragging Fang in behind him. The boarhound immediately trotted over to Percy again, wagging furiously, and stuck his snout into Percy’s armpit.

“Oh, come on,” Percy muttered, laughing despite himself, and scratched behind the dog’s ears. Fang flopped onto the floor beside him, tail thudding like a drum.

The inside of the hut was a single room, with a huge bed taking up an entire corner, a fireplace crackling in another, and rows of hams and pheasants hanging from the ceiling. A tea kettle hissed on the stove, and a small wooden table sat in the middle, just barely big enough for three- well one of Hagrid and two comparatively small boys.

Ron and Percy took seats as Hagrid clattered around, pouring tea into mismatched mugs and setting down a heavy plate of something hard and lumpy.

“Rock cakes,” Ron whispered, inspecting one warily. “Mum makes them, but these look like actual rocks.”

Hagrid beamed as he joined them. “Dig in!”

Ron took a bite with a heroic crunch and managed not to grimace too badly. “Thanks, Hagrid,” he said, chewing with effort. “Love a good rock cake.”

Percy took a more cautious approach—breaking off a tiny chunk and pretending it wasn’t pulverizing his molars.

“So, Harry,” Hagrid said, turning to him. “Find everything alrigh’ in Diagon Alley?”

Percy nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was... chaotic. But yeah.”

“Great!” Hagrid said, satisfied. “Yeh know, Dumbledore wasn’ sure if yeh’d be able to come. Told me I might need to go fetch yeh meself if yeh didn’ answer yer letter. Would’ve been an honor, tha’.”

Percy’s brows drew together. Why would Hagrid have to come get him to get his school supplies? Did Professor Dumbledor think he wouldn’t have replied to his letter to come to Hogwarts? 

“But it all worked out.” Hagrid continued when he saw Percy’s brows furrow. “Ya made it ta Diagon and go’ yer school supplies alrigh’.” 

Percy leaned back in his chair, still chewing on that. Why would they think he needed escorting? Did every first year get this kind of attention? Or was it just him?

As Hagrid launched into a long story about Mr. Filch’s cat and a suspicious incident involving a broom cupboard, Percy’s eyes wandered. Something on the table caught his attention—a folded-up copy of the Daily Prophet . He reached for it absently and unfolded the front page.

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

His brows rose. He hadn’t heard anything about a break-in. He thought briefly of the goblins—sharp-eyed, tense, and clearly not to be trifled with. Gringotts had looked impenetrable. Who would even try?

“Something interestin’?” Hagrid asked, glancing down at the paper.

Percy folded it again and shook his head. “Just curious. That place seemed… secure.”

“Yeah, well, nothin’s foolproof,” Hagrid muttered, frowning. “Still—nobody gets past goblins. No’ alive, anyway.”

Ron looked mildly alarmed at that.

Eventually, as the sky began to darken and the distant bell signaled the approach of dinner, the boys stood to go. Percy tried to sneak his half uneaten rock cake back onto the plate, but Hagrid caught him.

“Take some fer the road!” he said, stuffing several into their pockets.

“Thanks,” Percy said weakly, feeling the extra weight in his robes like bricks.

With their pockets full and Fang attempting one last lick goodbye, they bid Hagrid farewell and started to make their way up the hill to dinner.

By the end of his first week at Hogwarts, Percy finally found a quiet moment to breathe—and more importantly, to write to his mom.

Sleeping in Saturday morning had been nothing short of divine, even if he did have to sprint to the Great Hall and snag a piece of toast just as the plates began to vanish. At least he’d made it. Ron, on the other hand, had slept through breakfast entirely and spent the whole morning trailing Percy around like a redheaded shadow, his stomach growling a mournful tune that sounded suspiciously like a Sinatra ballad.

In a desperate attempt to distract him, Percy had agreed to play Wizard's Chess. A mistake.

Half the game had been Ron explaining the pieces to him, and the other half had been Percy forgetting what they did and relying on their unsolicited advice instead. Honestly, the chess pieces were far more aggressive than any board game had a right to be.

“Put me there , you ninny!” his rook shouted at one point.

Percy’s most memorable strategic move had been refusing to sacrifice his knights—he’d grown far too attached to them. Unfortunately, sentimentality did not win matches. He lost spectacularly.

Eventually, Ron gave up and dragged Seamus into a rematch, which Percy took as his cue to disappear. He darted upstairs to his dorm, rummaged through his trunk until he found a scrap of parchment and a few Muggle pens he’d smuggled into the magical school, and slipped out of the Gryffindor common room in search of somewhere— anywhere —quiet enough to write.

He let his gut guide him through the castle’s winding halls, turning wherever the air felt warmer or the stone under his shoes vibrated with that strange, buzzing magic he was beginning to trust. The castle practically hummed beneath his fingertips, almost like it wanted to lead him somewhere.

Eventually, he found himself on the fifth floor, far past any classroom or portrait that looked remotely familiar. The corridor ended in a dead end.

Or at least, it seemed like a dead end.

A single tapestry hung on the wall.

It was different from the others he’d passed during the week. For one, it wasn’t moving. All the other tapestries at Hogwarts seemed enchanted—knights chasing trolls in loops, witches brewing potions, goblins conducting strange mechanical contraptions. But this one was completely still. Dusty, forgotten. Almost too still.

It depicted a girl with long brown hair flowing behind her in an unseen wind. She was beautiful, in that eerie, old-painting way, and she was bound in iron chains to a jagged rock cliff, staring out toward a stormy sea. Her face wasn’t twisted in fear, exactly—more like resignation, or quiet hope. In the distance, another figure stood on a separate sea stack, mid-battle with a creature straight from a nightmare.

The monster was massive, coiled like a serpent with a maw full of jagged fangs and webbed claws swiping through the air. Its tail curled around stone pillars rising from the sea like skeletal fingers. The man fighting it was small in comparison, dressed in something vaguely ancient—maybe a toga?—with a sword raised in one hand and a dark shape in the other that Percy couldn’t quite make out.

It was beautiful. And creepy. And haunting. The longer he looked at it, the more something in his chest twisted. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it meant something .

And unlike everything else at Hogwarts, the tapestry was completely, absolutely still.

Percy’s instincts nudged him forward.

He reached out and carefully lifted the edge of the tapestry. Behind it, a shadowed alcove revealed itself, hidden neatly in the stone wall like the castle had grown around it on purpose.

It wasn’t large—just wide enough for one person to step inside—but it felt warm and private. There was a built-in bench tucked into the back wall, worn and padded with thick, dusty cushions that had once been vibrant. A small window, framed in thick, paned glass, overlooked the Black Lake far below. The view was breathtaking. Mist hung low over the water, making the surface gleam like silver under the overcast sky.

He glanced around. Not a footprint in sight. Dust clung to the corners, undisturbed. No candles. No graffiti. Just stillness.

Perfect.

He shrugged off his robe and used it to dust off the bench, coughing as clouds of powdery grime puffed into the air. Once it looked less like a sneeze trap, Percy dropped down with a satisfied sigh. The bench creaked but held. To his surprise, it was more comfortable than it looked—like it had been made just for someone to hide away and watch the world from above.

He pulled out his parchment and uncapped the pen. For a moment, he stared at the blank page, wondering where to start. Then, with a deep breath, he began to write.

He told his mom about the Sorting Ceremony—the odd way the hat hesitated, muttering strange things before placing him in Gryffindor. Not in the blue house, sadly.

Still, his parents’ house wasn’t the worst place to end up.

He told her about Ron and some of the other people he had met, about the strange classes—how Astronomy made him feel connected to something ancient, and how History of Magic nearly made him fall asleep upright. He mentioned Professor McGonagall’s sharp eyes and how his wand felt warm during Transfiguration, even if he hadn’t quite succeeded yet.

And then, finally, he asked about her.

How are you, Mom?

Is Gabe being an ass? (Don’t answer that. I know he is.)

Are you eating enough?

He sealed the letter just as the light from the lake shifted to a deeper, amber hue. Dinner would be starting soon.

Stuffing the parchment in his pocket, he picked up his still-dusty robe and made his way up to the Owlery, hoping Hedwig was still in the mood to speak to him.

The moment he cracked the Owlery door open, he regretted it.

The stench hit him like a wall—warm feathers, dried dung, and something sharp and sour that defied description. He tried breathing through his teeth, but it didn’t help much. Honestly, he could taste the smell.

Apparently, the owls weren’t thrilled by his scent either.

He had barely taken two steps inside when a small black owl launched at his face like a feathery missile. Percy yelped and ducked just in time to avoid getting his eyes clawed out. Another owl—a larger brown one—was gearing up for a follow-up attack when a flash of white darted through the air like a silent bullet.

Hedwig.

She collided mid-air with the brown owl, locking talons and spinning the bird backward with a sharp screech that echoed through the rafters. She hovered between Percy and the rest of the owl population, eyes sharp and feathers puffed, daring any of them to try again.

None did.

She landed on his arm a second later, light as snow and smug as hell. She nuzzled his ear affectionately, then promptly bit it.

“Ow!” Percy hissed. “Okay, yeah, I deserved that.”

He reached up and gently stroked her head. “I’m sorry, girl. I’ll visit more. I’ll even bring treats next time. No weird Muggle ones, I promise.”

Hedwig chirped once, apparently satisfied.

“I’ve got a letter for Mom,” he said softly, holding out the parchment. “Think you can take it to New York?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and gave his fingers a warning nip. Percy chuckled.

“Right. Dumb question.”

He carefully tied the letter to her leg, then stroked her feathers one last time. “Take it easy on the trip, okay? Rest a couple days before coming back. And avoid Gabe. Seriously. Don’t let him see you—he’s the type to mistake you for dinner.”

She gave a quiet hoot, like a promise.

Percy stepped to the balcony, took a deep breath of cleaner air, and lifted his arm. With a graceful leap, Hedwig launched herself into the air, wings cutting the sky as she vanished into the horizon.

He stayed there for a moment, watching until she disappeared. Then, as he turned to leave, the little black owl lunged again.

He slammed the door shut just in time, heart racing.

“Seriously,” he muttered, backing away. “This school is goanna kill me. Death by owl.”

Chapter Text

There was a notice pinned to the board in the Gryffindor common room. Flying lessons on Thursday with the Slytherins. Percy would finally get to see why everyone was obsessed with the flying broomsticks. Personally, he didn’t see what all the fuss was about. 

Sure, flying sounded cool. But Hogwarts had giant talking portraits, suits of armor that moved on their own, and a giant squid in the lake that Percy swore waved at him the other day while he was walking back from herbology.

Still, maybe he’d be surprised.

Draco certainly hadn’t shut up about it. In every class they shared with the Slytherins, he found some way to bring up his supposed flying prowess — going on about his custom broom at home and how he’d probably be scouted for the national team by third year.

“I bet that’s all talk,” Ron had mumbled bitterly after Potions one afternoon, shooting a glare over his shoulder as Draco flounced out of the room like he was on a catwalk.

Percy didn’t say anything, but he was inclined to agree. He hadn’t seen Draco do anything impressive yet besides sneer at people and manage to use hair gel in medieval Scotland.

That morning — the morning of flying lessons — Percy sat beside Ron at the Gryffindor table, poking at eggs while Ron scarfed down toast like he was racing someone. The Great Hall was its usual chaos: the clatter of cutlery, the low murmur of hundreds of voices, and the steady flow of owls swooping through the rafters like feathered missiles.

Percy was mid-bite when a snowy white blur dropped directly in front of him, nearly knocking over his pumpkin juice.

Ron sputtered, choking on a bite of bacon. “Bloody hell!” he gasped, pounding his chest. “They’re not supposed to land on the table!”

Percy grinned and gently rubbed Hedwig’s head. “Cut her some slack. She’s been all the way to New York and back.”

Ron blinked. “Right… I keep forgetting your mum’s over there. That’s like… halfway across the world!”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Percy muttered under his breath. Still, warmth bloomed in his chest as he took the small parcel from Hedwig’s claws. The owl gave a satisfied hoot before hopping on top of Percy’s head and promptly tucking herself into his messy hair like it was a nest. He sat stiffly to avoid jostling her but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at his lips.

Inside the package was a small Tupperware container, wrapped in a paper towel with his name written in cursive Sharpie on the top. Percy peeled it open and inhaled deeply — the sweet, buttery smell hitting him like a memory. Blue chocolate chip cookies.

His grin widened like the sun coming out behind storm clouds.

“What?” Ron leaned over to peer inside. “Why are they blue?”

“Because blue makes them better,” Percy replied simply, like it was the most obvious fact in the world.

Ron looked skeptical. “They look like they were hexed.”

Percy popped one into his mouth, chewing with satisfaction. The flavor hit like home — warm afternoons on the couch, movies they’d watched a dozen times, his mom humming as she folded laundry. The comfort of it settled something tight in his chest he didn’t even realize was there.

He nudged the container toward Ron. “Go on. Try one.”

Ron raised an eyebrow but took a tentative bite — and then promptly inhaled the rest of the cookie.

“Harry, ’is ’s amayzing,” he said around a full mouth. When he finally swallowed, he pointed at Percy with a crumb-covered finger. “You’re going to have to tell me what the deal with the color blue is later.”

“Sure,” Percy said with a small laugh, wiping crumbs from his fingers. “It’s kind of a long story. But trust me — blue cookies mean love.”

Across the table, a small barn owl flapped down in front of Neville, knocking over his pumpkin juice in the process. Neville barely noticed—his face lit up as he opened the small brown parcel the owl had dropped.

“It’s a Remembrall!” he said brightly to the curious eyes now turned toward him. The little glass sphere sat in the palm of his hand, swirling with misty white smoke.

Percy leaned forward to get a better look as Neville continued. “Gran knows I forget things—it’ll tell you if you’ve forgotten anything. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red—oh…” The ball immediately glowed a bright crimson. Neville’s face turned a matching shade, and he slumped slightly in his seat. “I’ve forgotten something.”

Percy offered a reassuring smile. “That’s okay, Neville. If you’ve forgotten it, it probably wasn’t as important as you think.”

“Yeah,” Ron chimed in, swallowing a mouthful of eggs. “You’ve probably just forgotten to brush your teeth. I forget to do that all the time.”

Hermione, sitting nearby with a book propped open next to her plate, scrunched up her nose. “That’s absolutely disgusting, Ron.” Her words turned scolding. "You should always brush you're teeth to protect your enamel and prevent cavities."

Percy was inclined to agree but decided not to say anything—Ron was already going pink with embarrassment as he scowled at her.

Before anyone could change the subject, a pale hand darted across the table and snatched the Remembrall right out of Neville’s grip.

Draco Malfoy.

Percy hadn’t even noticed him walk over, but now he stood smug and casual, twirling the glowing ball between his fingers.

Ron pushed back his chair with a screech and stood. “Give it back, Malfoy!”

But just then, Professor McGonagall swept past their table. Her tartan robes flared with each step, and her sharp eyes immediately narrowed.

“What’s going on here?” Her Scottish accent cut through the moment, and several students turned to watch.

“Malfoys got my Remembrall, Professor,” Neville said quickly, voice slightly shaking.

Draco’s posture shifted instantly. He dropped the Remembrall onto the table like it burned him and plastered on a scowl. “Just looking,” he muttered before turning and walking back to his own table.

McGonagall gaze followed him until he was far enough away then turned to the rest of them—specifically, to Percy.

Or more accurately, to the snowy white owl currently perched like a queen on his head.

“Potter,” she said with the barest raise of her brow, “owls do not belong in the Great Hall unless they are delivering mail.”

Percy blinked innocently. “Sorry, Professor. She’s tired from her flight—I was going to take her up to the owlery after breakfast.”

McGonagall gave a long, appraising look—clearly trying to decide whether he was being sincere. He was, mostly. He just didn’t feel bad about it.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she said briskly before continuing up to the head table.

Percy had absolutely every intention of letting it happen again if Hedwig ever needed him to. He gave the sleepy owl a slow scratch behind the ear, careful not to disturb her as he polished off the last bite of his cookie.

As he packed everything back into the box, he noticed a folded piece of parchment underneath the container. His chest warmed slightly. A letter from Mom.

“You’re not going to read it?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow as Percy tucked it under the flap.

“Nah. I’ll read it later.” Percy stood carefully, keeping his balance so Hedwig wouldn’t stir. “I want to take this back to the dorm before class starts. I’ll drop Hedwig at the owlery too.”

Ron nodded, already back to shoveling food into his mouth like he was racing the clock. Percy gave him a half-smile, then quietly slipped out of the Great Hall.

Later that afternoon, Percy and Ron followed the other first-year Gryffindors to the Quidditch pitch where the Slytherins were already waiting. Lined up on the ground before a short, gray-haired lady were numerous broomsticks. That must have been Madam Hooch.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his robe pockets and tried to act nonchalant, but truthfully, he was not looking forward to this. He’d never been up in the air before—not in a plane, not on a rollercoaster or other ride, and definitely not on a broomstick.  Plus, something deep in his chest—something old and cold and unreasonable—whispered this is dangerous. He couldn’t explain it. Just a sense of wrongness about the thought of being in the sky

Madam Hooch barked out her instructions and the students began lining up beside their brooms. Percy took his spot next to Ron and looked down at the one assigned to him. It looked like it was held together with little more than spite and old twine.

“Stick out your hand,” Madam Hooch called. “And say ‘Up!’”

“Up!” the class chorused.

A few brooms jumped into hands. Most wobbled uselessly or rolled over with an undignified crunch. Percy’s didn’t budge. He narrowed his eyes and tried again. “Up!”

This time, it smacked into his palm with enough force to sting.

“Better,” he muttered to the broom, gripping the handle. It felt… odd. The moment his fingers curled around it, the wood gave a pulse beneath his skin jumping at the contact.

Percy blinked. The feeling was gone a second later, and he shook his head to clear it.

Then came the worst part.

“Mount your brooms, please.”

Percy swung one leg over and immediately felt the entire world shift under him. His stomach dropped. The broom felt unnatural, and his confidence wobbled.

“This is so dumb,” he muttered under his breath, tightening his grip. “Why are we letting eleven-year-olds play with airborne sticks?”

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—”

Percy’s attention left the strange magic of the broomsticks when someone shrieked a few people down the line from him. Neville shot off the ground like he’d been yanked by a crane, yelling in panic.

“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle—twelve feet—twenty feet. Percy saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and—WHAM—a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, drifting lazily toward the Forbidden Forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch, quickly knelt besides him, checking him over. "Broken wrist" she muttered.

“No one is to move while I take him to the hospital wing!” she barked. “Anyone flying without permission will be sent home. Do you understand?”

Everyone nodded quickly. Percy did too—he didn’t want detention, or worse, to get kicked out. He watched Neville groan as he was helped up and led back towards the castle.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Draco Malfoy burst into laughter.

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” The other Slytherins joined in.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy Parkinson said. She was a dark-haired Slytherin girl who hung off of Draco whenever he was around. “Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”

Percy frowned. His jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed on the Slytherins, specifically Draco. The little idiot was really starting to get on his nerves. After this morning, Percy was getting tired of the constant bullying. Draco wasn’t even clever with his insults and Percy would know. He has had to learn how to take the insults and give them right back.

A glimmer caught his eye, causing Percy to turn.

Neville’s Remembrall.

Before Percy could react, Malfoy had already darted forward and snatched it up.

“Maybe if the idiot actually remembered things, he wouldn’t fall off brooms,” Malfoy sneered, lazily tossing Neville’s Remembrall into the air. It sparkled in the sun as it spun, a little ball of glass catching the attention of everyone nearby.

Percy froze. His gut twisted.

He didn’t even know Neville that well—honestly, the kid kind of grated on his nerves sometimes—but watching Malfoy gloat over stealing something that clearly meant something to him… that rubbed Percy the wrong way.

The wrong way as in Gabe-waking-him-up-with-cold-water-poured-on-his-face kind of wrong.

“Give it back, Malfoy,” Percy called out, loud enough for the kids nearby to turn and stare.

Draco turned slowly, smirk widening like he’d been waiting for this.

“What’s it to you, Potter?” he asked, all mock-innocence and poison.

Percy’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re being a dick.”

The surrounding Gryffindors let out shocked gasps—someone even choked. Slytherins turned, whispering like he’d just spat in the Queen’s tea. But Percy didn’t really care. If their dignities couldn't take his harsh language, it wasn't Percy's fault.

Draco’s ears went pink. His eyes flashed.

“Come and get it then, Potter.”

And just like that, he kicked off the ground, shooting into the air with the Remembrall in one hand, the other guiding his broom up into the sky.

Percy didn’t have time to think. The broom moved before he told it to.

One second, his boots were on the grass. The next, wind ripped through his hair and the ground dropped away beneath him. He barely had time to register the screaming students or Ron shouting something below before the rush of height hit him like a wave.

Panic surged in his chest. The air was cold. His knuckles were white where they were gripping the broomstick. The broom hovered steadily beneath him—but still, the world was too far down. His instincts screamed at him to get off, get down, you’re not supposed to fly—

But then… something changed.

A strange warmth surged up from the wood beneath his hands. It seeped into his palms, traveled up his arms, spread across his chest like a pulse. Magic, thick and humming, settled around him like a cloak. It wasn’t heavy—it was reassuring. It felt… protective.

The broom steadied even more beneath him, as if welcoming him. Like it had been waiting for him to stop resisting.

And suddenly… Percy wasn’t afraid.

His fingers loosened on the handle, and he felt himself shift naturally into position—legs gripping the wood, back straight. His balance adjusted on its own as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

He leaned a little to the left. The broom obeyed.

He blinked. Leaned right. It turned with him.

Whoa.

It wasn’t just responsive. It anticipated him. Percy didn't think a broom this old and battered was supposed to be able to do that.

Percy circled, gaining a little altitude, testing the way the wind brushed against his robes. He should’ve felt cold—but he didn’t. He should’ve been terrified—but instead, a grin tugged at his lips.

It felt right.

Below, the students were ants. The castle in the distance shimmered with snow-lined rooftops. And across the clearing—

“Scared, Potter?” Draco’s voice echoed through the air, sharp and brittle. He was floating a good twenty feet off to Percy’s right, chin high like he had anything to be proud of.

Percy turned toward him, the broom practically gliding into position like a dance partner. He wanted to go towards Malfoy and the broom did so for him.

It was so quick, Draco actually flinched back, surprised.

“Give me the ball,” Percy said flatly, hand outstretched.

Draco looked between Percy’s hand and the Remembrall, face twisting into a sneer again. “Why should I?”

Percy’s jaw clenched. “Because you’re a bully.” he spat.

That seemed to strike a nerve as he watched Draco's eyes narrow.

“Because I’ve seen plenty of jerks like you—louder than they are smart and some of us were raised better than to pick on people just because we can.” His voice rose, stronger with each word. “Now hand. It. Over.”

Draco’s face went red with anger. He lifted the Remembrall, acting like he was going to place it into Percy’s open palm before smirking letting it go. The glass orb glittered as it fell.

With one last glare at Draco, Percy followed. He tilted his stick, pointing the handle straight at the ground, gaining speed as he reached one hand out toward the ball.

The ground was getting closer and closer. The wind was whipping at Percy’s face, but he gained on the Remembrall, keeping his focus on only it. He heard shrieks nearby as the other kids watched on in horror, but Percy had one goal: get the ball.

A foot from the ground, he caught it—just in time to pull his broom straight—and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

Percy laughed out loud, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

That was amazing. He laid on his back in the grass as he caught his breath, his face stretched into a grin. 

“HARRY POTTER!”

And just like that, the adrenaline leaked out of his body and his grin fell. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling.

“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —” Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “— how dare you — might have broken your neck —”

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor —”

“Be quiet, Miss Patil —”

“But Malfoy —”

“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me. Now.”

He was most definitely getting expelled for this one. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done something reckless and been expelled for it, but it was the first time Percy had done something reckless on behalf of someone else. He knew what was about to happen—but it still felt a bit unfair.

Percy’s head hung low as he followed Professor McGonagall up to the school. His mom would be disappointed, and it meant trying to find another school a month into the school year back in America. It meant being home with Gabe again, which really sucked.

Worst of all, Percy couldn’t help but feel like he had let down his other parents. Hogwarts was the closest he could ever get to them. And he messed it all up.

Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Professor McGonagall didn’t say a word to him. She wrenched open doors and marched along corridors with Percy trotting miserably behind her. Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore.

Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and poked her head inside. “Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?”

Wood? thought Percy, bewildered; was Wood a cane she was going to use on him? It wouldn’t be the first time. There was a really old teacher at one of his earlier schools that believed in the “traditional” corrective methods. Still, he didn’t get the feeling that Hogwarts professors were like that. Well—besides Snape, that is.

Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking confused. The same burly fifth year who was practically pulling out his hair earlier that week as he stared at Quidditch plans in the Gryffindor common room.

He was… very enthusiastic about Quidditch. And he was very enthusiastic about Harry playing Seeker for the team and immediately started talking with McGonagall in terms Percy didn't understand. Apparently, McGonagall was also… very enthusiastic about Quidditch as well. This meant that Percy wasn’t expelled, thankfully. Unfortunately, it also meant that McGonagall had high expectations of Percy when it came to the Quidditch Cup this year.

Ron was just as enthusiastic as McGonagall and Wood had been.

“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never — you must be the youngest House player in about —”

“—a century,” said Percy, shrugging his shoulders and continuing to eat dinner. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m just glad I haven’t been expelled from my…” he did a bit of mental math, “sixth school now.”

“Five schools!” Hermione Granger shouted from where she had overheard a few spots down the table. “You’ve been expelled from five schools?! How?”

“I don’t know if you’ve been able to tell, but I have a problem with authority figures,” he deadpanned, staring right at her. He watched as her eyes flicked toward Snape, who was sitting at the head table and glaring at the back of Percy’s head—Percy could feel it—before she quickly glanced away.

“Well, that and the shark tank incident,” Percy continued.

“What shark tank incident?” Fred (or George—Percy still hadn’t figured out a way to tell them apart) squeezed between Percy and Ron.

“When shark tank incident?” George (or Fred) plopped down on the other side of Percy, effectively blocking him in.

“How shark tank incident?” they both said together.

Percy smirked. “There was an incident where my entire class might have ended up in a shark tank on a field trip. It may or may not have been partially my fault.”

Hermione let out a high-pitched whine, looking as if her brain had finally frozen. She stared at Percy without blinking.

“We will be coming back to that for more details,” Fred (he had decided that one was Fred from now on whether he was correct or not) said. “We wanted to congratulate you.”

“Well done,” said George in a low voice.

“Wood told us. We’re on the team too—Beaters.”

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry—Wood was almost skipping when he told us.”

Percy blinked. “Wood was skipping?”

Fred grinned. “Practically pirouetted through the common room.”

George nodded solemnly. “We suspect possession. Or a sugar rush. Jury’s still out.”

“You’re going to do great though,” Fred said, clapping Percy on the back. “Seekers need to be quick, sharp-eyed, fearless—”

“—and mildly unhinged,” George added helpfully.

“Oh perfect,” Percy muttered. “I’m halfway there already.”

Fred leaned in again. “So what happened at the fifth school? Was it the shark thing?”

Percy took another bite of roast beef. “Nah. That one was for lighting the janitor’s mop closet on fire. To be fair, he was storing something in there that smelled awful.”

Ron snorted pumpkin juice through his nose.

Hermione looked horrified. “How… how do you even find yourself in that many messes?”

“It finds me.”

“Sounds like a Gryffindor to me,” George said proudly.

Fred nodded. “You’ll fit right in.”

“Still,” Hermione pressed, eyes narrowed, “five expulsions is not normal. Most people wouldn’t even survive that.”

“Define survive.” Percy deadpanned, poking at his peas. “Also, they weren’t all technically expulsions. One was more of a ‘strong suggestion that I find other accommodations.’”

Hermione let out a faint groan, then looked back at Percy with grudging curiosity. “Okay, fine. I give up. What was the shark tank incident?”

Percy smirked at all of them. “I’ve got to keep some of my stories to myself,” he said. “Ruins the mystery.”

Fred and George groaned simultaneously.

“One day we will get you to reveal all your secrets,” George said, standing up from the table. Fred also stood up, pausing to ruffle Percy’s hair and completely sidestepping the hand that tried to swipe at him.

“Anyway, we’ve got to go—Lee Jordan reckons he’s found a new secret passageway out of the school.”

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.”

Dinner was just finishing up when Percy and Ron got their next visitors.

Draco, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, sauntered up to their table.

“Potter,” came the cold, familiar voice behind him.

Percy didn’t turn right away. He shoved another bite of potato into his mouth before swiveling in his seat to face Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

Malfoy’s sneer was dialed up to maximum. “Having a last meal? When are you getting the train back home?”

“Leave us be, Malfoy,” Percy replied.

Draco looked taken aback for a moment. Up to this point, Percy had been calling him Draco. But what he did was a clear line in the sand. Percy had been willing to become friends with him, had said so on the train, and he had excused his attitude the past few weeks as him being an annoying boy with a superiority complex. But his actions today were inexcusable.

“What’s wrong, Potter?” Draco sneered. “Still mad about that stupid lump’s Remembrall?”

“You had no right,” Percy said. He could feel himself growing angrier. He knew he should back off before it went too far. “And I certainly don’t want to be around someone who can be cruel like that.”

Malfoy pressed his hands flat on the table and leaned down slightly, his pointy features catching the flickering light from the candles above them.

“You’re weak, Potter.”

“No, I’m just not a bully who can’t even approach someone without their bodyguards following them.”

Malfoy scoffed. “I’d take you on anytime on my own. Tonight if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only—no contact.”

“Why, afraid I’d break your pretty little nose?”

“No, it’s undignified,” he said, scrunching up his nose at the thought. “Don’t think you can take me with just wands?”

No Percy didn't. He hadn't been raised on Magic and Malfoy would surly know more spells at this pint than he did.

Still before he could reply, Ron jumped in. “Of course he can. I’m his second, who’s yours?”

“No, he’s not,” Percy cut in sharply, placing a firm hand on Ron’s shoulder. He stood slowly and turned to Malfoy. “There’s not going to be a duel.”

Malfoy blinked, thrown off. “You scared, Potter?”

Percy stepped closer. Not aggressive—just… steady. “No. I just have better things to do than sneak around in the dark to slap wands with someone whose only spell is ‘look at me.’”

A few people around them laughed.

Draco flushed. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, clearly trying to recover.

Percy gave him a pitying look. “I regret talking to you already.”

Malfoy turned on his heel, robes flaring dramatically—but not before Percy caught the flicker of embarrassment behind his retreat.

Crabbe and Goyle followed quickly, looking a little confused about what just happened.

Ron stared at Percy. “Why didn’t you let me accept the duel? I was ready to take his head off.”

Percy sighed and sat back down. “Because that’s exactly what he wanted. He doesn’t care about dueling, Ron. He wants a reason to humiliate us.”

Hermione, now sitting very quietly at the table, gave a small approving nod. “That was… actually quite mature.”

“It happens every once in a while.” Percy shrugged. He was absolutely not going to allow Malfoy to dictate how they were going to fight. He wasn’t an idiot.

Percy sat cross-legged on the bench in the quiet alcove he’d claimed as his own, the soft moonlight casting silver across the parchment in his hands.

He waited until the castle had quieted, until the walls weren’t buzzing with energy, and then he slipped away to read the letter from his mom in peace.

He unfolded the letter, the familiar slanted handwriting instantly easing the tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all week.

My Dearest Starfish,

You don’t know how happy I was to get your letter. I’ve read it so many times the corners are curling. I’m keeping it under my pillow—yes, like a complete sap—but don’t judge me, I’m allowed. You’re my baby, even if you’re off doing magic now like something out of a bedtime story.

First of all: Your parents’ house. Gryffindor, huh? I had a feeling. You’ve always had a brave heart, even when you were little. Remember when you told that biker guy at the deli that he should wear deodorant? You were six. And I almost died from embarrassment. But that’s you—no fear when it matters, and a mouth that doesn’t know when to shut up.

I wish I could’ve seen the Sorting. I bet you had the whole room holding its breath. You always do.

Your stories about your classes made me laugh. A needle from a matchstick? That sounds incredible. I wish I could see it all. I wish I could see you.

As for potions, don’t let the Professor get to you. I’m sure he just doesn’t know you yet.

I miss you like crazy.

Gabe hasn’t noticed you’re gone, by the way. He’s been busy with his friends and work. I’m fine. Tired, but fine. Don’t worry about me—just focus on school. On learning. On making something of yourself in a world that finally sees the magic I’ve always seen in you.

Oh—and tell that owl of yours thank you. She bit Gabe when he tried to get near the window. Smart girl.

Write me again soon, okay? Tell me everything. Every class, every friend, even the annoying ones. Especially the annoying ones. And please, Percy… be careful. I don’t know much about this magical world, but I know you. And when you find trouble, you tend to punch it in the face.

I love you, more than all the stars over Montauk.

Forever,

Mom

Percy stared at the letter for a long moment, blinking hard.

He missed her. He missed the warmth of her hugs, the way she always smelled faintly of flour and sea salt, and how she made everything—everything—feel okay, even when it wasn’t. She was the kindest person he knew. She refused to speak badly about anyone, even when they deserved it. And she never let him doubt, not even for a second, that she loved him.

This letter was proof of that.

Even here, in a castle full of magic and ghosts and moving staircases, he’d never felt farther away from her. But her words had closed the distance, even if just for a little while.

He folded the letter neatly, tucked it back into the envelope, and pressed it against his chest and leaning back against the old dusty pillows. He'd sit here and watch the grounds for a moment before heading back to the common room. 

The walk back was a long one this late at night. The staircases had stopped moving, not needing to cart students to their destinations, so his usual route couldn't get him back to the dorms. Instead, he would need to go back down to the third floor. From there, he had to walk all the way down one corridor to reach the next staircase that would take him back up to the fourth floor, and then double back across the hallway to reach the staircases going to Gryffindor Tower. Honestly it was a mess.

Percy didn’t particularly like it, but he also didn’t mind the quite moment—as long as he was careful not to get caught.

It was as he was passing a random-looking door that he heard something rattling behind it.

He paused.

Another rattle. Followed by a heavy, unmistakable exhale.

Percy crept closer. Just to listen.

The sound came again—low and... snoring? What?

He tried the doorknob. Locked.

Well, that never stopped him before.

See, what most people don’t realize when you stick a bunch of troubled delinquents together in one school is they tend to pick up a few different tricks. They trade secrets and skills like candy. So when Percy had been stuck at a boarding school last year with a kleptomaniac for a roommate, he may have picked up a thing or two.

It was easy work to pick the lock with the bobby pin he always carries around, just in case he ever ran into situations like this.

Quietly, he pushed the door open just enough to stick his head in.

Lying inside was the biggest dog Percy had ever seen.

It was massive and barely fit into the room. And it definitely looked like it could crush him with a single paw if it felt so inclined.

But that wasn’t even the strangest part.

The dog had three heads.

Two of them were sleeping, snoring like broken lawnmowers with drool pooling on the floor below them. But the third… the third turned toward him. Its eyes locked onto Percy’s.

A low growl rumbled in its throat—a warning as its lips peeled back over gleaming white teeth. That was as clear a message as Percy had ever seen. 

Come any closer, and you won’t be walking away again.

Percy didn’t need to be told twice.

He eased the door shut and backed away, then turned and walked briskly back towards the dorm.

He had no idea why there was a three-headed dog in some random room on the third floor, but he wasn’t all that interested in finding out.

Probably just… a wizard thing.

Still, he was pretty sure dogs weren’t supposed to have multiple heads.

Or be that huge.

Chapter Text

Percy now had a brand-new Nimbus 2000, courtesy of six screech owls and Professor McGonagall. She had to be the best professor in the world—Percy had officially decided no one could take that title from her. Ron seemed to agree, practically drooling over the broomstick when he unwrapped it later in their dorm room. Wood had said to keep it under wraps but to meet him for some one-on-one training later that day.

That afternoon, Percy was bouncing all over the common room. His ADHD was in full swing thanks to the excitement of his first Quidditch training. One minute, he was talking to Ron; the next, he’d wandered over to the window, completely sidetracked, pressing his nose to the glass to look outside. Then came the incessant tapping on the windowsill—tap, tap, tap—until Hermione, fed up, glared at him from across the room.

He’d cast a quick Tempus charm, only to groan when it told him just five minutes had passed. He’d set his wand down, get called back over by Ron, talk for a bit, then realize his wand was missing and start tearing the place apart looking for it. Then he’d attempt to sit down and do homework, only to abandon it a minute later and start the whole routine again.

About thirty minutes before practice, a fifth-year had had enough and physically shoved him upstairs. Percy decided he might as well head to the pitch early.

Even taking his time getting there, he arrived before anyone else. Too eager to wait for Wood, Percy mounted his broom and kicked off from the ground.

What a feeling.

He swooped in and out of the goalposts, then shot up and down the length of the field. The Nimbus 2000 responded to the slightest pressure—every movement was smooth, every turn precise. It was a massive upgrade from the old school brooms he’d used in lessons.

When Wood finally arrived, Percy got a full rundown on the rules of Quidditch. Honestly, it was the weirdest sport he’d ever heard of—even without the magic involved. All he had to do was chase a tiny golden ball and try not to die from getting beaned in the head by iron-weighted bludgers.

Easy enough. It might even be fun. 

___________

Percy stood corrected.

Quidditch was not fun.

Not with Wood as captain.

Practicing three days a week was brutal. Percy was sore in places he hadn’t even known existed. Wood was a tyrant—he made sure Percy ate only healthy meals, dragged him out of bed at the crack of dawn on non-practice days for morning fitness, and still pushed the entire team to their limits during regular training.

At least Percy wasn’t suffering alone. That first week, Oliver had worked with him one-on-one. But by Monday of the following week, he’d roped the rest of the team into the same grueling schedule. If nothing else, Percy now had teammates to commiserate with whenever Wood’s “motivation” crossed into cruel and unusual punishment.

Eventually, Percy started to get used to it. He wasn’t as tired all the time, the soreness didn’t last as long, and—if he squinted—he might have seen a little definition in his legs from all the running and broom riding. (Okay, not really. He was still scrawny and short compared to everyone else on the team. But it was a nice thought.)

Still, the structure helped. The training gave him a way to burn off his endless energy, and that made focusing in class a little easier. For once, school wasn’t dragging by in painfully slow hours.

Time was flying—faster than Percy ever expected.

Percy woke up before the sun had fully risen.

It was Halloween.

He knew it the moment he blinked into the soft gray light trickling through the dormitory windows. The air had that crisp stillness of late October, and the dorm was quiet—save for the gentle breathing of the other boys still tangled in their sheets.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the canopy above him, and let the date settle in.

October 31st.

The day his parents died.

Not his mom, of course. She was probably home in New York right now, handing out blue frosted cookies to trick-or-treaters.

No—Percy meant his other parents. The ones he’d never met. The ones whose deaths had apparently changed the course of the wizarding world—who had died so that he could live.

Percy didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about it.

One part of him wanted to curl up in a ball and spend the whole day hiding away from everyone.

The other part wanted to scream at the ceiling and demand answers.

Because how was he supposed to feel today?

He hadn’t known them. He had no memories of James and Lily Potter—only a photograph his mom had given him when she first explained everything, and stories from people who spoke of them like legends. And yet, he still felt guilty. Guilty that whatever happened that night… he had survived, and they hadn’t.

His chest ached.

He didn’t understand it. He’d had an amazing life with his mom. It hadn’t been perfect—not with Gabe around—but she had loved him so fiercely that it made up for everything else.

So why did he feel so hollow this morning?

Why did the thought of everyone celebrating Halloween make his skin feel tight and itchy?

Why did he feel like he was mourning people he’d never even known?

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake the others, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Hedwig shifted on her perch, blinking sleepily at him. Percy walked over and stared into her black eyes, ringed with sea green.

“Happy Halloween,” he muttered, giving her a gentle scratch behind the ear.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a blur. Percy barely tasted the toast he chewed through.

Ron was chattering excitedly about the Halloween feast later that night— “Last year Fred said they had floating jack-o’-lanterns and real live bats!”

Meanwhile, Seamus was waving his wand under the table, trying to see if he could charm his pumpkin juice into cider without McGonagall noticing. He only managed to turn it yellow.

Everyone was excited. Buzzing with anticipation.

Percy couldn’t get into it.

He smiled when people looked his way. Gave a few half-hearted responses. But the truth was, he couldn't seem to find any energy to care. Not when his skin itched and his mouth felt dry. Even the soothing magic that seemed to follow him around the school was gone today. 

Percy sighed.

Charms class was held in one of the smaller tower rooms, the walls lined with shelves crammed full of enchanted trinkets and curious magical instruments that occasionally rattled or let off puffs of colored smoke. Morning sunlight streamed through high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes that sparkled as they floated lazily in the air.

The desks had been pushed into pairs today, and Professor Flitwick practically bounced where he stood atop a stack of books at the front of the room.

“Today, we’ll be practicing the Levitation Charm!” he squeaked, clapping his tiny hands together. “A favorite of mine—simple in theory, tricky in practice!”

Percy slumped onto the bench beside Seamus, who looked far too excited to be holding a wand near anything remotely flammable. Ron and Hermione ended up directly in front of them. Ron was already sulking before the lesson had properly begun. The moment Flitwick announced the pairs, Ron had groaned under his breath and shot Percy a helpless look, clearly bracing for a long hour.

Hermione, meanwhile, was adjusting the angle of their feather, turning it ever so slightly to the left. 

“Remember,” Flitwick called out as he paced the rows, “swish and flick! And don’t forget to enunciate! It’s Wingardium Leviosa.” He set them to work, stopping at desks to help as needed.

Ron was not amused. They hadn’t been working for five minutes before Hermione corrected him—again.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she said, sharp and precise. “You have to swish before you flick, not after. And you’re still not pronouncing it properly—”

“I know how to do it!” Ron snapped, yanking his wand away from the feather.

Percy tried to tune them out, but their voices grated on his already fraying nerves.

His own wand felt off today—unusually heavy in his hand, the wood cold where it normally hummed warm against his palm. He muttered the incantation again, gave the swish and flick another try, but nothing happened. No spark. No warmth. Not even a twitch from the feather in front of him.

It was like waving a stick at a rock. Even his magic felt depressing today, it’s surrounding warmth not caressing his wrist or cheek like it usually did. 

Beside him, Seamus had somehow managed to set his feather on fire. It wasn’t exactly surprising but Percy thought he had gotten over that habit already. He pushed back from the desk anyway. 

“Bloody hell!” Seamus yelped, jumping back as the edge of the feather curled black. Half the class shrieked, and Flitwick rushed over, casting a quick extinguishing spell while shaking his head with a sigh.

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes.

“I’m telling you, it’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, not Leviosarrr,” Hermione insisted again, her voice drifting back toward them.

“If you’re so clever, you do it then,” Ron bit back, voice low and simmering.

Hermione rolled her eyes, pushed up her sleeves, and gave her wand a practiced flick. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Their feather rose smoothly from the table, floated up past their heads, and hovered there.

“Oh, well done!” Flitwick cried, clapping delightedly. “Everyone, take note—Miss Granger’s got it perfectly!”

Ron glared at the feather like it had personally insulted him.

The class went on—Hermione still nagging, Ron still snapping, and Percy’s patience wearing thinner by the second.

He clenched his jaw. The energy buzzing in his bones—frustration, grief, tension—built up behind his teeth like steam in a kettle.

“Will both of you just shut up?” he snapped.

The words came out sharper than he intended, cutting through the room like a snapped string.

Hermione froze. Ron blinked in surprise. A few students turned to stare.

Flitwick, thankfully, was across the room helping a pair of nervous-looking Hufflepuffs and didn’t hear the outburst.

Percy scrubbed a hand down his face, suddenly exhausted. “Sorry,” he muttered without looking up. “I’m just… I’m not in the mood today.”

And he wasn’t. The noise, the constant back-and-forth, the low hum of everything—it all pressed against him like a wall. He just wanted to get through the day without feeling like his skin was on backward.

The rest of the lesson passed in strained silence. Ron kept his eyes on his desk. Hermione didn’t offer another correction. Percy didn’t speak again.

When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, the room filled with the scrape of chairs and a flutter of disturbed feathers. Percy took his time packing up, his movements slow and leaden—like he was trying to delay the inevitable.

Behind him, Ron muttered as he stuffed his wand into his bag, “It’s no wonder anyone can stand her. She’s a nightmare, honestly.”

Percy glanced up just in time to see Hermione brush past them. Her face was set forward, her expression unreadable—but her eyes were red, and he caught the shimmer of tears.

“I think she heard you,” Percy said quietly.

“So?” Ron grumbled, but his ears had gone a bit pink. “She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.”

Percy frowned, watching Hermione disappear through the doorway.

“You’re acting like Malfoy,” he said flatly.

Ron stiffened. “I am not—”

But Percy was already walking away, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He didn’t care to argue. Not today.

He just left in silence, the weight of Halloween pressing a little heavier against his ribs.

The rest of the day continued with a tension thick as fog, weaving between classes and conversations. Percy kept mostly to himself, nursing a quiet frustration that refused to settle. Ron trailed after him like a kicked puppy at first, guilt radiating off him in waves. But as the day progressed, he seemed to forget all that had happened in charms. 

Hermione didn’t appear again. Percy caught himself glancing toward her usual seat more than once, guilt tightening in his chest each time.

On the way to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Percy overheard Lavender Brown whispering urgently to Parvati Patil just a few steps ahead.

“She’s in the third-floor girls’ bathroom,” Lavender said. “Crying. She’s been there all day. Hannah Abbott says she won’t even come out.”

Parvati frowned, concern creasing her brow. “That’s awful. I mean… she can be a bit intense, but she didn’t deserve that.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. He’d been having a bad day, sure—but that didn’t excuse snapping at Hermione. Ron was the one who had insulted her, but Percy hadn’t exactly helped. He hadn’t defended her. He hadn’t done anything at all.

Ron trudged forward through the open doors and into the Great Hall, unbothered. He was more excited about the fest than anything else. Percy followed behind him, his steps a bit slower. 

The Great Hall was a marvel. A thousand live bats fluttered from the high stone walls and vaulted ceiling, their wings casting rippling shadows over the enchanted sky above. A thousand more swooped over the long house tables in sweeping arcs, forming low black clouds that stirred the floating candles and sent them flickering. Carved pumpkins leered and grinned on every surface, lit from within by dancing candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, warm bread, and spiced pumpkin.

But even with all of it—the dazzling decorations, the flickering lights, the warmth of the feast—Percy still felt that dull ache pressing against his chest. He couldn’t do this tonight. Not today of all days. 

He grabbed Ron’s arm, stopping him just before they stepped inside.

“I’m going to check on Hermione,” he said quietly.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Why? It’s Halloween. If she doesn’t want to come, that’s on her.”

Percy’s jaw tensed. “I don’t really care to be at the feast anyway.”

Ron blinked at him. “Why not? It’s the Halloween feast. It’s going to be great.”

“Well, Ron,” Percy snapped, narrowing his eyes, “I don’t particularly feel like celebrating the day my parents died.”

The words burst out of him before he could stop them—hot and brittle and awful. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, but it had been simmering all day, growing under his skin like pressure under a lid. Now it had popped.

Ron’s face flushed deep red. “Well, you don’t have to bring me down with you.”

“Whatever,” Percy muttered, turning away.

He paused for a moment to glance back—just long enough to see Ron drop into a seat beside Dean and start piling food on his plate—then turned and walked away, the warm glow of the Great Hall fading behind him.

The third-floor corridor was empty and echoing, torchlight flickering against the stone. Percy hesitated outside the girls’ bathroom door, shifting from foot to foot. He could hear soft sniffling inside, bouncing off the tile and echoing faintly through the hallway.

He raised a hand and knocked lightly against the doorframe.

“Hermione? It’s Harry.”

Silence.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, voice low but steady. “I just… wanted to check on you.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of movement. A moment later, the door creaked open a sliver.

Hermione’s face appeared—eyes red, cheeks blotchy, nose pink from crying. She looked surprised to see him.

“What do you want?” she asked, voice hoarse and scratchy.

Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “I came to say sorry. For earlier.”

Hermione looked down, fidgeting with the sleeve of her robe. “Why? You didn’t do anything.”

“I snapped at you,” Percy said. “Wasn’t exactly kind.”

She sniffled. “I’m not upset about that.”

Percy hesitated. He hadn’t said anything cruel, not like Ron had. But he hadn’t stepped in either. And that didn’t sit right with him.

He glanced down the corridor in both directions—empty.

“Can I come in?”

Hermione hesitated, then pulled the door open just wide enough for Percy to slip through. She shut it quickly behind him and locked it.

Up close, it was clear how upset she really was. Her usually neat robes were rumpled and tear-streaked. She stood stiffly, arms crossed tightly around her waist and chin tilted down so that her bushy hair would hid at least part of her face. 

“Are you upset over what Ron said?”

Hermione let out a sharp breath through her nose and slid down the wall, curling in on herself with her knees pulled to her chest.

“He’s right, though,” she said. “I am a nightmare. I talk too much. I correct everyone. I act like I know everything even when no one asks.” Her voice cracked. “I just wanted to help. And now everyone hates me.”

“No one hates you,” Percy said as he sank down beside her. “You’re not a nightmare. You’re smart. And you try harder than anyone I’ve ever met. Some people can’t handle that. That’s not on you.”

She turned her face to look at him, the corner of her mouth wobbling slightly. “You really think so?”

“I do. And if no one else wants to…” He shrugged. “I’ll be your friend.”

Hermione blinked. “Why?”

Percy looked down at his hands. “Because it sucks to feel like you’re alone. And… because I think I made it worse.”

“You mean when you told us both to shut up?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was having a bad day. Doesn’t excuse it, but I shouldn’t have snapped. And I overheard Lavender say you’d been in here all day. Crying.”

Hermione looked away, biting her lip. Her brow furrowed in thought. 

Then her eyes widened, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Oh, Harry!” she cried, throwing her arms around him and pulling him into a hug. “I completely forgot what today is. I’m so sorry.”

Percy let her hold him. It wasn’t the most comfortable hug—especially with her damp cheek pressed against his temple—but it was still the only one he’d gotten all day. And honestly, it helped.

“I’m sorry too,” she said softly, pulling back to wipe her eyes. “I should’ve realized today wasn’t easy for you.”

Percy met her gaze. “It’s okay. I didn’t exactly talk about it.”

“I didn’t even notice,” she said, voice cracking.

Percy offered a tired smile. “Happens to the best of us.”

Hermione gave a watery laugh and wiped her eyes again.

“You know,” Percy added, glancing at the door, “we could probably still catch the last half of the feast. If we hurry.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah… okay.”

Percy stood and offered her a hand. She took it and didn’t let go as they made their way to the door.

He unlocked it and cracked it open—only to slam it shut with a loud bang a second later.

“Was that…” Percy whispered to Hermione, frozen still in shock.

“A troll,” Hermione finished for him, her voice trembling. She quickly locked the bathroom door and yanked him back further into the room.

It didn’t do any good.

The door was blasted open a moment later, slamming into the opposite wall—right where Percy and Hermione had been standing seconds before.

Hermione screamed, high-pitched and terrified, raising her hands to her face as tiles and plaster showered down from the cracked wall.

The troll was huge. Ducking into the bathroom, it dragged a massive wooden club behind it with a sound like thunder. It had to be twelve feet tall, its bald head brushing the ceiling. Its skin was a dull granite gray, its boulder-like body hunched and lumpy. Its legs were short and thick as tree trunks, feet flat and cracked like dried mud. The stench rolling off it was unbearable—like rotting meat and sewage.

And it was looking directly at them.

It roared, opening its enormous mouth wide, showing a row of yellowed, rotted teeth—and Percy nearly gagged at the smell alone.

Hermione was sobbing, frozen where she crouched her hands covering her ears in fright.

The troll gripped its club with both hands, raising it high like a baseball bat, and for a terrifying moment, Percy was the ball.

He fumbled for his wand, grabbing Hermione’s collar and yanking her out of the way. She stumbled, but Percy shoved her behind him and stepped between her and the troll.

He pointed his wand at the creature, but panic muddied his thoughts. He didn’t know any spells that could stop a troll. He hadn’t learned anything for this yet.

Still, he stood his ground, slowly backing up and nudging Hermione to do the same. She was shaking, tears streaming down her face, but she had her wand out too—though she didn’t seem to know what to do with it either.

Then, from the doorway—

“Harry!”

A red-headed boy appeared, chest heaving, panic in his wide eyes. Ron.

The troll turned at the sound, its attention shifting.

Percy didn’t waste the opportunity.

He launched himself at the troll, leaping higher than seemed humanly possible. He grabbed the troll’s shoulders and clung on, arms wrapped tight around its thick neck.

The troll went berserk. It dropped its club and began thrashing, swatting at Percy like he was a particularly irritating bug. Percy clung tighter, but the creature slammed him against the wall—once, twice.

He heard something crack the second time. His ribs? His spine?

He didn’t know.

The third slam hit his head.

Stars burst across his vision. His grip weakened. The next impact knocked him loose entirely. He hit the floor hard, slumped against the tiles, his skull ringing. His vision blurred, tunneled. His stomach flipped with nausea.

He blinked, tried to focus.

Everything hurt.

His vision whitened out as he tried to control his nausea. He must have lost time because the next thing he knew Hermione was right in front of him, crouched down and tapping his face lightly. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried, closer now, her voice high and shaking.

Percy blinked slowly looking around trying to make sense of things. The troll was down. Slumped across the bathroom floor. Its club lay discarded nearby.

What…?

“Hur’moi…nee?” he mumbled, confused. Why was she kneeling beside him? “Wha-?” 

She gasped. “Oh, thank God—you’re awake! Harry, can you hear me?”

“Ron…?” Percy slurred, blinking again trying to sit up. He could’ve sworn Ron was just here.

“He went to get the professors,” Hermione said quickly. “Just—just stay down, okay?”

He groaned. Staying down actually sounded great.

“No—keep your eyes open,” she said, voice urgent.

All of a sudden, it got a whole lot louder in the room and Percy groaned again as the noise beat against his head. Hermione was no longer leaning over him, someone else was.

“Potter.” Professor McGonagall was leaning over him. Huh when did she get there. 

Percy hummed at her. His vision blinked out again and came back making his head give a sharp protest again. 

“Concussion-” Someone was talking. 

“Severus Help- to Pomfrey.” Percy was done trying to decipher what was being said. His vision began to tunnel and the next thing he knew it was dark. 

Percy blinked awake, confused.

It was much brighter than usual for morning. Had he forgotten to draw his bed curtains?

There was more noise than usual too. Typically, Percy was the first to wake up in his dorm. It was practically a reflex for him—wake up, get dressed, and head out before Gabe could even stir. Maybe he’d overslept and the other boys were already up and chatting?

No… that didn’t feel right.

The bed was too stiff, the sheets too scratchy.

Percy frowned and turned his head, squinting through the light.

“Mr. Potter,” a voice called gently.

“Yes?” he answered, blinking up at the elderly, gray-haired woman leaning over his bed.

“How are you feeling?”

Percy frowned again. Was he supposed to be feeling bad?

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Who’re you?”

The woman pursed her lips. “My name is Madam Pomfrey. I’m the school healer.” She waved her wand across his face. The tip glowed a soft yellow, and the magic washed over him in a wave of soothing comfort. He let out a sigh and sank back into the pillows.

“Do you remember why you’re here, Mr. Potter?” she asked.

It hit him then.

Ron. Hermione. The troll.

Percy shot upright. “The troll!” he cried, trying to throw the sheets off his legs.

Madam Pomfrey quickly placed a firm hand on his shoulder, easing him back down and fluffing his pillows so he was sitting up slightly instead.

“Hush, child. It’s been dealt with.”

“What about Hermione and Ron?”

“They’re fine. They’ve been trying to check in on you every hour for the past two days.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “Two days?”

“Yes. You did a very foolish thing—jumping on the back of a full-grown troll. Hit your head hard enough to give yourself a concussion, and you cracked a rib. They’re healed now, dear, but it was still incredibly reckless.” She gave him a tight, reluctant smile. “Very brave, though.”

Percy winced. She was going to scold him when she saw him again. He might as well get it over with.

“Madam Pomfrey?” Percy asked, glancing toward the window. “Would you mind opening that?”

She raised an eyebrow at the odd request, but lifted her wand and gave it a small flick. The window shimmered and vanished, replaced by a gentle, crisp breeze that fluttered in and with it, a loud screech as a white-tailed owl barreled into the room, wings flared wide.

She landed hard on Percy’s bed and immediately began squawking and fluttering her wings in outrage, clearly chewing him out.

Percy winced. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to.”

Madam Pomfrey raised both eyebrows as she watched the Percy try to calm the furious owl. The bird nipped lightly at his fingers every time he reached for her.

Eventually, Percy slumped back against the pillows, defeated. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

Satisfied, the owl hopped onto his chest, nuzzling his hair and cheeks, inspecting him thoroughly before settling herself across his pillows, half-wrapped around his head. She began gently pruning his hair with her beak.

“You have a very strange owl, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said dryly.

Percy blushed. “Sorry, Madam Pomfrey. She’s very protective. Gets agitated if I don’t check in every day. You don’t mind if she stays, do you?”

His sea-green eyes turned pleading, widening with his best puppy-dog expression.

Pomfrey’s expression softened slightly. She sighed. “Fine, Mr. Potter. Just don’t make a habit of this.”

Percy beamed. “Thanks, Madam.”

She straightened. “You seem to be recovering well. It’s already Sunday afternoon. I’ll have dinner brought up to you, and you’ll stay one more night for observation. You may return to class in the morning.”

Percy grimaced. He’d missed the whole weekend.

“Professor McGonagall would also like to speak with you about what happened. You’ll report to her after classes tomorrow.”

“Am I in trouble?” Percy asked quietly.

“We’ll see,” Pomfrey said cryptically. “Now get some rest, Mr. Potter. I expect your friends will visit after dinner.”

With one last glance to make sure he was truly stable, she turned and walked through a side door, which Percy assumed led to her office.

Madam Pomfrey had been right.

It wasn’t long before the doors to the hospital wing slammed open and Hermione—followed closely by Ron—burst into the room. Both of them lit up the moment they saw Percy sitting up.

“Harry!” Hermione cried, rushing across the room and flinging her arms around his neck.

She startled Hedwig, who squawked in protest and flapped her wings before fluttering up to perch on the headboard with a grumble, her black eyes ringed in sea green narrowing on the additions to the room. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Hermione said, pulling back with teary eyes and a trembling smile.

Ron had shuffled awkwardly to the side of the bed by that point, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears turned pink. “Yeah, mate,” he mumbled. “Glad you’re alright.”

He sighed. “Listen, Harry… I’m sorry for what I said. About bringing me down with you. That was—really awful.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Did you apologize to Hermione as well?”

Ron nodded, his blush deepening. “Yeah.”

“Did she accept?”

Another nod.

“Then I forgive you. Just don’t let it happen again.”

Ron gave a small smile, the tension finally easing from his shoulders.

“Now… what exactly happened?” Percy asked, shifting to sit up straighter.

Hermione shoved Percy over slightly and climbed onto the bed to sit beside him, perching carefully near his side. Percy pulled his knees up slightly to make room so that Ron could sit at the foot of the bed.

“Okay,” Hermione began. “You remember Ron running in, and you jumping on the troll’s back, right?”

“Absolutely brilliant, mate,” Ron said proudly.

“Absolutely stupid, you mean,” Hermione snapped, shooting him a glare before continuing.

“Well, when you fell off the troll’s back, it looked like it was going to stomp on you. But Ron levitated its club and dropped it on its head. It went down, but you weren’t waking up, so Ron ran to get the professors. Then Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Quirrell came rushing in behind him.”

Rn rubbed the back of his neck. "During the feast, Quirrell ran in screaming troll. And Dumbledor told the prefects to escort everyone to their common rooms. But I knew that You and Hemione wouldn't know about the troll so I was going to go find you and warn you, but then the troll had already found you." He was dark red by the end of it. 

“McGonagall told Flitwick and Quirrell to handle the troll,” Ron added, “while she and Snape took you to the hospital. You’ve been here ever since.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said again, leaning her head gently against his shoulder. “Please don’t scare me like that again.”

Percy blushed faintly. “No promises.”

They stayed for hours after that, only leaving when Madam Pomfrey finally shooed them out with firm instructions that Percy needed rest.

Fred and George had stopped by at one point too—mostly to congratulate him on what they called “legendary heroics.” Percy wasn’t sure how the story had spread so fast, but the versions being told around the castle were far more dramatic than the real thing—and definitely not helped by the embellishments Fred and George were gleefully adding to the rumor mill.

Still, despite all that, Percy found himself smiling.

The three of them—him, Hermione, and Ron—had grown closer over the course of that long evening. They’d talked, laughed, argued a little, and settled into something that felt… real.

And Percy could confidently say that come tomorrow, he’d have friends sitting beside him in every class.

It was a strange feeling. He was kind of looking forward to it. 

Professor McGonagall had wanted to check up on him after “the incident,” as Hermione had taken to calling it.

She’d asked what had happened, and Percy explained everything: how he’d gone to check on Hermione when she didn’t show up at the Great Hall, how the troll had spotted them coming out of the bathroom, and how Ron had run in and distracted it—giving Percy just enough of a window to jump on its back and try to buy time.

McGonagall had not been pleased about that last part.

She’d taken ten points from Gryffindor for “reckless behavior bordering on foolishness.” Then, with a tight-lipped smile, she’d awarded ten points for bravery—and five more for checking on a friend.

All in all? Not a bad meeting. She was quickly solidifying her spot as one of his favorite professors.

Unfortunately, the gossip mill had done nothing to help with the stares in the corridors. Just when Percy thought everything had calmed down, the whispers started up again. And they didn’t die down until Quidditch season began—and the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match was suddenly the biggest thing on everyone’s mind.

Percy was a bit nervous the morning of the match.

It was Saturday, and so far, the entire school was still unaware that he was the new Seeker for the Gryffindor team. Not that it was being kept particularly well. Oliver had been hovering over him all morning, drawing more attention than was probably helpful.

Currently, Oliver was seated right next to him in the Great Hall, shoveling food onto Percy’s plate like a man on a mission.

“Eat up, Potter,” he whispered. “You need your energy.”

He didn’t leave him alone until Percy had cleared his entire plate.

Now, as he walked toward the Quidditch locker rooms, Percy felt the nerves settling in like rocks in his stomach. Months of practice—all leading up to this. His team was counting on him. The Seeker’s job was to end the game. To score the final points.

And it was his job now.

It felt like way too much pressure. After everything he’d learned about Quidditch these past few months, Percy wasn’t sure the Seeker position was his best fit—but he was the best option the team had. He couldn’t let them down.

Inside the locker room, Percy and the rest of the team changed into their scarlet Quidditch robes. He honestly would’ve preferred blue—but he had to admit, the red did look impressive. His brand-new jersey had Potter stitched in gold on the back, above a bold “20” that took up most of the fabric.

A warmth bloomed in his chest when he saw it. He didn’t know what number his father had worn, but he could imagine it now: James Potter, clad in red and gold, getting ready for his own first game, Potter printed across his shoulders.

Wood cleared his throat for attention.

“Okay, men,” he began.

“And women,” Chaser Angelina Johnson corrected.

“And women,” Wood agreed, nodding.

“This is it.”

“The big one,” said Fred Weasley.

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” added George.

“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Percy in a stage whisper. “We were on the team last year.”

“Shut up, you two,” said Wood, though he didn’t look angry.

“This is the best team Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win. I know it.”

He glared at each of them like he’d hex anyone who dared to think otherwise.

“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.”

Percy followed Fred and George out of the locker room and, hoping his knees wouldn’t buckle, walked onto the field to the sound of deafening cheers. The team mounted their brooms and soared into the air, flying in formation as they circled the stadium in a high arc, greeting the roaring crowd.

The best part? Looking over to the Slytherin section and spotting a very familiar head of white-blond hair.

Draco Malfoy’s mouth was hanging open like a kicked-up drawbridge.

Percy grinned.

They landed across from the Slytherin players, where Madam Hooch gave them a stern speech on fairness before tossing the balls into the air—and then they were off.

Percy rose high above the rest of the players, scanning the pitch for any glint of gold. The Slytherin Seeker, a burly sixth year, followed him—though he didn’t seem nearly as comfortable at that height. Still, he kept close.

Lee Jordan, Fred and George’s friend, was announcing the match below. Percy could catch bits and pieces—something about a Slytherin Chaser nearly flattening a Hufflepuff in a previous match—but Percy was too focused to make out more than a few words.

Gryffindor was pulling ahead.

Wood was blocking more shots than the Slytherin Keeper could, and their Chasers—Spinnet, Johnson, and Bell—were weaving through the green-robed defense like they’d been born on broomsticks.

Percy kept circling, eyes peeled for even the tiniest shimmer.

Then he saw it.

A golden blur near the Slytherin goalposts. Percy was higher than it—but he was closer than the Slytherin Seeker.

He dove.

Wind whipped through his hair, stinging his eyes as he picked up speed. Everything else melted away.

Big mistake.

He didn’t see Marcus Flint veer directly into his path until it was almost too late. Percy pulled up sharply, heart pounding as his broom jerked wildly. The only thing that kept him steady was the familiar warm hum of magic beneath him, grounding him.

Booing erupted from the stands. Madam Hooch blew her whistle and soared over, checking on Percy before awarding a foul to Slytherin. Spinnet took the penalty shot and scored.

Then play resumed.

The problem was, Percy was flying too low now—right into Bludger territory.

One flew at him and he ducked just in time. The next was intercepted by Fred, who smacked it toward a Slytherin Chaser.

Percy needed to climb higher—but the moment he started to ascend, something went wrong.

His broom jerked violently. The warmth that surrounded him every time he rode a broom dissipated and that immediate feeling of wrongness swept over him. 

He needed to get down. He wasn’t supposed to be in the air this high. He tried to pull down, but his broom stick kept bucking wildly. It started to roll and all Percy could do was hang on for dear life as he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. 

It was several minuets of gritted teeth and white knuckles before that soothing presence washed over him again. His broom calmed and he could finally take a deep breath. 

The broom calmed.

Percy took a shaky breath.

“You alright, Harry?” George called from below. He and Fred were circling nervously, clearly ready to catch him if needed.

“Yeah,” Percy breathed. “I’m good.”

But he was done letting the game drag on.

He rose higher, scanning the field—and then he saw it.

There.

Hovering across the pitch was a flash of gold twinkling in the sunlight.

Percy stilled focusing on it like a dog spotting a bone.

His body coiled tight as he took a breath watching at the golden fleck hovered across the pitch.

Then as he released that breath, he shot off. 

He rolled around a Chaser, dipped under a bludger, and shot up over a Beater who had hit the bludger at him. 

And when the snitch seemed to realize he was after it, it dove. Dropping quickly in the air, reminiscent of the Remembrall that started it all. Percy followed, his knuckles white as he gripped the broom and pointed it straight down towards the ground.

He caught up quickly. His fingers stretched—too early. He pulled them back, adjusting his angle to avoid another bludger.

It was right there.

He could see its wings beating faster than a hummingbird’s.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then—he pulled up hard, tilting his broom stick up right before he would have crashed into the ground below. He straightened out, climbing as high as the stands.

The stadium collectively held its breath, Percy pulled the Golden Snitch from between his teeth and thrust it high into the air.

The stadium exploded.

Oliver Wood barreled into him midair, sobbing joyfully, and the rest of the team quickly joined the celebratory pile.

Percy had never smiled so widely in his life.

Chapter Text

"Pearce!" Professor McGonagall called sharply from her place near the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, holding a parchment list in one hand and her wand in the other.

The entire house was crammed into the main room, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder as students waited for their names to be called. It was a tight squeeze, with first-years practically buried behind taller students and older years leaning on the backs of armchairs to give everyone some room. When McGonagall received an affirmative from Phillips, she nodded briskly and moved on.

"Phillips!"

The reason for the roll call was simple: she needed to confirm who would be heading home for the holidays and who would be staying at the castle. Christmas was nearly upon them, and now that final exams were over, the Hogwarts Express would be departing the next morning. Staff at Hogwarts needed to know who was staying over the holidays.

"Potter!" McGonagall called, her voice carrying over the murmur of the room.

"Going home!" Percy answered.

McGonagall looked up at him with a brief flicker of confusion. Her brow creased as if the answer didn’t quite fit with her expectations, but she simply shook her head, muttering something under her breath, and continued down the list.

Ron, who had been standing beside Percy, turned to him with a curious frown. "You're going home?"

Over the past few months, Percy and Ron had grown noticeably closer. Hermione too. While Ron and Hermione still argued often enough to keep things interesting, they’d both learned when to back off before crossing the line. It made the new friendship easier to navigate.

"Yeah," Percy said, a smile touching his lips. "I'm going home to my mom."

"That's cool, mate." Ron’s own brow furrowed slightly. "New York, right?" he asked double-checking his memory of their previous conversation.

"Yeah." Percy tilted his head. "Are you staying here?"

Ron glanced across the room where one of his older brothers was whispering something to another. "I was thinking about it," he admitted, then jerked his chin toward the Weasley cluster. "They're going home, and I wasn't sue myself, but if you're leaving, I guess I'll head home too. I think Charlie’s coming in for Christmas, so at least I’ll get to catch up with him."

"That sounds great," Percy said sincerely, then shifted his gaze toward the nearby armchair where Hermione was seated with a thick textbook open on her lap. "What about you, Hermione?"

She didn’t respond. Her nose was buried deep in the book’s pages, her fingers twitching as she turned another one. Even though exams were over, she was still meticulously rereading every section she’d felt the slightest uncertainty about—despite the fact that, so far, she hadn’t found a single answer she’d gotten wrong.

"Hermione," Percy said more firmly, leaning over to tap a finger on the passage he suspected she was reading.

She blinked, then snapped her head up so quickly that her bushy hair whipped across her face.

"Are you going home for the holidays?" he asked again, smiling. He'd slowly started to figure out that Hermione got completely lost in a book. It was slightly funny t snap her out of her concentration sometimes. 

"Oh!" Her eyes widened in sudden recognition. She slid a candy wrapper between the pages to mark her spot, then shut the book with a decisive thump. "Yes! Mum and Dad want to take me skiing for the holiday."

"That's cool!" Percy said, clearly impressed. "I've never been snow skiing."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "What’s skiing?"

"It’s a winter sport," Hermione explained, "where you strap long, narrow boards to your feet and glide down a snowy mountain slope."

Ron stared at her like she’d just described a new form of torture. "Why would you want to do that on purpose?"

"It’s fun," Hermione said brightly.

Ron still looked skeptical, but shrugged anyway. "Must be a Muggle thing."

“Harry?”

Percy glanced up from where he was crouched beside his trunk, carefully folding the last of his robes for the train ride back to London. Excitement simmered in his chest, too big to contain. In just a few hours, he’d see his mom again. He missed her—more than he’d let himself admit until now. Even if Gabe would be around for the holidays, just being home with her would make it worth it.

He looked toward the doorway as Hermione and Ron stepped into the dormitory together. His brow rose. “How’d you get in here?” he asked, directing the question at Hermione. “Don’t the stairs turn into slides if a girl tries to come up the boys’ side?”

“Hogwarts: A History says it’s all about intent,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Ron squinted at her. “What intent?”

Percy and Hermione exchanged a look—hers dry, his amused.

Percy turned to Ron, his voice low and mock-serious. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, buddy.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Ron,” Hermione said quickly, cutting him off before he could spiral into one of his offended tangents and one of them would have to have a very awkward conversation with him. “We came to talk to Harry, remember?”

Percy straightened, setting aside the school robes he’d been shoving into the corner of his trunk. Their expressions gave away the conversation before it even began, and the weight of it settled in his chest.

“Look, guys,” he said, voice firmer now. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“But Harry—” Ron began.

Percy shook his head, already weary of where this was going.

Hermione stepped closer, reaching out and lightly placing a hand on his arm his arm. “No, listen. Your broom started going wild—we all saw it. Snape was staring at you, chanting something. And then I set his robes on fire, and suddenly the broom stopped. That’s not a coincidence, Harry!”

“We’ve been over this, Hermione,” Percy said with a sigh shaking off her hand and starting to pack his school books back in his trunk. “So many times, I’m starting to lose count. Yeah, Snape’s a git. He’s an awful person, a bully, and he clearly hates me. But he’s also a professor. He’s been teaching here longer than I’ve been alive, and he’s not going to risk all of that just to knock me off a broom.”

“Harry, he hates you,” Hermione insisted, eyes sharp. “Are you seriously not even a little concerned that he might be trying to kill you?”

Percy turned back to his trunk and began packing again, not looking at either of them. He could feel the frustration radiating off them, but he pressed on.

“There are easier ways to kill me,” he said calmly. “And definitely better ones than doing it in front of hundreds of students at a Quidditch match—on a broom that was obviously cursed and could easily be traced back to someone at the school. Probably an older student or a professor. Someone skilled enough to pull off the incantation in the first place.”

Ron stepped forward and caught Percy’s wrist, forcing him to pause.

“You could have died,” he said, voice low and serious.

Percy met his eyes and nodded. “I know, Ron. I do. I’m just not sold on it being Snape.”

He leaned back slightly, giving himself space to breathe. “Maybe he was talking to McGonagall. Maybe he was trying to counter the curse. Maybe he wasn’t even chanting anything, and you just imagined it. For all we know, he could’ve been singing a weird potion-brewing song under his breath.”

Hermione huffed and turned on her heel, striding toward the doorway. She paused just before stepping out and glanced back at them over her shoulder.

“Believe what you want, Harry,” she said tightly. “But something’s going on with Snape. And you should be careful around him.”

She left without waiting for a reply, her footsteps fading down the staircase.

Ron let out a breath and moved toward his own half-packed trunk, dropping down beside it with a soft thud.

“She’s right, mate,” he said, not looking up. “And if you’re not going to watch your own back... we will.”

Percy felt his throat tighten. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at his friend. The warmth that stirred in his chest surprised him—it wasn’t just gratitude... something quieter. He didn't realize how nice it was to have friends to care for him.

“Thanks, Ron,” he said softly, the words carrying more weight than he expected.

Percy grabbed his trunk as the train rolled into the station, the familiar London skyline blurring past the window. Around him, students were already gathering their things, voices rising in excitement as the journey home drew to a close. He turned toward his friends, who were doing the same.

“Would you two like to meet my mom?” Percy asked hesitantly. He’d never introduced anyone to her before, but the idea felt kind of exciting.

“Sure!” Ron said easily. “You can meet my mum and dad too.”

As the train came to a full stop, they joined the crowd pouring out onto the platform, Ron and Hermione sticking close behind him as they made their way into the bustling station. He glanced around, looking for that familiar head of dark curls.

And there she was—standing just ahead, looking effortlessly radiant in blue jeans and a cream-colored cardigan wrapped snugly around her. Her eyes lit up the moment she spotted him.

“Mom!” Percy called.

Her arms were already open by the time he reached her. Her smile stretched across her face, softening every line, making her look ten years younger. He dropped his trunk without a second thought—probably in everyone’s way, but at that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Starfish!” she exclaimed as he collided with her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She pulled him close, her chin resting on the crown of his head. Percy felt her breathe him in. He couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed at the use of his childish nickname. He had missed her too much. 

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you too, Mom.”

She gave him one last tight squeeze before pulling back slightly, her hands settling on his shoulders as she turned him side to side to inspect him.

“Oh, you’ve gotten so big.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Mom, you saw me a few months ago. I didn’t grow that much.”

“A few months too many,” she replied, placing a hand on top of his head and pressing down gently. “And you definitely grew at least half an inch. Such a big man,” she teased, then promptly pinched his cheek.

Percy groaned, though warmth flooded through him.

“You ready to go?” she asked, steering him back toward where he’d dropped his trunk.

“Actually…” Percy hesitated, glancing around the crowded platform. “I wanted you to meet my friends.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched with interest. Percy felt a blush creep up his neck. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He scanned the crowd until he spotted a cluster of redheads off to the side. Ron was being squeezed within an inch of his life by a plump woman with bright eyes. Fred and George clung to either side of a broad-shouldered younger man, chattering animatedly. Percy Weasley stood nearby, nose in a book—as always. “Studying for OWLs,” he’d say. An older man with graying ginger hair held hands with a girl whose long, straight hair swayed as she held onto him.

Percy led his mom toward them, hauling his trunk between them. As they approached, the girl—Ginny, he remembered from some of Rons stories—looked up and instantly turned scarlet. She yanked on the man’s hand, nearly causing him to lose his balance.

“Whoa there, Ginny,” the man said with a laugh, but he turned to look where she was pointing.

He smiled warmly when he saw Percy and Sally. There was something familiar in his grin—it reminded Percy of Fred and George, only with far less mischief.

“Hello!” the man greeted cheerfully.

That caught the attention of the rest of the group. Ron’s mum turned, still wrapped around her son, and Ron began to wriggle desperately in her grip.

“Mum—let me down,” he hissed, face reddening to match his sister’s. Thankfully, she obliged.

Ron made his way over quickly, possibly to escape, possibly to help introduce Percy—either way, he looked relieved.

Percy and his mom dropped the trunk and stepped closer.

“Hello!” Sally said, extending a hand. “I’m Sally Jackson—Harry’s mom.”

Percy gave the group a small wave.

“Arthur Weasley,” the older man said, shaking her hand with a friendly grin. “Call me Arthur.”

“Well then, I’m Sally.” She replied with a matching grin.

The woman beside him stepped forward next, smiling as she shook Sally’s hand. “I’m Molly. Ron writes home constantly about Harry. It sounds like you’ve raised a very bright young man.”

“Thank you, Molly. Harry says the same about Ron. I’m so glad they became friends—he hasn’t had many of those back home.”

“Mom,” Percy muttered under his breath, cringing.

“Forgive me,” Sally said to him with a playful roll of her eyes as she nudged him slightly.  “It seems I’ve embarrassed him.”

Molly let out a delighted laugh. “As is your right.”

She turned, as if remembering something, and called her children forward.

“These are mine,” she said proudly. “You know Ron, of course. Fred and George—my twins. They’re in third year.”

The twins gave identical waves.

“Percy—fifth year, and a Prefect.” The boy gave a distracted nod, eyes still glued to his book.

“Ginny, my youngest. She’ll be starting Hogwarts next year.”

Ginny squeaked when Percy looked at her, immediately ducking behind her dad, her face blazing red.

“And this is my second eldest—”

“Charlie Weasley,” the man cut in smoothly, stepping forward and taking Sally’s hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Sally looked amused. Percy… did not.

“She’s married,” Percy said flatly. He hated Gabe—loathed him, even—but there was no universe in which he’d let someone flirt with his mom right in front of him and Gabe was a good excuse if nothing else. He could not let any of his friend's sibling flirt with his mom. No chance in hell.

Sally rolled her eyes. “Excuse him. Apparently, chivalry is lost on my son.”

Charlie just grinned. “Of course.” He winked.

Thank Merlin for Molly. She smacked Charlie on the back of the head, making him wince and retreat with a sheepish grin. Sally and Molly launched into conversation, but Percy’s attention shifted as Ron leaned over.

“Mate,” he whispered, “you never said your mum was hot.”

“Ron!”

“What? Charlie’s a flirt, but he’s not wrong.”

Percy shot him a glare. “That’s my mom.”

Ron just shrugged.

Before Percy could retaliate, Hermione appeared between them, drawing their attention. Another couple approached behind her.

“Harry, Ron—these are my parents. Dr. Dan Granger and Dr. Emma Granger.”

“Mum, Dad—this is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.”

Percy shook their hands with a polite smile as introductions rippled through the group.

Sally and Emma immediately hit it off, bonding over the experience of raising magical children while being Muggles themselves. There was a brief hiccup when Sally mentioned working at a candy shop and the Grangers explained they were dentists, but it was smoothed over quickly when Arthur began peppering them with enthusiastic questions about dentistry. Primarily, questions on what it was and why it was needed.

Percy had just begun to zone out when he caught movement from the corner of his eye—a dark shape gliding past the train window.

“Why’s Snape on the train?” he asked, nudging his friends.

Hermione shrugged. “A professor always rides the train to and from school—for safety and to make sure every student is picked up. I guess it’s Professor Snape’s turn this time.”

Through the windows, they watched Snape move from compartment to compartment, checking for stragglers with his usual grim expression.

“Well,” Molly declared suddenly, drawing them back to the present, “we’d better be off!”

“Us as well,” said Dan (Call me Dan) with a smile.

There were hugs all around. Percy was startled to find himself pulled into one by Molly Weasley, just as tightly as Ron had been earlier.

As the group split and began to drift away, Sally ran her fingers through Percy’s hair, brushing his fringe aside to kiss his temple.

“You ready, Starfish?”

Percy glanced back toward the train. Snape was just stepping off, beginning a slow patrol of the platform looking for any straggling students who hadn't been picked up yet.

He hesitated for a moment before he answered her. “Yeah.”

But his mom had seen the pause. She followed his gaze, zeroing in on the black-robed figure.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Percy scrunched his nose. “Professor Snape. He teaches potions.”

“Wonderful!” Before he could stop her, she shoved his trunk against a nearby wall so it was out of the way, grabbed his hand, and started walking.

“Mom—no, wait—”

She didn’t break stride. “Come on, Starfish. Let’s go say hello.”

“He hates me,” Percy whispered frantically, tugging on her hand to no effect.

Undeterred, Sally marched straight up to Snape, who turned and blinked at the shorter woman now standing in front of him.

“Who are you?” he asked coldly.

“Sally Jackson,” she said with a cheerful smile, extending her hand. “I’m Harry’s mom. You must be Professor Snape.”

He scowled, not taking her hand. But Sally simply dropped it without missing a beat and kept smiling.

“What do you want?” he snapped. “If this is about his grades, or his complaints about Potions, you should be speaking to Potter about his abysmal effort and focus during—”

“Oh no, sir,” she interrupted gently. “I just wanted to introduce myself. There’s only so much a child can fit in a letter, and I’ve been worried about how he’s settling in—especially with his learning disabilities.”

Snape’s brow furrowed. He glanced at Percy, confusion flickering across his face, but Sally continued before he could speak.

“It’s funny, actually—Harry was so excited for Potions before school started. He’s always loved cooking with me and thought it would be similar. Guess it’s more distinct than we expected,” she added with a light laugh.

Percy’s face flushed with embarrassment. Of all the professors to gush about his childhood enthusiasm in front of...

“Disabilities?” Snape asked, eyeing Percy more carefully.

Sally’s expression tightened slightly. “Didn’t you know? I wrote to the school about them. I assumed Dumbledore would inform the staff.”

“No. I was unaware,” Snape said. His tone had shifted from harsh to flat and unreadable.

“Percy has ADHD,” she explained. “It’s always made it hard for him to sit still, though in his letters he claims Hogwarts has been better—more hands-on learning. And he also has severe dyslexia.”

Percy groaned softly, stepping back behind his mom to hide his blushing face from his professor.

“Mom.”

“Not now, Harry.”

Snape’s face twitched.

“Dyslexia,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir. It takes him longer to read and write. And long texts give him headaches too.”

Snape turned to Percy. “Potter—have you had trouble reading instructions in class?”

Flushing red, Percy nodded.

Snape sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before glancing back at Sally. “Mrs. Jackson, please send documentation directly to myself. Make the letter out to Professor Severus Snape. You should also send a letter to Professor Minerva McGonagall, his head of house. I also suggest you look into magical glasses—they may ease the dyslexia symptoms.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Sally said brightly.

He began to turn and get back to his duty when she stopped him again.

“Oh! I made cookies.” She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a small clear pouch with three bright blue cookies, and pressed them into Snape’s hand.

“I couldn’t possibly—” he tried, but she cut him off.

“I insist. They were for Harry for a snack after the train ride, but it arrived later than expected so we'll just go find dinner instead. He has more at home. Far too many, really.”

“Merry Christmas!” she added, then paused thoughtfully., tilting her head just slightly and allowing her long brown hair to fall over her shoulder. “Do wizards celebrate Christmas?”

“We celebrate Yule,” Snape replied before he could stop himself. Then, with a nod, he turned and walked away. "Happy Yule!" Sally cried as he left. They didn't receive a reply.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Sally said.

“It was awful ,” Percy muttered.

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Come on, you. Let’s grab dinner in London and head home.”

Christmas was the one time of year Gabe was slightly more tolerable. He was still an asshole—just marginally less of one. The apartment stayed cleaner, mostly because Gabe didn’t host as many poker nights, which meant fewer beer cans and less cigarette ash ground into the carpet. He got his yearly bonus and, for once, stopped pestering Sally and Percy for loose change or the occasional twenty. They never saw a dime of that bonus, but it gave Percy’s mom some breathing room. For a little while at least, the money she earned wasn’t going straight to rent or Gabe’s bar tab. She used it on them—for Percy, mostly—and that alone made it feel like a holiday.

She still worked through most of it. But with the surge of tourists around the holidays, her boss had hired a few extra hands. Fewer shifts meant more evenings free, and she’d filled every one of them with Percy. They bundled up in coats and scarves and ventured out together—Central Park walks through snow-lined paths, hot cocoa clutched in gloved hands; blinking up at the massive tree in Times Square, light washing over their faces in gold and green; even a day trip to Coney Island, the boardwalk mostly deserted but still magical in the cold. Wind stung their cheeks, and snow soaked their boots, but it was beautiful. It was also an escape from the awful smelling man waiting for them at home.

But staying home wasn’t avoidable forever.

Percy had just finished wrapping his mom’s presents—nothing fancy, just little things she’d never buy herself. He carried them into the living room, arms full, when he noticed the shift in the air.

The apartment was dim, bathed in the fading light of late afternoon. Sunlight slipped past the threadbare curtains in narrow bands, stretching gold across the cracked linoleum floor. The air smelled faintly of reheated spaghetti—leftovers, quietly prepared before Gabe returned.

Sally moved silently around the stove. Her shoulders were rounded, her movements precise but hesitant, like she was trying not to make any noise that might attract attention. One hand trailed the edge of the counter, fingertips brushing the worn laminate in a rhythm that said she was trying to stay calm. The radio crackled faintly in the background, some old jazz tune fuzzed with static.

Percy paused at the edge of the hallway, watching.

Gabe was already drunk. He must have come in while Percy was still in his room. Now he slouched at the kitchen table, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from one hand. The other tapped against the tabletop in an uneven rhythm. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, exposing a belly that strained against his belt. His eyes were bloodshot, heavy-lidded—but they still had that mean shine Percy knew too well. He wasn’t shouting yet, but he was circling the moment. Winding up.

“You think this is dinner?” Gabe muttered, staring down at the plate in front of him. “You call this dinner, woman?”

Sally didn’t respond. She just turned the burner off, placed the spoon gently in the sink, and reached for a dish towel. Her spine stayed straight, but Percy could see the tension in it—how hard she was working not to react to his tone.

He felt it then—that familiar spark of anger. It bloomed in his chest, righteous and white-hot, begging to be let loose. But shouting never helped. Not with Gabe. It only made things worse. So Percy focused on pushing it down, keeping it locked beneath the surface.

The plate scraped suddenly across the table as Gabe shoved it forward. His fork clattered and fell to the floor.

“Useless,” he said, louder now. “Don’t know why I bother keeping you around.”

That was it.

Percy set his wrapped gifts gently on the floor, then stepped forward—quiet and deliberate. He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He just walked to the fallen fork, picked it up, and placed it neatly back on the table in front of Gabe.

Gabe’s gaze lifted, slow and sharp. “You got somethin’ to say, boy?”

Percy met his bloodshot eyes. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He stood between Gabe and his mother—not quite shielding her, but close enough that she didn’t need to move. If Gabe wanted to keep lashing out, he’d have to go through Percy first.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Percy said, voice low and calm.

Gabe barked a laugh, mean and dismissive. “Look at you. Little man thinks he’s a hero.”

Percy’s expression didn’t change. “Just eat your dinner.”

A muscle twitched in Gabe’s jaw. His hand tightened around the neck of the beer bottle, and for a breath, Percy thought he might throw it. But then Sally stepped forward until she stood just behind Percy, close enough that her presence brushed against his back.

Gabe faltered.

He looked at them—really looked for once. At the boy who didn’t back down. At the woman who hadn’t flinched. The heat in Percy’s stare. The quiet defiance in their silence. 

And then, something passed behind Gabe’s eyes. A flicker of hesitation before it was gone again in a moment. 

He grunted, leaned back in his seat until it creaked against the strain of him, and grabbed the fork.

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered. But the words rang hollow. The threat in them had faded, like smoke scattering in the wind.

Percy didn’t move until he heard the sound of chewing—loud, sloppily aggressive. Only then did he step aside, just enough for his mom to pass. Her hand brushed his arm as she moved by, and when she turned to look at him—really look—there was something soft in her eyes. Something bruised but full. Pride, maybe. Gratitude, possibly. Or that quiet kind of grief that only comes from having to be proud of a moment that shouldn’t have had to happen at all.

Percy didn’t ask.

He just pulled out the stool at the end of the counter and sat, reaching for his own plate.

Behind him, the monster kept chewing. Oblivious. Still loud, still smelling something awful, but slightly smaller now.

Hedwig swooped down and landed on his balcony early that next morning, pecking at his window until Percy rolled over with a groan to peer at her. Her oddly perceptive eyes stared him down until he pushed himself off the bed and cracked the window open just enough to let her hop inside before shutting it with a shiver.

Hedwig might love the snowy weather that allowed her to blend into her surroundings more easily, but Percy sure didn’t. Oh, how he wished he could use magic outside of Hogwarts. He flopped back onto his bed, rolling over to stare at the ceiling as the early morning light filtered through the frosted glass. Instead, he was met with owl eyes staring down at him—upside down—from where Hedwig had perched herself right on his pillow.

They had been careful so far. Gabe hadn’t spotted her, even with Hedwig flying in every morning for a rest after spending the night hunting in Central Park. She would leave again before Gabe got up, either to perch on the building’s roof or to nestle in a tree nearby for the day.

“Hey girl,” Percy said as he reached up to rub at her cold beak. “Merry Christmas.”

Hedwig hooted softly in response, then hopped over to her makeshift blanket nest to sleep for a few hours.

“Wait. I’ve got something for you.” Percy rolled off his bed gracelessly, sprawling on the cold floor for barely a moment before jumping up and rummaging through his trunk. Finally, he pulled out a small velvet pouch and brought it to his owl.

Hedwig tilted her head to the side as he approached. Percy reached into the pouch and pulled out a circular band. It was small—just large enough to wrap around Hedwig’s leg—and resembled the kind of tracking tag wildlife reserves might use on birds. But instead of cheap plastic, it was made of sea-green glass, dotted with tiny golden runes.

“It’s a charmed owl band,” Percy explained. “It’s got runes carved into it to protect you while you fly. Also, I know you have a hard time blending in certain places because of your coloring. You look beautiful, but you’re very noticeable too, so I had the shop guy charm it to change your feathers to match local owls if you think you need it.”

Hedwig preened at him, silently offering her leg so Percy could slip the band on and tighten it enough that it wouldn’t fall off. She gave it a single peck, and her bright white coloring instantly shifted into the more muted, muddy brown of a barn owl—common in the area.

Her face tilted curiously as she admired her leg again, then pecked the charm once more, shifting her feathers back to white. She hooted softly, nuzzled into Percy’s offered fingers, then ducked her head beneath her wing and promptly fell asleep.

It wasn’t long before there was a soft knock on his doorframe and Percy’s mom peeked her head in.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said with a bright smile. Her eyes landed on the owl curled up on her blanket nest. “Did she like it?” Sally asked her son.

“Yeah. It works great too.”

“That’s good. Hey, let’s do presents before Gabe gets up, and then we’ll head out for diner for breakfast.”

That was the usual Jackson Christmas tradition. Gabe slept until noon at the earliest, so Percy and his mom would exchange gifts early, then head out for breakfast.

“Sure,” Percy grinned. “You’re going to love the gift I got you this year.”

“I have no doubt about that, Starfish.”

Percy plopped down in front of the tree like he did every Christmas, his mom settling beside him with far more grace in her plaid pajamas. There wasn’t much there—gifts were always just between the two of them—and even though they now had better financial means thanks to Percy’s wizard dad, neither of them dipped into it too much for presents.

Percy pulled out his mom’s first gift and took the one she offered in return.

He tore into the paper, revealing a bag of his favorite blue candy from his mom’s job. Grinning, he ripped open the bag of blue sour straws and shoved one in his mouth.

His mom chuckled and began unwrapping her own gift, revealing a coffee mug. In bold red letters, it read: “Hocus Pocus, I Need My Focus. (And Coffee.)” Ironically enough, Percy had picked it up from a street vendor in New York earlier in the week. Absolutely nothing magical about it.  When he told her, she laughed.

Next, his mom gave him new Quidditch gloves and goggles, along with a few warmer outfits to wear in the colder Hogwarts weather. Percy had gotten her a blue blanket he’d ordered before the break. He’d even convinced an upper-year Gryffindor to help him apply a subtle warming charm to it. His mom pressed the blanket to her cheek and sighed at the softness, just like Percy had done when it was first charmed.

Then she handed him another gift, and he immediately opened it to reveal a pair of glasses. They were golden wire frames in a square shape.

Percy grimaced. It seemed his mom had taken Snape up on his advice to find glasses that could help with his dyslexia. Still, he was grateful—even if he wasn’t planning to wear them any more than absolutely necessary. With his luck, they’d be broken before the week was over.

Lastly, Sally handed him a small envelope. Inside were two aquarium tickets.

“They’re for this summer,” she explained, smiling at him. “I figured we could spend one of our days in Montauk checking out the aquarium.”

Percy’s eyes lit up. “We’re going to Montauk?”

“When you get back. Two weeks—I’ve already taken off.”

Percy launched himself at her. “That’s awesome, Mom!”

She combed her fingers through his hair, soothing the bed head down as much as it would stay. “I thought so too.”

There was one last gift left under the tree—a larger box that had Percy blushing faintly in anticipation. He pulled it out and handed it to his mom.

Inside was a heavy book with mostly blank pages. Only the first page had been filled. On it was a picture of Percy grinning into the camera, with Ron and Hermione on either side. Percy had held the camera for a selfie, and behind them loomed the towering stone walls of Hogwarts Castle. The towers stretched into the sky, flags whipping gently in the breeze. The trio in the photo waved at the viewer and smiled even wider before the moment looped again.

“It’s, uh… a photo album,” Percy said, rubbing the back of his neck as the blush deepened. “Well—it’s a charmed photo album. I’ve got the camera in my trunk, and when I take photos, it automatically sends them to the album. It never runs out of pages—it just adds more if we need them. I figured you could see Hogwarts and me this way.”

“Oh, Percy…” his mom breathed. Her eyes shimmered, but she was smiling. “I love it. It’s a perfect gift, Starfish.”

She pulled him into a very tight hug and refused to let go for several minutes—despite his protests that they needed to get dressed for breakfast.

Percy rummaged through his trunk, trying to find a specific Christmas shirt to wear to breakfast. He pulled out clothes and books, pushed aside the gifts Ron and Hermione had given him before they left for holiday to look at later, and paused.

Beneath those gifts was another simply wrapped box tied with a bow. That wasn’t one of the gifts he’d received from either of his friends. He certainly didn’t put it in his trunk either.

Percy pulled it out, curiosity getting the best of him. On top sat a note spellotaped to the lid. He flipped it open. It read:

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

- A very Merry Christmas to you.

His father?

Was that his biological father or his adoptive one? And what was in the box? Who had his father left it with?

Percy checked the box again, hoping to find something else to answer his questions—but there was nothing. No name, no symbol, no signature.

He opened the box.

Inside was a strange-looking blanket. It was made of shining, silvery cloth that shimmered every time it caught the light. What was that supposed to be? He pressed his fingers to the fabric, and immediately, magic rushed over him—a comforting warmth that spread from his hand and seeped through his veins. Something inside him popped, a sense of rightness, before the magic softened but didn’t disappear.

Weird.

He pulled the material out of the box, inspecting it closer, but nothing about it gave away what it was. Maybe it was just a blanket. It could’ve been charmed to stay warm, like the one he got for his mom.

Percy threw it around his shoulders.

It didn’t feel warm or charmed. It didn’t feel like much of anything, really. Definitely lighter than a blanket this size should be.

He looked down—and immediately yelped, dropping the fabric as he stumbled back. His body had been gone. Most of it had returned when the cloth fell, except his feet, still covered by the shimmering material pooling around them.

Percy gaped.

What was that?

He picked it back up, threw it over his shoulders again, and turned to look in the mirror across the room. Only his head was visible—floating, disembodied in midair. He pulled the fabric over his head and stared again.

Gone.

He could still see through the cloth, but his reflection had vanished entirely.

This… was something he was definitely going to ask Ron about when he got back to school.

It was awesome.

Percy carefully folded the shimmering fabric and placed it back in the box, then tucked it into his trunk beneath his other things.

But first—breakfast.

Chapter Text

They had been back at Hogwarts for a week now. Classes had picked up right where they left off before the break, and Potions was no exception. Percy sat in his usual spot at the back of the room—the only difference was the golden wire glasses perched on his nose.

He’d gotten comments all week about them. Whenever someone asked, he freely admitted he had dyslexia. He wasn’t ashamed of it; his life was just... slightly more difficult than most. Then, of course, he had to explain what dyslexia was to any wizard-raised kid he told. And then, he usually had to explain that no, he wasn’t an idiot who didn’t know how to read—he just had a learning disability. Perfectly normal. The glasses just helped a bit.

McGonagall had pulled him aside earlier that week and apologized for not having known about the dyslexia and ADHD sooner. She explained that the school had some programs in place to “help mitigate the disabilities.” Not his words.  

Apparently, that meant he was allotted extra time for certain things—like tests—if he felt the need. The glasses helped enough that his dyslexia wasn’t a problem for now, and Percy hadn’t felt like he needed any extra time on any assignments or tests. He’d actually done fairly well on his exams from last semester, surprisingly. Well—except for Herbology. That one was a bit below average. Thankfully, Neville had promised to help him out with that… if Percy would help him with Potions in return.

So, instead of sitting with Ron like he had earlier in the year, Percy had nudged Ron toward Hermione’s desk and grabbed Neville by the wrist to drag him to his own table.

They were working on the Cure for Boils, and things were going well enough all things considered. Percy had delegated ingredient prep to Neville while he focused on watching the actual brew. Snape was striding through the classroom, his usual sneer plastered across his face. He glanced at Percy’s table more than most, his nose wrinkling in what looked like disgust before turning away again.

Percy wasn’t sure what had earned him that look. Snape hadn’t made more snide comments than usual, but every time he did, Percy had snarked right back as always. At first, he thought maybe it was because Neville had joined him—but the potion was going fine, so it couldn’t be that. Then he thought maybe it was the conversation with his mom at the station, but Snape hadn’t mentioned it either. Hadn’t even used Percy’s ADHD or dyslexia against him in front of the class. So, he didn’t think that was it.

Percy was pulled out of his thoughts by a nervous voice at his side.

“H-Harry?” Neville stuttered.

He had been crushing snake fangs as Percy had instructed, but now he had taken a full step back.

Percy looked down.

The cauldron in front of them was boiling violently, its contents a bright, angry red—not the dull maroon it was supposed to be at this stage. Crap. Percy had lost track of his stirring pattern after dropping in the horned slugs while distracted.

The bubbling had caught Snape’s attention too. He was already striding toward them, his face darkening.

“Back,” Snape growled. “Get back, insolent boy.”

But Percy didn’t move.

The magic around the cauldron was surging, wild and unstable. If he stepped away, Snape would probably banish the potion entirely, like he always did with Neville’s. And every time he did, the magic in the room felt raw afterward—unsettled and chaotic. Unfinished in its creation was the best way Percy could describe it. Percy didn’t want to feel that again if he could help it, especially not his own potion.

So instead, he leaned into the sensation. He didn’t know how, but suddenly, he knew exactly what to do.

He grabbed another horned slug, swiped Neville’s abandoned knife, slit the slug from neck to tail, pulled out the large gland responsible for producing slime, and dropped it into the potion.

Immediately, the bubbling slowed. The magic soothed.

Snape reached the table just as Percy began stirring again—this time counter-clockwise instead of the called-for-clockwise rotation. The potion darkened. The bright red dulled, turning steadily more maroon.

Snape stopped.

He stared at the cauldron. For once, there was no ill contempt in his expression. Instead, he looked at Percy in faint surprise. His head tilted slightly, eyebrows raised.

“How did you know to use the pedal gland to stop the overreaction?” he mumbled, more to himself than to Percy.

Percy shrugged. The truth was, he didn’t know. He hadn’t thought about it. He’d just done it. The magic had practically moved through him, telling him what to fix.

Snape stared for a second longer, then seemed to remember himself. His face snapped back into a sneer as he looked down at Percy again.

“If you had followed the very simple instructions listed in the textbook,” he growled, “you wouldn’t have gotten into the situation in the first place.”

Percy shrugged again. “Sorry, sir.”

Snape sighed. “Pay attention, Potter.”

Then he turned to the rest of the class—who had all paused mid-potion to watch the scene—and barked, “Back to work!”

With that, he stalked off again, robes billowing behind him.

"Harry."

Ron and Hermione were still trying to convince him that Snape was out to kill him.

"Did you see the way Snape's been looking at you in every Potions class since we got back?" Ron said. "He obviously doesn’t like you. Even during meals in the Great Hall, every time I see him looking at you, he looks like he wants to murder you."

"Ron, you’re being dramatic," Percy retorted, rolling his eyes as they walked. "We already know the guy doesn’t like me. That doesn’t mean he wants to kill me."

"But why doesn’t he like you?" Hermione questioned, frowning thoughtfully.

Percy shrugged. "Do you ever not like someone without really knowing them? Ron didn’t like you after only meeting you once."

Ron went a bit red at the reminder of his less-than-stellar first impression with Hermione.

"Hell, Draco Malfoy doesn't like Ron just because his last name is Weasley. It doesn’t have to make sense for someone to feel a certain way."

"This is different," Hermione argued. "He’s going to be refereeing your next Quidditch match! You know, where you fly super high into the air while enchanted cannonballs try to knock you off your broomstick of death?"

"Hey!" Ron protested at the insult to his favorite sport, but Hermione wasn't deterred.

"And now Snape—someone who already hates you for some reason we still don’t understand—is going to be the one in charge of making sure the game stays fair. And the one responsible for catching you if you fall off your broom because he’s not keeping the game fair. You’re just handing yourself over if he wanted to do something!"

"Now you’re being dramatic, Hermione," Percy said. "The worst we have to worry about is Snape being a biased referee."

"Harry, can’t you just play it safe?" Ron asked, pleading now. "Say you’re sick or something?"

"We don’t have a backup Seeker, Ron. Look, Oliver already has a plan. I’m just going to catch the Snitch as fast as I can and end the game quickly. It'll be fine."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Fine. Just… be careful up there."

"Of course." Percy nodded.

"Sup, Neville!" Percy called as Neville entered the common room.

Percy was sitting next to Ron, watching as he destroyed Hermione in a game of wizarding chess, but his smile faded when Neville began hopping over to them.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, looking up from the board as Neville approached.

"Malfoy hexed me in the library," Neville cried, tripping on the last hop and landing face-first on the couch.

Percy's frown deepened. "Are you okay?"

Neville nodded tearfully. "Yeah. He’s just a prat."

Hermione pulled out her wand and aimed it at Neville’s legs. "Do you know what spell he used?" she asked.

"Uh... I think it was some kind of leg-locker hex."

Hermione said the counterspell, and a spark of yellow light flew from her wand, hitting Neville’s legs. Immediately, the hex dissipated. Neville stretched his legs out with a wince.

Well, Percy couldn't just let this one go.

Percy’s fists clenched as he watched Neville rub at his sore legs. He stood, his jaw locking as his teeth clicked together. His eyes narrowed on Neville.

"Where did you say he was?" Percy asked, voice low. He was going to deal with Malfoy himself.

A wary look crossed his friends’ faces.

"Hold on, Harry," Ron said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "Don’t go doing anything that’ll get you detention with Snape—especially not before the next game."

"We’re just going to have a chat," Percy insisted, already striding toward the door. "You said he was in the library?" he asked Neville again just to be sure he heard him right.

"W-Wait!" Neville cried, jumping up from the couch and rushing over to grab Percy’s arm. "You’re just going to make it worse."

Percy wasn’t inclined to listen, but Neville pressed on.

"Malfoy already thinks I’m not brave enough to be in Gryffindor. And maybe he’s right. But if you go fight him, it’ll just prove him right—and you’ll get in trouble. And then the rest of Gryffindor will hate me for you getting detention before the match."

Percy huffed out a breath, then turned to face Neville. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

"If you don’t want me to take care of it, I won’t. But he’s not right, Neville. The Hat sorted you into Gryffindor for a reason. You belong here."

Neville turned a little more teary-eyed, and sniffled slightly. "Thanks, Harry."

"Come on and sit down. You can play chess against Ron next."

"He’s playing the winner," Hermione corrected, brows furrowed in concentration as she focused back on the board.

"So, Ron." Percy said as he sat back down on the couch.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him but didn’t deny it. Percy reached over to the table where they’d laid out a few snacks and picked up two Chocolate Frogs. He handed one to Neville and took the other for himself.

"Helga Hufflepuff," Percy said, reading the name on his card.

"That’s a rare one," Ron said, moving a chess piece and taking one of Hermione's knights. "I only have three of them."

"Says here: ‘Helga Hufflepuff was one of the four legendary founders of Hogwarts. Known for her kind heart, steadfast loyalty, and inclusive spirit, she took in students from all walks of magical life and treated them equally. Her house, Hufflepuff, values hard work, fairness, patience, and dedication. Helga was especially gifted in food-related charms and is credited with developing many of the recipes and magical techniques still used in the Hogwarts kitchens today.’"

"Cool," Neville said. "I got another Albus Dumbledore. You want it, Harry?"

Percy shrugged. "Sure. I’ll take it."

The Dumbledore picture had already left the front of the card when Neville handed it over, but the description read: ‘Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel.’

"Thanks, Nev." He tucked the card aside to add to his growing collection later.

"Neville," Percy said, drawing his attention again. "You’ll tell me if Malfoy bothers you again, right?"

"Sure, Harry. As long as you don’t do something rash."

Percy made no promises—but he did nod in acknowledgment.

The four of them spent the rest of the day playing chess, rotating through whoever was next to get destroyed by Ron.

It was a good day.

Percy knew, when Ron and Hermione wished him good luck outside the locker rooms the next afternoon, that they were both wondering whether they’d ever see him alive again.

He still thought they were being a bit dramatic—but after a week of persistent attempts to talk him out of playing in the match, their concern might have gotten to him a little.

He’d just have to do his best to finish the game quickly, like Oliver Wood had suggested.

So, after sitting through the usual Wood pregame pep talk—with the red-headed wonder twins acting it out behind him, Percy followed the team to the stadium entrance. Gryffindor was called, and they all took off, rising into the air and getting into their entrance flying formation.

Percy found himself at the end of the lineup again, his gleaming Quidditch jersey catching the sun on this rare, bright Saturday afternoon. On the Gryffindor side of the pitch, he could see students holding up homemade banners with the number 20, his number, painted in gold.

They circled the pitch to the cheers of the student body while the Hufflepuff team did the same from across from the pitch. Finally. both teams landed again to wait for Snape to release the balls. He didn’t say anything. Just glared at them, then blew his whistle and watched as the players launched into the air after each ball.

Percy rose with the others, beginning his wide, high circling of the pitch. He climbed steadily, eyes scanning the air for the snitch, watching the much larger Hufflepuff Seeker to see if he noticed anything, and ducking stray Blungers that Fred and George couldn’t intercept in time.

Sooner than he expected, a golden glimmer caught his eye on the far side of the field. Not as low as he’d hoped though.

That meant no high-speed dive to gain momentum. Still, if he could just reach it and end the game as quick as possible, he had to try.

He leaned forward and took off. His broom cut through the air as he raced toward the Snitch. The little golden ball, realizing it was being chased, suddenly dove.

Perfect.

Percy tilted his broom and shot downward, a broad grin breaking across his face as the wind whipped his hair and froze his cheeks. The Snitch leveled out halfway down, and Percy adjusted his trajectory, keeping pace. He heard the whistle of a bludger and rolled instinctively, never taking his eyes off the prize.

The Snitch darted over the shoulder of a darkly dressed figure, but Percy was so focused, he didn’t register who it was. He flew straight past them, close enough to have collided if the figure hadn’t ducked at the last second.

Then his hand was closing.

He slowed his broom, lifted his fist into the air, and grinned.

He had caught the Snitch only 5 minuets into the game. Perfect.

Percy was ecstatic about the match. He was still a new flyer, but he felt like he had finally proven himself to his teammates. He was thankful that his first match hadn’t just been a fluke. Plus, any plans Snape might’ve had to throw the game by being biased against Gryffindor were shut down by Percy’s quick snag of the Snitch. And while Percy absolutely believed Ron and Hermione were being dramatic about Snape, it was probably for the best that the match ended so quickly.

All in all, the match had been fantastic.

The after-party… was not.

Gryffindor was celebrating in the common room later that night. Someone had decorated with streamers and confetti, and the lights had been charmed to flicker in bright colors around the room. It had started out fun, Percy had gone around receiving slaps on the back, and someone had told the story of his “brilliant catch” at least five times now. But as the night wore on, Percy found himself growing more and more uncomfortable.

The twins had somehow provided drinks for the party. And while Percy knew nothing would happen with so many people around having a good time, there was always a tight, uncomfortable twist in his gut whenever he was around alcohol.

Gabe really sucked.

An hour into the party, Percy had huddled into a corner of the room, listening as Ron explained why his nose was bleeding when Percy had found him after the match. Hermione gave a dramatic retelling of what Malfoy had said, which got Percy angry enough to consider going to find the boy himself, until Hermione’s firm warning about getting in trouble and not even being able to get into the Slytherin dorms backed him down.

(He still thought he could find a way if he really wanted to.)

As the party went on, Percy tried to retreat to his room, but even behind his closed bed curtains, he could still hear the noise of the common room. There was absolutely no way he was getting any sleep there tonight, so he pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk and tucked it under his shirt until he reached the exit to the Gryffindor dorms.

Percy embraced the chilly air as he wandered the dark, empty halls. He meandered for a bit—up and down staircases, past the Great Hall and a few classrooms—and eventually let the tug of magic at his core guide him wherever it wanted. It pulled him, slowly but surely, back toward the fifth floor.

The tug quieted when he arrived.

He walked to the end of the corridor and rounded the corner—then froze.

He back tracked, checking it was the same hallway as usual. It was.

The tapestry had changed.

Gone was the picture of the dark-haired woman chained to a rock, facing a sea monster with a tiny man standing between them, sword raised. The original scene had always struck Percy as strange, mostly because—unlike every other portrait, painting, or tapestry in the castle—it had never been animated.

Now, it was something entirely different.

Near the center, half-concealed behind the thick trunk of a gnarled tree, stood a lone figure. She was dressed in close-fitting leather and a tunic bound at the waist with a knotted cord, bracers wrapped tight around her forearms, and high-laced sandals winding up the curve of her calves. Her bronze-threaded hair, wild and windblown, was pulled into a loose knot—though strands had slipped free, whether from wind or tension Percy couldn’t tell. Percy could only se her side profile in the tapestry but it was enough to note that she was young.

She was frozen mid-breath; one knee slightly bent behind the tree and paused in the moment, ready to strike.

In her hand, she held a javelin. It wasn’t grand- a bit simple, really- but the silver tip glinted in the moonlight, worn and weathered from use.

Across the clearing depicted in the tapestry, a beast exploded from the tree line.

It looked like a boar except it was massive. Its oversized head brushed the lowest hanging branches, and its ruffled hide shimmered with threads of brown and gray. Its tusks curved up and out, far too large for its body, and its eyes were black, beady things. White foam flecked its muzzle, and its thick, muscular frame twisted forward with terrifying momentum like it would leap from the tapestry at any moment and crush the viewer beneath its rage.

Even as a still image, the tapestry was full of movement, tension practically stitched into the fabric.

Percy tilted his head, brow furrowed. He wasn’t in the wrong place—he knew this hallway well. He came to this alcove every few nights just to get some peace and quiet. Pulling the tapestry aside and slipping through it proved what he already knew: the alcove was the same as always, the window was overlooking the Black Lake just like usual.

He’d never seen anyone else up here. Still, the alcove wasn’t exactly hidden. Maybe one of the professors or other staff had changed the tapestry over the holidays.

Percy shrugged to himself and settled into his usual spot on the bench, turned sideways so he could rest his head against the cold glass and watch the night stretch on across the lake.

It was barely an hour later when movement caught his eye.

Across the grounds, bathed in moonlight, was a tall, lumbering shape. The size was unmistakable. There was only one person that size at Hogwarts. Percy watched as Hagrid stumbled drunkenly up the path toward the front entrance, then veered off the road and crossed in front of the lake.

As he drew closer, Percy realized Hagrid was carrying something. It was hidden under a blanket and cradled tight to his chest. He couldn’t make out what it was, but it was odd enough to make him curious.

He watched as Hagrid rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

Strange.

What was Hagrid doing away from the castle this late at night? And what was he carrying?

Percy decided he’d tell Hermione and Ron what he saw in the morning. Maybe they could go see Hagrid and ask. It was probably time he got to bed anyway.

“And you're sure you saw Hagrid?” Hermione asked as the trio made their way down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid’s hut the next morning.

“He’s pretty hard to miss, Hermione,” Percy replied, adjusting his red and gold scarf against the chill.

“Well sure, but you did say you saw him at night. When it was dark.” She pointed at him as they walked. “And don’t think I missed the fact that you weren’t in your dorm either. The Gryffindor Tower faces the opposite direction of the lake.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, Hermione.”

“You’ll cause Gryffindor to lose points, Harry. We just took the lead because of the Quidditch match yesterday.”

“You could’ve invited me,” Ron grumbled from the other side of Hermione.

“Sorry, man,” Percy said with a shrug. “I just wanted some quiet from the party. You looked like you were having fun.”

Ron sighed. “It’s fine, mate. Come on—there’s Hagrid.”

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, arms crossed, watching Fang sniff around and do his business near the tree line. The morning mist clung to the ground in a thick blanket, making it hard to see into the edge of the Forbidden Forest beyond the hut. The whole scene felt a bit eerie, but Percy surprisingly didn’t mind the fog. Despite the late night and barely any sleep, he felt oddly refreshed, walking through it.

“Hagrid!” Percy called, waving. The half-giant turned toward them and blinked blearily, then smiled.

“Harry!” he called back, his voice booming before he winced and dropped it down a notch, rubbing at his temples.

Yeah, definitely hungover. Percy had seen enough of those mornings thanks to Gabe. At least Hagrid didn’t seem like the aggressive or yelling type. He just looked a bit slow and miserable.

"What're you three doin’ all the way down here, then?"

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” Percy said vaguely, watching Hagrid carefully. It was noncommittal, but seemed to work. Hagrid brightened a little.

“Yeah? Well, I always appreciate a bit o’ company,” he said, but then grimaced as the words left his mouth. Hagrid began looking around nervous, glancing anywhere but at the trio in front of him. “Well… maybe not just now. Got a bit o’ somethin’ goin’ on, yeh see… best not to be botherin’ with it.”

“Ah, come on, Hagrid. It’s no bother. We’d love to help with anything you need.” Percy forced some cheer into his voice. He wasn’t exactly looking to volunteer for chores, but his curiosity was stronger than his common sense at the moment.

Hagrid hesitated. He looked between the three of them for a long moment, then sighed and gave a shrug. “Alright then… c’mon in. Just—promise yeh won’t go tellin’ anyone, yeah?”

They all nodded quickly, trying not to look too eager. Percy could practically feel Hermione’s restraint buzzing beside him.

Hagrid gestured toward the open door and let out a sharp whistle. Across the clearing, Fang perked up and came charging toward them at full speed. Percy braced himself, but Hagrid caught the boarhound by the collar just in time to stop him from knocking Percy flat.

“No, Fang.”

They followed Hagrid into the hut. The warmth inside hit immediately. It was stifling, honestly. The fire was roaring in the grate, with no windows were cracked to let in air. Percy tugged at the collar of his jumper, pulling off his scarf entirely. Hagrid looked slightly less miserable now that he was out of the sunlight, but there was still tension in his movements.

He crossed the room and pulled a wooden box from beside his bed, setting it carefully on the table. Inside was a nest made of thick blankets, curled around a massive, glossy black egg.

“What is that?” Hermione asked, eyes wide.

Hagrid puffed out his chest. “A dragon egg.”

“Where’d you get it?” Ron asked, reaching forward, but Percy grabbed the back of his robes and pulled him away before he could touch it.

It was hot in here for a reason—and the roaring fire plus a black egg nestled in blankets was enough to make Percy wary.

“Harry’s right—don’t touch that egg,” Hagrid said, giving Ron a hearty clap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling forward. “Just took it outta the fire. Gotta let it rest for an hour or so before I put it back in.” His gaze lingered on the egg, fondness clear in his expression.

“Won it last night,” Hagrid said, a bit rougher now. “Been feelin’ a bit on edge lately, so I went down to the village for a few drinks—got meself into a game o’ cards with a stranger. Think he was real glad to be rid of it, if I’m honest.”

It had definitely been more than just “a few” drinks, but Percy didn’t comment.

“Do you know how to raise a dragon?” he asked instead, already knowing this could go sideways in a dozen different ways.

“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” Hagrid said proudly, pulling a massive, worn book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit — it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, ’cause their mothers breathe on ’em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o’ brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’ see here — how ter recognize diff’rent eggs — what I got there’s a Norwegian Ridgeback. They’re rare, them.”

Hermione frowned. “Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,” she said, clearly trying to be gentle.

It was a valid concern. Percy looked around the cramped space with its shelves of flammable books and clutter, and he didn’t need Hermione’s brain to know this was not an ideal dragon habitat.

Hagrid waved off the concern like she’d pointed out a squeaky floorboard. He wasn’t going to be talked out of this, clearly.

So Percy shifted tracks. “Why have you been worried lately, Hagrid?”

The man’s face changed immediately. The pride drained away, replaced by something slightly heavier.

“Ah, well. My dog, Fluffy—she’s been guardin’ Flamel’s Stone for months now. All on her own, poor thing. Ain’t good to be alone that long.”

That snagged Percy’s attention.

“I thought your dog’s name was Fang,” he said, squinting at Hagrid.

The large man stiffened, eyes darting nervously.

“Right, that’s what I meant.” Hagrid looked around his hut like the walls might help him out. “I’ve, uh, been busier 'round the castle this time o’ year, y’see, and well... Yeah! I meant Fang not Fluffy! Fang’s gotta stay in the hut while I'm workin'. And he gets lonely.  And I’ve jus' been thinkin’ of names fer my dragon... maybe I’ll name the dragon Fluffy. Yeah!”

It was the worst cover Percy had ever heard. And from the look Hermione and Ron were giving him, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Still, none of them called him on it. If they did, Hagrid would just shut down.

Percy offered him a lifeline. “That makes sense,” he said, voice casual.

Hagrid relaxed like significantly, the tension draining from his shoulders as he slumped forward in relief. The man was really the worst liar ever.

“Did you catch the game yesterday?” Percy changed the subject, feeling a bit sorry for him. It was no good to scare the large man off anyway.

And just like that, the conversation shifted back to safer territory. Hagrid went on about how brilliant the match was, Hermione sat back with that familiar skeptical frown, and Ron started bragging about Charlie working with dragons.

It was as they were walking back to the castle for a late lunch that Hermione brought up the earlier conversation again.

“That was weird, right? How Hagrid clearly lied about whoever Fluffy is?”

“Totally,” Ron nodded.

Percy had a pretty solid guess who Hagrid meant. He’d also pieced together a few more things while they’d talked—though he still wasn’t sure what it all meant.

“There’s a three-headed dog on the third-floor corridor,” he said casually. “Pretty sure that’s the Fluffy he was talking about.”

He didn’t notice that Hermione and Ron had stopped walking until he was several steps ahead. When he turned around, both of them were staring at him.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“There’s a Cerberus on the third floor?”
“You’ve been on the third floor?!”

They said it at the same time.

“Yeah,” Percy replied slowly, drawing out the word until it sounded more like a question. “Is that… not supposed to happen?”

“Harry! That corridor is off limits! Why would you go over there?” Hermione cried, eyes wide.

“Forget that—why’d you go to the third floor without me?” Ron cut in, clearly offended.

Percy shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just wandering around one night and heard something moving up there. It wasn’t hard to get the door open. There was a giant three-headed dog laying in the middle of the room. It growled at me a bit so I figured it was supposed to be there and I left.” He paused, brow furrowed. “That corridor is off limits?”

Hermione threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “Yes!” she said, voice rising. “Were you not paying attention to the speech at the opening feast at all?”

“Who listens to that thing?” Percy asked. “And honestly, why is anything off-limits in a school? That’s basically an invitation for students to check it out. What’s next—you’re going to tell me the forest is forbidden too?”

Hermione and Ron both gave him matching deadpan looks.

Then Hermione took a long, deep breath through her nose, pinched the bridge of her nose tightly, and closed her eyes.

“Harry,” she said with forced calm. “Have you been in the Forbidden Forest?”

Percy hesitated. “Uh… no?”

It didn’t come out very convincingly.

Hermione groaned, dragging her hands down her face in full-on frustration.

“Nice, mate,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. “Would’ve appreciated an invite.”

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Percy said, a little sheepish. “You were busy playing chess with Dean, and I got too antsy. Went for a walk. I didn't exactly explore it very long; it was just a forest.”

Ron huffed but softened slightly. He knew Percy didn’t handle sitting still for too long and sometimes needed space to move around when he got restless.

“It’s fine,” Ron said. “Just let me know next time you go wandering—in case something happens.”

Hermione clapped her hands once, snapping their attention back. “Okay! Back on track. Hagrid said Fluffy was guarding something—Flamel’s Stone. Do either of you know what that is?”

Ron shook his head, but Percy had a guess.

“Could be the Sorcerer’s Stone,” he said. “My chocolate frog card said Dumbledore worked on it with someone named Nicolas Flamel. I don’t know what the stone actually does though.”

“That has to be it!” Hermione said, eyes lighting up. She grabbed both their wrists and immediately resumed walking, this time at a much faster pace. “You know what this means?”

“Lunch?” Ron asked hopefully—though he already looked like he knew the answer.

“Research,” Hermione said firmly.

Both boys groaned as they were dragged back toward the castle.

Over the next few weeks, their time was split between classes, researching both the Sorcerer’s Stone, and visiting Hagrid to check on the very illegal, very dangerous dragon egg he was keeping in his hut.

Hagrid was getting more and more excited about the egg with each passing day. Percy, meanwhile, was getting more and more nervous. First of all — it was a dragon. There was no version of this story that ended well. But now that he knew just how illegal it was to keep a dragon outside of a registered reserve, he was also starting to get nervous for Hagrid’s job. Or freedom. Or both. He liked Hagrid, he really did, but the man had the self-preservation instincts of a flobberworm.

Then one morning, Hedwig swooped gracefully into the Great Hall during breakfast. She landed in front of Percy and held out her leg, very pleased with herself.

“Oh, good morning, menace,” Percy murmured fondly, rubbing the feathers on her head. 

He tapped lightly at her glass charm on her other leg. “This working okay?”

Hedwig hooted slightly before lifting her leg with the parchment higher. He untied the note and let her hop onto his head, her usual resting place whenever she visited him in the great hall. She immediately settled in and began nipping at his messy bed hair, cleaning it in that odd way the owls do.

From the staff table, McGonagall narrowed her eyes at him like she was debating whether this was the battle she wanted to pick today. She must have decided against it, because she returned to her toast without saying anything. At this point, she probably understood that Percy had very little control over his owl’s boundary issues.

He unrolled the note. It was short. Just two words, scrawled in messy handwriting that was unmistakably Hagrid’s:

It’s Hatching.

Ron immediately tried to convince them to ditch class.

“Hermione, come on — how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatch?”

“We’ve got lessons,” Hermione hissed. “We’ll get into trouble — and not nearly as much trouble as Hagrid will be in when someone finds out he’s got an actual dragon in his hut—”

“Shut up,” Percy cut in sharply, eyes flicking to their right.

Just a few feet away, Malfoy had stopped walking and was blatantly eavesdropping. He squinted at them suspiciously as they moved past on the way to Herbology. Percy didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t glaring back. If that nosy brat caught wind of this, Hagrid was toast.

As soon as their last class ended, the three of them booked it to Hagrid’s hut.

Hagrid greeted them at the door, flushed and practically bouncing. “It’s nearly out!” he said, ushering them inside.

The egg lay in the center of the table, resting in its scorched little blanket nest. Jagged cracks ran across the shell, and something inside was twitching. There was a faint clicking noise, sharp and quick.

They all dragged their chairs closer, eyes wide, and leaned in.

The egg split open with a sudden snap, and a baby dragon tumbled out onto the tabletop.

It was a mess of wings and legs. The spiny wings were oversized for its skinny, jet-black body, and its long snout twitched as it tested the air. Two stubby horns curled from its forehead, and its bulging orange eyes blinked slowly at them, unfocused.

Then it sneezed. A couple of sparks shot from its nose.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured, looking absolutely enchanted. Percy wasn't completely convinced.

He reached out to stroke its head. The dragon snapped at his fingers with a mouth full of tiny, needle-like teeth.

“Bless him,” Hagrid said happily. “Look, he knows his mummy!”

Percy bit his tongue to avoid commenting. Sure, beautiful, in the same way fire was beautiful — dangerous, flammable, and a bad idea to keep in a wooden hut.

“Hagrid,” Hermione asked carefully, “how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?”

Hagrid opened his mouth to respond, but then his expression changed. All the color drained from his face. Without a word, he jumped to his feet and bolted to the window.

“What’s the matter?” Ron asked.

“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains,” Hagrid said, his voice tight. “It’s a kid — he’s runnin’ back up ter the school—”

Percy was already at the door. He yanked it open and squinted into the fading afternoon light.

Even from a distance, the platinum blond hair was unmistakable.

“Malfoy,” Percy growled. “Wonderfull.”

The next week was spent in a constant state of anxiety about what Malfoy might do.

Norbert — because of course Hagrid had named his illegal, fire-breathing dragon Norbert — had grown to nearly three times his original size. Percy had gotten very good at the Aguamenti spell after putting out approximately a million hut-fires. There were scorch marks on the walls, the furniture, the ceiling. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Norbert figured out how to ignite stone next.

But the real problem was the fact that Norbert wasn’t slowing down. The dragon was growing faster than they could handle, and Percy’s anxiety wasn’t just about fire anymore. It was about Hagrid’s job — and probably a prison sentence — if someone found out what he was keeping in a hut made entirely of flammable materials.

Eventually, when the pressure got too much, between Malfoy’s looming threat and Norbert bulking up by the hour, Hagrid finally caved.

It had been Percy’s “brilliant” idea to ask Ron’s brother for help. Charlie, the dragon guy, had responded saying he’d send a few of his friends to come pick the dragon up. Simple enough.

Only it wasn’t simple. Nothing at Hogwarts was ever simple.

The three of them ended up waiting a full week for the pickup, taking turns on dragon-sitting duty whenever Hagrid had to actually do his job as groundskeeper. Most of that time was spent dodging flames and trying not to die of smoke inhalation.

One night, Ron came barreling into the common room and marched straight up to where Hermione was doing homework and Percy was pretending to do the same.

“It bit me!” he whispered furiously, holding out his hand.

Blood was sluggishly seeping through the handkerchief he had wrapped around it, and the puncture wounds looked deep.

“I’m not going to be able to hold a quill for a week. That dragon is the most horrible animal I’ve ever met,” Ron said, sitting heavily in the chair across from them. “But the way Hagrid talks about it, you’d think it was a bloody bunny rabbit. When it bit me, he told me off for frightening it . And when I left, he was singing it a lullaby.”

Percy frowned and leaned forward. “Didn’t that book we found say Norwegian Ridgebacks are venomous?”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Oh bloody hell— ” and he sprinted up the dormitory stairs, presumably to read more about dragon venom while holding his hand under water like that would help.

By morning, Ron’s hand had swollen to twice its size and was leaking yellow pus that looked incredibly suspicious. Hermione urged him to go to the Hospital Wing, but he waved her off. By that afternoon though, the wound had gone green and Ron looked about three shades paler than usual. He finally caved and they dragged him to Madam Pomfrey.

As if that weren’t enough, Malfoy had most likely figured out the plan. Apparently, he had convinced Madam Pomfrey that he was there to visit Ron, proceed to make fun of him and had stolen his book. The book that Ron had stuffed his letter from Charlie detailing the plan for getting Norbert to him. Wonderful.

The worst part was, it meant smuggling Norbert up to the Astronomy Tower became exponentially harder.

They had to avoid Malfoy and anyone else he may have tattled to. Plus, it ended up being just Percy and Hermione carrying the dragon. Because obviously this whole plan was cursed from the start.

“Nearly there,” Percy panted as they finally reached the corridor beneath the tower. They had climbed so many staircases, their arms aching from lugging the heavy crate that now smelled vaguely of smoke and singed wool. Percy had never hated a magical creature more in his entire life. And he’d met Peeves.

Then something moved just ahead.

They nearly dropped the crate, forgetting they were already under the Invisibility Cloak. They shrank back into the shadows, hearts pounding.

A lamp flared.

Professor McGonagall, wearing a tartan bathrobe and a hairnet, had Malfoy by the ear.

“ Detention! ” she snapped. “And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you—”

“You don’t understand, Professor! Harry Potter’s coming — he’s got a dragon!”

“What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on — I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!”

Percy nearly laughed. He could’ve hugged her. Bless McGonagall. Bless her. Not only had she shut down Malfoy’s whining, she actually believed he would never do something as reckless as smuggling a dragon out of Hogwarts in the dead of night. Sweet, trusting woman.

The rest of the job was smooth. They got the crate up the tower, met Charlie’s oddly muscular, oddly cheerful friends, and watched as his latest problem was flown away. 

Percy let out a long, exhausted breath. The weight on his chest finally eased.

It was over.

Or… it should have been.

Because at the bottom of the stairs, waiting just as they came back down, stood Filch.

The man smiled — if you could call it that — a sneering, lipless little grin.

“Well, crap. We're in trouble."

Percy stared at him, mind blanking, and then groaned internally.

They’d left the bloody Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower.

Filch had to pull Professor McGonagall out of bed again to meet them in her office.

This did not make her a happy camper.

And to make things even better, when she appeared, she was dragging Neville along by the ear.

Brilliant.

“Harry!” Neville blurted the moment he saw them. “I was trying to find you to warn you! I heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you — he said you had a drag—”

Percy shook his head violently, eyes wide in silent panic. Shut up, shut up, shut up. But it was already too late.

Professor McGonagall had seen.

Beside him, Hermione was trembling. She looked one breath away from a breakdown: her eyes wide and glassy, her hands clenched into little fists. She wasn’t used to being in trouble. Percy doubted she’d ever even been given a warning before.

She flinched when McGonagall finally released Neville and marched around her desk. The professor slapped both palms down hard on the wood and leaned forward, glaring at them.

Her hair was still trapped in a hairnet, which might have made the whole scene a little funny if Percy wasn’t too busy internally screaming. Even wrapped in sleepwear and fury, McGonagall was terrifying.

“I would never have believed it of any of you,” she snapped. “Mr. Filch says you were up in the Astronomy Tower. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Explain yourselves.”

Percy opened his mouth, not even sure what lie he was going to attempt, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t interested.

“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,” McGonagall said sharply. “It doesn’t take a genius to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy some cock-and-bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed and into trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the story and believed it too?”

Percy turned to Neville. The kid looked stunned. Hurt, even. He clearly hadn’t expected to be lumped in with the rest of them, and Percy hated how unfair it all was. He tried to catch Neville’s eyes, to silently say this isn’t true, but he wasn’t sure it landed.

Neville had stuck his neck out to warn him. And now he was getting dragged down with them. Fantastic.

“I’m disgusted,” McGonagall continued, voice tight. “Four students out of bed in one night! I’ve never heard of such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I thought you had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter—” she paused, eyes narrowing “—I thought Gryffindor meant more to you than this.”

That one stung.

Guilt hit Percy like a stone to the gut. His throat felt tight, and his eyes started to burn, glassy with something he didn’t really want to name. He’d never had teachers he actually liked before — not until Hogwarts. And McGonagall had always looked out for him. Now he’d disappointed her, and it sucked in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“All three of you will receive detentions — yes, you too, Mr. Longbottom,” she added sharply as Neville opened his mouth. “Nothing gives you the right to walk around school at night, especially these days. It’s very dangerous. And fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor.”

“Fifty?” Hermione gasped. Her voice cracked. She was crying openly now, trying to be quiet about it but not really succeeding.

“Fifty points each,” McGonagall said, breathing heavily through her nose.

“Professor — please —” Hermione started.

“You can’t—” Percy began at the same time, though he didn’t even know what he was going to say. Please don’t hate us? Not exactly a strong legal defense.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter,” McGonagall snapped. “Now get back to bed. All of you. I’ve never been more ashamed of Gryffindor students.”

And just like that, the weight Percy had thought he’d shaken off came crashing right back down.

Chapter Text

Honestly, Percy had been expecting something like this to happen eventually. Things had been going too well. He had actual friends—not fake ones or pity connections, not people who just tolerated him. Real ones. He’d somehow landed the role of star Seeker, of all things, and people had started to recognize him in the corridors with something like respect. He was doing well in class for once in his life, actually managing to stay on top of things despite the usual Percy-style chaos that liked to follow him around.

So yeah, it made sense that the universe would find a way to kick his knees out from under him eventually.

He hadn’t expected the House to hate him quite this much though. Expulsion? Sure. He’d braced for that. Especially after the way Professor McGonagall had looked at him when she caught him out of bed after curfew. The disappointment on her face had stung worse than any hex.

Honestly, he’d gotten off easy with just detention and losing points. But somehow, that had turned him into a social pariah overnight.

Gryffindor house had gone feral. Everyone was acting like he’d personally set the common room on fire and danced on the ashes while laughing. They glared, whispered, and pointed. He couldn’t sit down anywhere without someone scoffing and moving as if he were contagious. All because of house points.

“Is a shiny cup really that big of a deal?” Percy had muttered to Hermione one evening when they were huddled in the corner where no one would approach them. “I mean, I’m the one who got us the lead in the first place.” She hadn’t answered—probably because she knew he had a point. But it didn’t matter. Logic didn’t apply when the mob had already chosen a villain.

And maybe he could’ve handled that—the stares, the muttering, the cold shoulders—if it had only been towards him. But it wasn’t. His friends got dragged down with him, and that? That Percy hated. Hermione, who had only ever wanted to follow the rules and Neville, who’d only tried to help. Percy hadn’t just tanked his own reputation, he’d torpedoed theirs too.

Neville was taking it the hardest. Percy and Hermione had tried to explain after it happened, tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t yell or start a fight. He just stopped interacting with Percy entirely. He stopped showing up at their table in the Great Hall. Stopped sitting beside Percy in Potions. And that hurt more than Percy wanted to admit. The absence said more than anger ever could.

Neville had paired off with Dean. Ron had looked at him with a slightly guilty expression when he had chosen to sit next to Hermione but Percy didn’t blame him. Hermione was a much better student then he was and Ron knew that she’d get them a good grade whether he did any of the work or not. But it also meant Percy got stuck with Seamus. And Seamus, bless him, had hands like chaos incarnate. Percy’s cauldron had exploded twice in one week and caught fire at least three times. Snape had nearly had a coronary.

“Reckless,” Snape sneered the last time Percy’s potion turned a sickly green and melted through the bottom of his pewter cauldron. “Utterly incapable of following basic instructions. Tell me, Potter, do you enjoy wasting my time?”

The worst part was that Percy did follow the instructions and he did know how to brew the potions correctly. He just hadn’t been able to get Seamus to stop tossing in ingredients and not actually reading the instructions on how to incorporate them properly in the potion. Still, that didn’t stop Snape from docking more points and muttering something about arrogant, fame-hungry Gryffindors. Which sparked yet another round of “Snape is trying to kill you” from Ron and Hermione. It was exhausting. 

And as for Professor McGonagall… she hadn’t said a word to him since the Astronomy Tower incident. She didn’t call on him anymore in class and she didn’t stop him in the hallways when they crossed paths and ask about Quidditch training. She didn’t glance his way during meals or give him that subtle smile she used to either. Percy didn’t know what was worse—getting yelled at or being ignored.

He’d thought about going to her office. About apologizing properly and explaining. But every time he imagined her face, that disappointment and disapproval, he froze. What if she didn’t want to hear it and it only made everything worse? 

He’d even considered giving his broom back. She’d bought him that broom. Believed in him and trusted him. And now she wouldn’t even look at him.

When he brought it up to Wood, the older boy had gone ballistic.

“Resign?” Wood had thundered so loudly that the portrait in the hallway snorted awake. “What good’ll that do? How are we supposed to win any points back if we don’t have our Seeker? Use your brain, Potter!”

Still, Quidditch had lost its spark. His teammates barely spoke to him. When they had to refer to him, it was just “the Seeker,” like he was a piece of equipment. The magic he used to feel in the air—that light, humming energy that made him feel like he was born to fly—had even dulled a bit. He found himself hesitating before dives, second-guessing when to roll or bank, and playing it safe. That didn’t help his already icy relationship with the rest of the team.

For the first time, he didn’t look forward to practice and without it he had lost his usual escape to the rest of the world.

The one silver lining, if it could be called that, was exams. Studying at least gave him something to do. At least, it was something to shove in front of the gnawing guilt that sat behind his ribs like a weight. He, Ron, and Hermione had taken to working late into the night, tucked away in corners of the library or slouched together in the common room, surrounded by books and parchment. Potions ingredients, charm incantations, goblin rebellions—anything and everything they might be tested on.

And it helped, at least a little.

Percy had resigned himself to keeping his nose out of anything for the rest of the year. Better not to risk an expulsion from a school he actually wanted to come back to. 

Plans never worked out for Percy, though.

About a week before exams were due to start, he was taking another break and walking around the school. Whenever his ADHD started acting up while studying and he started tapping his fingers or distracting his friends, they’d subtly send him to do something for a break. This time it was retrieving a book Ron had left in the dorm room. Percy had caught onto what they were doing after the first few days of studying, but he didn’t say anything to stop them. Taking small breaks like this when he got a bit to antsy seemed to help immensely. He really appreciated his friends. 

Now though, he was walking back from the library alone one afternoon when he heard someone whimpering from a classroom ahead. He frowned. That didn’t sound like another kid.

As he got closer, he heard Quirrell’s voice.

“No. No. Not again, please—”

It sounded like someone was threatening him.

“All right. All right—” Quirrell sobbed.

Okay, Percy had never had any actual issues with Quirrell. The man was a coward, sure. Fidgety in class, stuttered through every sentence, but who was Percy to judge someone for having a disability? He wasn’t exactly a great teacher—mostly stumbled through a lecture and handed out worksheets—but Percy could think of worse. The guy stared at him a lot… but so did everyone else. And yeah, he reeked of garlic half the time. But no one deserved to sound that afraid.

A second later, Quirrell came hurrying out of the classroom, adjusting his turban. He looked pale, shaky, and way too close to crying. He strode off without even glancing in Percy’s direction. Percy didn’t think he’d been seen.

He waited until the professor’s footsteps faded, then peeked into the room. Empty. But a door at the far end stood slightly open.

Percy was halfway across the classroom before he remembered the promise he’d made to himself—to stop getting involved in things that weren’t his business. He paused, sighed, and turned around.

Not his monkeys. Not his circus.

He went straight back to the library, where Ron and Hermione were still buried in their books in the corner. He told them what he’d heard and regretted it the moment the words left his mouth.

“It was Snape!” Ron blurted immediately.

Percy opened his mouth to argue, but neither of them gave him the chance.

“No, listen, Harry!” Hermione said, already working herself up. “It makes sense. Snape wants the Sorcerer’s Stone. Fluffy—and probably a whole bunch of other traps—are guarding it. What if he’s been threatening Quirrell into figuring out how to get past them?”

“It does add up, mate,” Ron nodded, his eyes lighting up.

Percy rubbed his temples and let out a long breath. “Let’s say—hypothetically—you’re right. What exactly are we supposed to do?”

Ron looked ready to suggest something reckless, but Hermione jumped in first.

“Go to Dumbledore. That’s what we should’ve done ages ago.”

“But we don’t have proof,” Percy pointed out. “Quirrell’s too scared to back us up—he was practically sobbing in there. Snape can just say he doesn’t know what we’re talking about, and Dumbledore’ll believe him. He’ll, I don’t really believe it’s Snape. What makes you think anyone else will?”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look like they’d been waiting for this argument. Ron nodded sharply, his gaze never leaving Hermione's. 

Then Hermione pulled out a notebook from her bag and flipped through it with purpose. She turned it around and slid it in front of Percy.

It was a list. A suspiciously long one—labeled "Snape."

Percy blinked at it. “You made a file?” She ignored him.

“Look,” Hermione said, pointing to the top bullet. Next to it was a date: October 1st—the night of the troll.

“The troll attacked,” she said. “You won’t remember this, but Ron left to find professors. He went down the third-floor hallway—the one that’s off-limits—and he found Snape there. Snape followed him, and they ran into the other teachers on the way back.”

She tapped the next bullet point. “Before your first Quidditch match, Snape was limping. We think he might’ve tried to get past Fluffy and got hurt.”

“Then the match happened,” Ron added, “and we told you what we saw—Snape muttering under his breath, your broom going crazy.”

Hermione continued, flipping to another page. “After your last match, when you were showering, we were walking back to the castle and saw Snape corner Quirrell in the Forbidden Forest. We couldn’t hear what they said, but Quirrell looked terrified.”

“And now this,” she finished, folding her arms.

Unfortunately, she was starting to build a picture Percy really didn’t like.

“That still doesn’t explain why you think he wants to kill me,” Percy said. “Why does he hate me?”

“Look, mate,” Ron said carefully. “Snape was a follower of You-Know-Who.”

Percy frowned. “Who?”

They both stared at him.

“You know,” Ron said, as if that helped.

“No, I don’t.”

Ron’s mouth fell open, bafflement highlighting his features. “You know… V-Voldemort.”

He whispered the name like he was afraid the walls might hear.

He didn’t understand what they were talking about. “Who’s that?” Percy asked, more annoyed than anything.

“Harry…” Hermione said slowly, “You don’t know?”

Percy threw his hands up, his voice getting louder in his frustration. “No! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Hermione raised her palms like she was trying to calm him. “Okay. Okay. Calm down.”

Percy took a breath. He rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

“Harry… What do you know about the night your parents died?”

Percy pressed his lips together. Right, his parents. The ones who were not his birth parents, but had made him theirs in every way possible. The one’s that everyone at this school knew him to have had and then lost.

“I know they killed some dark wizard and died heroes. I know they died to protect me, and I got this scar.” He pushed his bangs up to show them. “And I know people think I’m famous because of it.”

Ron stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, Ron’s eyebrows knitted together and he spoke again.. “No one’s ever explained it to you?”

Percy shook his head.

“Okay, this is crazy.” Hermione said more to herself than anyone else, clearly still reeling. “Your parents did die to protect you. But the wizard who killed them… he wasn’t just some dark wizard. He was the worst one. The worst in a long time.”

She looked down at her notes but didn’t seem to need them.

“He tortured the wizarding world for years. People were terrified. They wouldn’t even say his name because they thought it was an omen of death. And a lot of times they were right. Now, a lot of people still won’t speak it.”

Percy frowned. So his parents were legends. He could live with that. “I still don't understand why it matters so much. Why would Snape try to kill me if it was my parents who killed Volmoter or whatever you called him.”

“Harry,” Ron said. “Your parents didn’t kill Voldemort. You did.”

Percy blinked his mind going blank. “What?”

“There’s a curse,” Hermione said, “the Killing Curse. It causes instant death. It’s one of the Unforgivable Curses. No one’s ever survived it… except you. He cast it on you, and it backfired. All it left was that scar.”

Ron pointed at Percy’s forehead. “That’s why they call you the Boy-Who-Lived. Our savior.”

Percy needed space.

He didn’t go to dinner that night. Just wandered the castle in silence, pale and disconnected, his feet moving without direction or thought. He wasn’t even sure where he was going. His thoughts hadn’t stopped spinning since Ron said it.

He had killed Voldemort.

Killed him. That’s what people believed. That’s what the books said. That’s why everyone stared at him. Not because his parents had sacrificed themselves to save Percy and killed the dark lord like he had assumed but because they thought he’d done the impossible as a baby.

And Snape… Snape had been a follower of that dark lord. It made so much sense now, of course he hated Percy. He had killed his master and he didn’t even remember doing it.

That was the worst part. The world had made up its mind about who he was based on something he couldn’t even remember.

His second parents were dead. The Potters—James and Lily—had died for him. He’d known that and had come to terms with it somewhat, but not like this. They had taken him in as a baby, and they had died for it.They had sacrificed themselves when it turned out he might’ve survived the curse anyway. That was the part that hit the hardest. 

Percy didn’t know what to believe about that yet. Voldemort. The name still didn’t mean anything to him emotionally, but he was starting to understand what it meant to everyone else. How it warped people. How it changed them. Snape, for example. Percy didn’t like the man, but he’d always figured he was just a bitter professor with a weird grudge against him. Now? There was something more personal there. 

He couldn’t even begin to sort out how he felt about it. Anger? Fear? Guilt? Definitely guilt.

What if Snape really was threatening Quirrell? What if he really had tried to get past Fluffy? Percy didn’t want to believe it, but that list Hermione had… it wasn’t nothing.

Why did Snape even want the stone in the first place? Other than the eternal life, that is. What could Snape need a stone like that for?

 So many thoughts and questions rolled around Percy’s brain. Still, no one had given him answers. Just bits and pieces, some of which contradicted each other. He didn’t trust Snape, especially not now. But he wasn’t convinced of anything yet. And he was tired of feeling like the last person to know what was going on.

His friends had given him space, which he appreciated. They probably thought he needed time to process. They were right.

He hadn’t wandered the halls like this in weeks. Not since McGonagall had caught him. Normally, the fear of disappointing her would’ve kept him tucked away in the common room or the library. But tonight, he didn’t care. The guilt outweighed everything else.

He let the magic of Hogwarts guide him. It pulled at something inside him, nudging him forward through corridors and staircases.

Eventually, he blinked and realized he was in the dungeons. He looked around. Down the hall was a lone painting of a fruit basket. Odd, considering there were no other paintings here. Nearby, a small group of barrels sat stacked near the wall.

Percy frowned. He didn’t know why he was here.

He sighed and sat down, leaning back against one of the barrels. His shoulders ached. His chest ached. Everything ached.

No wonder people stared at him. No wonder the first thing they asked was to see the scar. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. The one who survived something no one else ever had. He didn’t feel like any of those things.

He tilted his head back, tapping it against the barrel behind him. Once. Twice. On the fourth tap, something gave way.

He fell backward.

“What—”

The barrels were gone, and behind them was a narrow corridor lit with a soft glow.

Percy got up slowly and looked into the space beyond. A girl was already staring back at him.

She was redheaded, wearing Hufflepuff robes, and was sprawled out on a rug surrounded by books. She stood from where she had been reading on the floor and narrowed her eyes.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

“I—I don’t know,” Percy said quickly.

She walked toward him and he caught the widening of her eyes when she finally realized who he was.

“Harry Potter?” she asked.

“Uh—yeah.”

Her expression shifted into a more wary one. She looked at him properly, eyes scanning over his face. Whatever she saw made her tone soften.

“Do you want to come in?”

He nodded, unsure what else to say.

She reached out, took his hand, and led him inside. The room was warm and quiet. She pulled him to one of the couches and nudged him down into it.

“Uh… is this allowed?” Percy asked.

She shrugged. “Probably not.”

Good enough.

“What’s your name?” Percy asked after a moment of awkward silence.

She blinked, then laughed and gave herself a small smack to the forehead. “Right. I keep forgetting you don’t know everyone, even if everyone knows you. I’m Susan. Susan Bones.”

She held out her hand and Percy shook it. “Harry Potter,” he said, out of habit.

Susan settled into a chair across from him and watched him with a curious but kind expression.

“So what were you doing out this late after curfew?” she asked.

“Is it that late?” Percy frowned. “Didn’t realize.”

Her expression didn’t change but she didn’t say anything either, waiting on him to continue.

“I… found out some stuff today,” he said. “Stuff I didn’t know. I just needed some time to think.”

Susan nodded, understanding crossing her face. “Yeah. I’ve had days like that.”

Percy managed a small smile. “What about you? Why are you up?”

“Finals,” she said with a groan gesturing to her abonanded pile of books. “This is the only time the common room’s quiet enough to study.”

“Makes sense,” Percy said, glancing around. “So, this is the Hufflepuff common room?”

“Sure is.”

“It’s cozier than I thought it’d be,” he said.

And it really was. The space was packed with couches and cushions, rugs, low tables, and quiet lighting. Plants filled corners and windowsills. The room didn’t feel like it belonged in a stone castle—it felt lived in and safe.

“Honestly,” Percy said after appraising the room, “I could’ve been a Puff.”

Susan looked amused. “Really?”

“Sorting Hat said I could go either way. This is way cozier than the Gryffindor Common room. Way less red too.” he chuckled slightly. He was already coming out of his awful headspace from earlier. The tightness in his chest was beginning to ease a bit.

She smiled. “That would’ve been something.”

Percy chuckled. “Might’ve been nice, though.”

“I could’ve been a Ravenclaw,” Susan offered. “But I guess I’m more loyal than book smart.”

“I wanted Ravenclaw,” Percy said, leaning back with a grin. “Hat said it was my last option though.”

“Why Ravenclaw?”

“Because they’re blue.”

Susan laughed, and Percy relaxed a little more.

They talked for a while, skipping over heavier topics whenever either of them didn’t want to explain something further. He found out that Susan’s favorite class was charms and she hated Herbology but Percy shouldn’t tell her head of house under threat of revealing that Percy actually liked Potions, despite the professor. He found out that Susan lived with her aunt, which she adored but didn’t explain the details of that situation at all. Percy didn’t ask. He revealed to Susan that he lived in New York, which started a whole other excited conversation about what it was like.

Eventually, Susan yawned and stretched. “Alright. Time to kick you out.”

Percy stood and made his way toward the exit. As he reached the door, Susan’s voice stopped him.

“Hey, Harry?”

He turned.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

He gave her a quiet smile. “I won’t.”

The next morning, Hermione and Ron were both hesitant at breakfast. They kept trying to spark conversations about random things, but Percy wasn’t really in the mood to talk. He picked at his food and nodded occasionally when they paused like they were expecting a response. It was easier than actually saying anything.

Hedwig flew into the Great Hall and landed gracefully in front of him. She hooted softly, clearly noticing his delay in reaching up to scratch her head. Percy tried to offer a small smile, but it didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

He glanced over and noticed that Neville and Hermione had owls as well. Percy took the note from Hedwig’s leg while she flapped up to perch on his head, a familiar and oddly comforting weight.

Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock tonight.
Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.

—Professor M. McGonagall

Perfect. On top of everything else, McGonagall apparently couldn’t even stand to assign his punishment herself. She had passed it off to Filch like she didn’t want to deal with him at all. Percy folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.

The day passed in a blur. When evening came, Percy found himself standing in the entrance hall alongside Hermione, Neville, and—of all people—Malfoy.

“Follow me,” Filch grumbled, lighting a lantern and leading them out the front doors.

“I bet you’ll think twice about breaking school rules now, won’t you, eh?” he said with a sneer. “Oh yes… hard work and pain—best teachers there are, if you ask me. Pity they did away with the old punishments… hanging students by their wrists from the ceiling for a few days. I’ve still got the chains in my office. Keep ’em oiled just in case…”

Percy didn’t bother responding. He wasn’t sure if Filch was being serious or just trying to scare them, but either way, it was probably smart to avoid crossing him in the future.

The lantern cast long shadows as they followed him across the dark grounds. The moonlight made it easier to see, but there was something eerie about the way the trees loomed ahead of them. Neville kept flinching and whimpering whenever a shadow moved, which made Percy try to match his pace in silent support. But every time he got close, Neville would slow down or speed up. Percy eventually gave up and fell back into step with Hermione instead. She looked just as downcast as he felt.

Malfoy lagged behind and Percy could practically feel the holes he was glaring into his back.

Up ahead, the warm glow from Hagrid’s hut spilled onto the grass. Then a deep voice called out in the distance.

“That you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started!”

Percy’s mood lifted slightly. If Hagrid was involved, maybe the detention wouldn’t be so awful. Maybe it was just cleaning something up. That he could manage. After the week he’d had, he’d settle for anything simple.

His hope must have been obvious, because Filch scowled and said, “I suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well, think again, boy—it’s into the forest you’re going, and I’ll be surprised if all four of you come back out in one piece.”

Percy wasn’t so worried then. But by everyone else reaction, maybe he should be. He’d been in the forest before, technically. Not far, and certainly not at night, but nothing in the daytime had seemed too threatening. Still, the way Filch said it made Percy shift uneasily.

Neville whimpered again. Malfoy stopped walking.

“The forest?” Malfoy repeated. His voice had lost its usual drawl. “We can’t go in there at night—there’s all sorts of things in there. Werewolves, I heard.”

Neville wrung his fingers together with shaky hands and made a strangled noise.

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” Filch sneered. “Should’ve thought about werewolves before getting yourselves into trouble.”

Hagrid appeared from the dark, Fang trotting at his side. The dog immediately bounded toward Percy and reared up on his hind legs, placing his front paws on Percy’s shoulders with an excited huff. Percy staggered back, nearly toppling, until Hagrid hauled the huge dog off.

Hagrid was holding a large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows was strapped across his back. “’Bout time,” he said. “Bin waitin’ fer half an hour already. All right, Harry, Hermione?”

“I wouldn’t get too friendly with them, Hagrid,” Filch cut in coldly. “They’re here to be punished.”

“Tha’s why yer late, is it?” Hagrid frowned. “Bin lecturin’ them, eh? Not yer job, that. Yeh’ve done yer part. I’ll take over from here.”

“I’ll be back at dawn,” Filch muttered as he turned back toward the castle. “For what’s left of them.”

Malfoy rounded on Hagrid the moment Filch left. “I’m not going in there,” he said, voice climbing higher. “There’s dangerous stuff in that forest.”

“You are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” Hagrid said sharply. “Yeh broke the rules, now yeh pay the price.”

“This is servant stuff. We’re students. I thought we’d be copying lines or something! If my father knew—”

“—he’d tell yeh this is how it works here,” Hagrid growled. “Copyin’ lines? What good’s that to anyone? Do something useful or pack up and go. Up to you.”

Malfoy scowled but didn’t say anything else.

“Right then,” Hagrid continued. “Listen close. It’s dangerous, what we’re doin’ tonight. No messin’ about. Follow me.”

He led them to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and lifted his lantern to point out a winding path between the trees.

“Look there,” he said, “see the silvery stuff? That’s unicorn blood. There’s one in there, hurt bad. This is the second time. Found one dead last week. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor thing. Might have to put it out of its misery.”

Percy’s gut twisted. Killing a unicorn, even as a mercy, didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t know much about them, but he could feel the weight of it. Something sacred was bleeding out in that forest, and he really didn’t want to see it.

Malfoy voiced what he was already thinking.

“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?”

“There’s nothin’ in that forest gonna hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang,” Hagrid assured them. “Stick to the path. Now, we’re splittin’ up—two groups. Blood’s everywhere, must’ve been wanderin’ all night.”

“I want Fang,” Malfoy said immediately, eyeing the dog’s teeth.

“All right, but he’s a coward,” Hagrid warned. “So me, Harry, and Hermione’ll take one trail. Draco, Neville, and Fang, you take the other. If anyone finds the unicorn, shoot up green sparks. If you’re in trouble, red sparks. Got it? Wands out, just in case.”

Percy took out his wand and glanced into the trees. The thick branches blocked out most of the moonlight. The lantern’s glow only reached a few feet ahead. Everything beyond that was black.

He followed Hagrid and Hermione into the woods, heart uneasy, and wand tight in his grip.

A little way into it they reached a fork in the earth path and Percy, Hermione and Hagrid took the left path while Malfoy, Neville and Fang took the right. They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground. Every now and then a ray of moonlight peeking through the branches above lit a spot of silver blue blood on the fallen leaves. Hagrid looked very worried.

"Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?" Percy asked a hint of worry in his tone.

"Not fast enough. It’s not easy ter catch a unicorn, they’re powerful magic creatures. I never knew one ter be hurt before." That wasn't reassuring at all. 

They spotted more Unicorn blood shimmering silver in the moonlight. Percy felt sick at the sight. Whatever did this had to be seriously dark. 

Hermione must have also been feeling awful about it all because Hagrid turned towards her as the continued walking on the path. “You all right, Hermione?” Hagrid whispered. “Don’ worry, it can’t’ve gone far if it’s this badly hurt, an’ then we’ll be able ter — GET BEHIND THAT TREE!”

Hagrid bellowed loudly and Percy and Hermione were abruptly swept off their feet and practically thrown against the back of the tree. Percy grabbed Hermione, allowing his shoulder to take the brunt of the impact and then pressed them both against the tree as close as possible. 

Hagrid was still standing in the path but near enough that he and Hermione could watch as he drew an arrow and notched it into his crossbow. He swept it across the forest, ready to shoot at whatever was moving.

The three of them listened. Something was slithering over dead leaves nearby: it sounded like a cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was squinting up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound faded away. 

“I knew it,” he murmured. “There’s summat in here that shouldn’ be.” 

“A werewolf?” Harry suggested. 

“That wasn’ no werewolf an’ it wasn’ no unicorn, neither,” said Hagrid grimly. “Right, follow me, but careful, now.”

They walked more slowly, ears straining for the faintest sound.

Suddenly, in a clearing ahead, something definitely moved. “Who’s there?” Hagrid called. “Show yerself — I’m armed!” And into the clearing came — was it a man, or a horse? To the waist, a man, with red hair and beard, but below that was a horse’s gleaming chestnut body with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione’s jaws dropped.

“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” said Hagrid in relief. “How are yeh?” He walked forward and shook the centaur’s hand. It was weird seeing a creature about the same height as Hagrid. The centaur didn’t even need to tilt his head in order to look Hagrid in the eyes.

“Good evening to you, Hagrid,” said Ronan. He had a deep, sorrowful voice. “Were you going to shoot me?” 

“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” said Hagrid, patting his crossbow. “There’s summat bad loose in this forest. This is Harry Potter an’ Hermione Granger, by the way. Students up at the school. An’ this is Ronan, you two. He’s a centaur.” 

“We’d noticed,” said Hermione faintly. 

“Good evening,” said Ronan. “Students, are you? And do you learn much, up at the school?”

Ronan glanced at both of them his eyes sweeping over Hermione and pausing at Percy. His eyes widened briefly and he took a very deep breath before letting it out again quickly. He tilted his head slightly to the right, staring right at Percy. “Interesting.” he mumbled. What was that about? 

Hermione answered his early question for the both of them. “A bit,” said Hermione timidly.

“A bit. Well, that’s something.” Ronan sighed, finally taking his eyes off Percy. He flung back his head and stared at the sky. “Mars is bright tonight.” He said it as if it were supposed to mean something more than a planet. 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, glancing up, too. “Listen, I’m glad we’ve run inter yeh, Ronan, ’cause there’s a unicorn bin hurt — you seen anythin’?” 

Ronan didn’t answer immediately. He stared unblinkingly upward, then sighed again. “Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said. “So it has been for ages past, so it is now.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “but have yeh seen anythin’, Ronan? Anythin’ unusual?”  

He turned to stare at Percy directly. “Mars is bright tonight,” Ronan repeated. “Unusually bright.” 

Percy’s brows furrowed in confusion. He knew he meant more by it. Knew he was supposed to get what he meant but he didn’t. He didn’t understand. 

“Yeah, but I was meanin’ anythin’ unusual a bit nearer home,” said Hagrid. “So yeh haven’t noticed anythin’ strange?” 

Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he said, “The forest hides many secrets.” 

A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid raise his bow again, but it was only a second centaur, black-haired and -bodied and wilder-looking than Ronan. 

“Hullo, Bane,” said Hagrid. “All right?” 

“Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?” 

“Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ bin askin’ Ronan, you seen anythin’ odd in here lately? There’s a unicorn bin injured — would yeh know anythin’ about it?” 

The centar, Bane, trotted to stand beside Ronan. He also paused momentarily when he saw Percy standing there. “What are you doing here?” the centaur asked. 

Hagrid answerd for them, a muscle ticking in his jaw.. He was starting to get a bit frustrated by the sound of his voice. “We’re looking for something harming Unicorns. These two are helping me.”

Bane's eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he focused back on Hagrid.

Again Hagrid asked, “Have you noticed anything lately?”

Bane looked skyward, same as Ronan had. “Mars is bright tonight,” he said simply. 

“We’ve heard,” Hagrid said grumpily, but it seemed he had given up on getting any information from the centaurs.  “Well, if either of you do see anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh? We’ll be off, then.”

Hagrid placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and moved to herd her back onto the path. Percy turned to follow but he was paused when Bane spoke again. “Your scent is getting stronger,” he said. “You should be aware.”

“What?” Percy asked, but both centaurs had already turned around and started trotting away. Percy shrugged it off and rushed to catch up with Hagrid and Hermione before they could get too far away. 

“Never,” said Hagrid irritably, “try an’ get a straight answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not interested in anythin’ closer’n the moon.” 

“Are there many of them in here?” asked Hermione. 

“Oh, a fair few. . . . Keep themselves to themselves mostly, but they’re good enough about turnin’ up if ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind, centaurs . . . they know things . . . jus’ don’ let on much.” 

“D’you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?” Percy asked. He hoped it was..

 “Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask me, that was what’s bin killin’ the unicorns — never heard anythin’ like it before.”

That was not reassuring. They kept walking through the forest, silent and listening to any other sounds in the forest. 

Hermione stopped in her tracks pointing up at the sky through the tree leaves. “Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!” 

“You two wait here!” Hagrid shouted. “Stay on the path, I’ll come back for yeh!”

Hagrid rushed off. Almost immediately the forest took on a much more scary feeling. The shadows seemed to stretch closer and reach for them without Hagrids torch guiding their path. It was not helped by their worry for Neville. 

“You don’t think they’ve been hurt, do you?” whispered Hermione. 

“I hope not.” Hermione flinched at the sound of leaves rustling in the soft breeze. She grabbed for Percy’s hand, clenching it tightly. Percy didn’t mind one bit, if he was honest. 

A loud cruch sounded behind them and Hermione and Percy yelped slightly, whirling around. It was only Hagrid coming through the trees followed by Fang, Neville and Malfoy. Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, Hagrid explained rather loudly, had sneaked up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville had panicked and sent up the sparks. 

“We’ll be lucky ter catch anythin’ now, with the racket you two were makin’. Right, we’re changin’ groups — Neville, you stay with me an’ Hermione, Harry, you go with Fang an’ this idiot. I’m sorry,” Hagrid added in a whisper to Percy, “but he’ll have a harder time frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve gotta get this done.” 

That… was not ideal. Hermione released Percys hand and sent him an apologetic look as she followed Hagrid into the brush again, leaving Fang and Malfoy behind. 

Malfoy sneered. “Potter.” he said harshly, practically spitting the name out. “Come on. The sooner we find that bloody thing, the sooner we can leave.”

“It’s a Unicorn Malfoy.” Percy said, not appreciating his tone about the poor animal. “And it’s likely injured, or worse. Show a bit of sympathy.”

“Why should I?” Malfoy shot back instantly. “It’s not like it’s going to help me in any way. I don’t even know why I have to waste my time out here in the first place.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “Because you landed yourself in detention.”

Malfoy whirled on him, pointing his wand at his chest. Percy gripped his own tightly, but didn’t hold it up just yet. “It’s your fault we're even out here in the first place.” He growled. 

“No, It’s my own fault I’m out here.” Percy replied. “You got yourself in trouble.”

His voice grew a bit louder now, the surrounding forest going just a bit quiter. “If you hadn’t been harboring a bloody dragon, I wouldn’t have been out after curfew.”

Percy couldn’t help but to match his tone a bit. He gripped his wand even tighter. “If you had minded your own business, you wouldn’t have even been in this mess in the first place.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Malfoy snapped. “You really think you’re better than everyone else, don’t you? You think you can get away with anything.”

Percy’s grip tightened on his wand. “No I don’t,” His tone was final. “and  you’re the last person who should be lecturing me on thinking I’m better than everyone else. Honestly, ‘my father will hear about this.’” Percy said mockingly in a voice reminiscent of the snobby boy. “God, grow up Malfoy. Or do you need your father to hear about it first.”

Malfoy’s face went bright red in fury. Steam was practically coming out of his ears. But it seemed he didn’t have a response, because he whirled around and began to walk deeper into the forest. Percy sighed deeply, looking down at Fang who was sitting on his hunches and staring Percy with a large doggy grin. 

Then he turned and started to follow Malfoy into the forest, Fange trotting happily at his heel. Best not to let the bastard die in the forest. Percy would probably be blamed and that meant more detention. 

They walked in silence for half an hour. The blood seemed to be getting thicker as they followed it. There were splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. He could see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak. 

“Look —” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy. Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer. It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Tears welled up in his eyes involuntarily. The poor thing was beautiful even in death. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on the dark leaves. 

Percy took one step towards it and froze. A slithering sound came from the clearing, loud and unsettling. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered. . . . Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the ground like some stalking beast. Percy, Malfoy, and Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the animal's side, and began to drink its blood. 

Malfy screamed. So lound that the thing jerked its head up and spotted them immediately. Malfoy bolted back the way they came, Fang whimpering at his heels, tail tucked and quickly getting past Malfoy with his much longer stride. 

The hooded figure raised its head higher and looked right at Percy. Silver blood was dribbling down its front staining its ratty cloak and sharp, snakelike chin that was peaking out of its hood. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward him. 

Percy had never had the flight instinct engrained in him. He was always more of an insult back and take the punch if he couldn’t throw one of his own. Still in this instance, everything in him was screaming to run, to retreat and never come back. He stumbled away from the monster that was nearing him, about to break out in a sprint and follow Malfoy when a horrible pain unlike anything he had ever felt before pierced his head. His scar was on fire. 

Percy cried out, falling back and gripping his forehead and he knew he was about to die. There was no coming back from this thing. He only hoped his mom got most of his body back to bury when they found him dead in the morning. 

All of a sudden strong arms wisked him up and he was moving away. The farther away from that clearing he got, the more the pain lessened and he became aware of his surroundings. 

He was limp in a centaurs arms, moving at a pace that didn’t seem possible for someone who was manuvering through the trees, jumping over underbrush and ducking under low hanging limbs. 

The centaur slowed after several minutes. He paused at another clearing, the moon still bright enough that he could see a bit more of the centaur. He was different from Bane and Ronan. Younger with white-blond hair and a palomino body.

He was set carefully on the ground in the center of the clearing. 

Percy was still gripping his scar. The sharp pain from before was gone but a dull ache remained and his head throbbed. 

“Are you alright?” The new centaur asked.

“Yes — thank you — what was that?” The centaur didn’t answer. He took a deep breath and tilted his head a bit to the side. 

What was with cantaurs and doing that when they saw Percy? 

The centaur seemed to notice Percy still clutching his head, because he gestured to it. “May I see?”

Percy hesitated, then slowly removed his hand.  

The centaur knelt down on both of his front legs until he was much closer to Percy’s height while he was sitting on the ground. He frowned slightly, reaching behind him into a leather bag that Percy hadn’t noticed before and pulling out a cloth and some green paste. 

“It is bleeding.” The centaur said matter of factly and proceeded to wipe off his scar slightly.

Percy was confused. Why would his scar have opened up? What was that thing? Why did his scar hurt so much when it came near? He wanted to ask so many questions, but it seemed as if he wouldn’t get many answers at the moment with the centaur focused on his scar. 

Only when he had finished applying the paste to his forehead did the centaur stand again. 

“You had better get back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time—especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker this way.” Firenze paused, as if catching himself. “My name is Firenze,” he added quickly, gesturing to his back where he still knelt on the ground.

Percy climbed on without hesitation, and Firenze rose to his feet, starting at a slow trot back the way he had come.

“You should be more careful,” Firenze said, glancing skyward. “Neptune shines down upon you. It would not be good if something were to happen.”

“Uhh.” Percy didn’t know how to respond to that, settling for a muttered, “Thanks.”

Silence overtook them until Firenze’s pace shifted into a canter once Percy felt more steady on his back. They entered the clearing from earlier, but the only thing left was the unicorn. The creature—whatever had killed it—was gone.

Percy’s chest tightened at the sight. Even in death, the animal looked otherworldly. Firenze slowed to a stop beside it.

A sudden sound of galloping from the opposite side of the clearing made Percy’s head snap up. Ronan and Bane burst through the trees.

“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? Do you realise who that is? Why is he on your back?”

“Of course I know who this is,” Firenze replied sharply. “The quicker he leaves this forest, the better.”

“What have you been telling him?” Bane growled. “Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?”

Ronan pawed the ground nervously. “I’m sure Firenze thought he was acting for the best,” he said in his low, gloomy voice, as though trying to calm the larger centaur.

Bane’s ears pinned back, and he kicked his hind legs in anger. “For the best! We are not to interfere! Even for him.” He jabbed a finger toward Percy.

Percy stiffened but stayed silent. He didn’t know why Bane was so fixated on him specifically—unless it was something to do with what he, Ron, and Hermione had been discussing earlier.

Firenze suddenly reared onto his hind legs, forcing Percy to grip his shoulders for balance. “Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed, pointing at the body. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or have the planets not let you in on that secret?” His front right hoof pawed at the ground angrily. “I set myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, anything that is willing to kill innocents like a Unicorn do not belong here. With his kind alongside me if I must. Especially for his kind.”

Without waiting for a response, Firenze spun and galloped away, Percy clutching tightly to stay on.

“Why’s Bane so angry?” Percy asked once they were deeper in the trees. “What was that thing you saved me from, anyway?”

Firenze slowed to a walk and told Percy to keep his head down for low branches, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched so long that Percy wondered if the centaur would ignore him entirely.

They passed through a particularly dense patch of forest before Firenze finally spoke. “Do you know what unicorn blood is used for?” he asked, turning his head just enough to watch Percy out of the corner of his eye.

“No,” Percy said, startled by the odd question. It had felt wrong even to see it, but he didn’t understand why. “We’ve only used the horn and tail hair in Potions.”

“That is because it is a monstrous thing to slay a unicorn,” said Firenze. “Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive even if you are an inch from death—but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips.”

“But who’d be that desperate?” Percy asked quietly. “If you’re going to be cursed forever, death’s better, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Firenze agreed, “unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to drink something else—something that will bring you back to full strength and power—something that will mean you can never die. Do you know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?”

“The Sorcerer’s Stone! Of course—the Elixir of Life! But I don’t understand who—”

“Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?”

It hit Percy all at once—exactly who had been gnawing at his thoughts all last night. His chest tightened again. He didn’t know whether he wanted to scream in frustration or just curl up and disappear.

“Do you mean,” Percy croaked, “that was Vol—”

“Harry! Harry, are you all right?” Hermione’s voice cut through the tension. She was running toward them down the path, Hagrid puffing along behind her. The tight knot in Percy’s chest loosened slightly at the sight of them.

“I’m fine,” Percy said as he slid off Firenze’s back, bracing himself as Hermione flung her arms around him in a fierce hug.

“The unicorn’s dead, Hagrid—it’s in that clearing back there.”

“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as Hagrid hurried off to examine the unicorn. “You are safe now.”

“Good luck,” said Firenze. He lifted his gaze to the sky. “Know that some planets will align for you. Others will not.” Without another word, he galloped back into the forest, leaving Percy and Hermione staring after him, confusion still hanging in the air.

Hermione and he kept quiet most of the way back to the school. He was so tired and his brain wouldn’t stop running in circles. According to Hermione, Hagrid had already sent Naville and Draco back to the castle when Hagrid had found him screaming in the woods. Hagrid had to practically pull the boy off his feet by the collar of his robes for Draco to stop and tell him what happened. When Hermione had asked for details, he could only shake his head and Hermione knew to drop it for now. He was sure she’d pester him for the full story in the morning.

As they reached the entrance to the castle where there was more light Hermione gasped and froze. Percy tensed and turned to face her, looking around and looking for any sign of that monster following them back to the castle. It wasn’t anything like that though. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried, “Your scar.” 

“What? What about my scar? Is it still bleeding?”

Hermione gripped his head between her palms, tilting it down so she could look directly at his scar. “It was bleeding earlier?” she asked as she inspected it. 

“Yeah. Its not right now though?”

“No. It’s a bit inflamed but it's not bleeding.” She replied, “but that's not what is wrong. It got a bit longer.”

“What?” Percy exclaimed. He ripped his head from her hands and rushed towards the nearest reflective surface. He tilted his head towards the shiny bronze picture frame, ignoring the grumbling people featured in the painting, and looking at his scar. 

Sure enough, his scar was bright pink, definitely inflamed, and his scar which had once just brushed the top of his eyebrow, now cut through it entirely, barely peaking out the bottom.

“What could have caused this?” He asked her. 

Hermione hesitated. “I don’t know.” she said solemnly. “We need to do some research later.”

Percy nodded. They were silent heading back to the tower, but Hermione kept glancing at him in worry every few minutes. 

When Hermione and Percy entered the common room very early that morning, they collapsed on the couch next to a snoring Ron. He was so thankful it was Friday night, and he could sleep in the next morning. They didn’t even bother to wake Ron up. They pulled two spare throw blankets over the top of them and huddled close to go to sleep.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Ron did not take what Percy had seen in the forest well. The fact that Firenze had all but confirmed the hooded figure was probably Voldemort shook them both more than they wanted to admit. Ron, who always had something to say, had gone uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the morning. His jokes and complaints dried up, replaced with uneasy glances and the kind of silence that made Percy feel like he should be the one talking but didn’t know what to say. Hermione, on the other hand, buried herself in books with a kind of desperation Percy hadn’t seen before. She had piled texts on magical creatures and advanced potion ingredients high enough to nearly cover the common room table. Every free moment she spent flipping pages, muttering under her breath, and scratching out notes about unicorn blood—its rarity, its healing properties, and, most importantly, the curse tied to drinking it.

It only made things worse. Everything they found seemed to fit the picture Firenze had painted. Someone had been killing unicorns, someone desperate enough to drink their blood. The more they learned, the more convinced they all became that the Dark Lord hadn’t vanished as completely as the world liked to believe.

And in their minds, it left only one explanation: Snape. The former Death Eater, the man who had been lurking around the third floor from the start, was in league with You-Know-Who. He had to be trying to steal the Stone for him. It made too much sense, and Percy hated how easily the theory stuck.

Still, with exams looming closer every day, they had no choice but to push those thoughts aside when they could. Books were slammed shut, essays finished at the last minute, and Percy forced himself to keep his head down in class even though his stomach knotted every time Snape’s eyes flicked over him. The danger felt real now, like a shadow pressing in from every corner of the castle, but they still had to pretend things were normal. At least until they figured out what to do next.

Exams came and went in a blur. Percy had far more on his mind than tests, but still, they happened. He thought he did all right on most of them, mostly thanks to the endless hours Hermione had dragged them into the library over the past month. He would never admit it aloud, but he was grateful for it.

A few exams stuck out. Potions, for one. Their practical had been to brew a Forgetfulness Potion, which was ironic considering they were all desperately trying to remember the steps. Snape clearly thought none of them had a sense of humor—Percy wasn’t so sure. Who else would assign a potion like that? Snape spent most of the lesson glaring holes into them, his usual performance, but Percy’s brew turned out decent enough. It was only a shade off from the proper color, and that felt like a win.

The only other test that really stuck with him was Transfiguration. He had studied harder for that one than all the others combined, partly out of pride, partly because he wanted to get back into McGonagall’s good graces. The written portion had gone smoothly. But when he stepped up to her desk to perform the practical—turning a mouse into a snuffbox—her eyes held none of the warmth they once had. He concentrated, produced a tidy little box with silver edging and a polished lid, and set it down with more care than was probably necessary. She gave it a cool, unreadable glance, marked something on her parchment, and dismissed him without a word. Percy walked back to his seat with the weight of her stare between his shoulders. No matter how good his grade turned out, it wouldn’t fix what he’d broken with her this year.

At least there was Quidditch to look forward to. The final match was only days away, and Oliver was wound tighter than ever. The only reason he had allowed the team to study in peace during exams was because Angelina Johnson had threatened to hex him where it hurt most if he didn’t. Still, Percy knew that mercy wouldn’t last long. With exams behind them, practices would pick up again in full force.

Now, with a week left until they’d receive their results and head home for the summer, the castle felt both lighter and heavier at the same time. Lighter because the stress of exams had lifted, but heavier because the year still felt unfinished. Despite his best efforts to stay out of trouble, mysteries still hung in the air, questions unanswered, and Percy hated how restless that made him feel.

When Hermione pulled out her books to go over exam answers for the third time, Percy finally lost patience. He shoved them closed with more force than necessary and muttered that it was done, no good worrying about it now. He dragged her and Ron outside into the bright June air, leading them to the Black Lake.

He stripped off his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and collapsed backward onto the grass, letting his feet dangle into the cold water. The relief was immediate. The tension in his chest eased, the heat of the day pressed off his skin, and for the first time in weeks he felt like he could breathe properly.

Hermione and Ron joined him, laughing under their breath at his theatrics, though neither of them followed his lead with the lake. Percy didn’t understand why. The water felt incredible, a simple kind of peace that Hogwarts rarely gave him. For a few moments, at least, he let himself enjoy it.

Percy rubbed absently at his scar, the usual pain seeming to ease slightly as he took a deep breath. It had been aching ever since the night in the forest, not sharp by any means, but it had been constant, and it became even more noticeable now that the pain had eased slightly.

Hermione’s sharp eyes caught the motion. “Does your scar hurt?”

Percy shrugged, trying to play it off. “A bit, yeah. I don’t know why though.”

Her brows knit together, lines creasing her forehead. “Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey?”

Percy shook his head, flopping back onto the grass so he could stare at the clouds. “Nah. I don’t think it’s something she could fix.”

That silenced them for a while, the three of them listening to the rustle of the trees and the quiet splash of water against the shore.

Then Hermione broke it. “I’ve been thinking.”

That was enough to pull Percy upright again. When Hermione announced she’d been thinking, it usually meant they were about to be dragged into something big.

“Why would Dumbledore bring the Sorcerer’s Stone to Hogwarts?” she asked.

Ron frowned. “Well, it wasn’t safe where it was before, was it?”

“Yeah, but where did it even come from? And why Hogwarts of all places?” Percy added, pulling his feet from the water and sitting cross-legged so he could watch them both.

“Well it was either here or Gringotts,” Ron said. “Everyone knows those are the two most protected places in Britain.”

Percy rubbed his chin, the memory clicking into place. “Wasn’t Gringotts broken into before school started? I saw something about it in the paper when we were at Hagrid’s.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Right! The thief broke in but didn’t take anything. Huge scandal, because no one breaks into Gringotts and lives to tell it.”

Hermione followed the trail to its end. “What if they couldn’t get what they wanted because Dumbledore had already moved it here?”

“That still doesn’t explain why he brought it here,” Percy pressed. He couldn’t shake the nagging thought. “The stone was moved before the break-in. Did Dumbledore already know someone was after it? And for that matter, why would Flamel trust him to protect it instead of hiding it himself? If it were me, I’d keep my lifeline where only I knew how to reach it.”

“Flamel trusts Dumbledore though,” Ron argued. “They worked together. If Dumbledore got wind of dark activity, Flamel might’ve thought Hogwarts was safer.”

“Fine,” Percy said, “so we know someone’s after it. The centaurs think it was You-Know-Who in the forest, or at least what’s left of him. That means we know who wants it. And you guys are dead set on Snape being the one to steal it.”

“You sound as if you don't agree,” Ron frowned.

Percy groaned. He just couldn't get past the Snape thing. He didn't understand why he was so hung up on it. He completely agreed that Snape had ample means to want to kill Percy, but something was telling him to keep looking. Every time he tried to wrap his head around the idea of Snape wanting the stone, his gut would churn in retaliation. “I'm not completely sold. Why would Snape keep up the act, though. Why not just get the stone and be done with it? Why not just take me out of the picture entirely?”

“He’s keeping up his cover,” Ron said stubbornly. “If he gave it away and failed, he’d be finished.”

Percy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m still not sold. Either way, we don’t need to worry about it. Hagrid said that there are protections in place, and no one’s getting past Fluffy. Hagrid’s the only one who knows how and he wouldn't betray Dumbledor like that. He practically worships him.”

That’s when Hermione gasped and slapped her forehead. “Oh—we’ve been so stupid!” She jumped up and took off at a brisk pace toward the castle.

The boys scrambled to their feet and hurried after her. “What?” Percy called.

“Hermione! Wait!” Ron panted. “Slow down!”

She didn’t. She only shouted over her shoulder, “The dragon!”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “The dragon? What about the dragon?” He pushed himself harder and finally caught her wrist, forcing her to stop. “Hermione, explain!”

She spun around, eyes wide with urgency. “Hagrid met a stranger the night he won Norbert. He said they drank and played cards, and he won a dragon egg. But who in their right mind gambles away a dragon? They’re illegal, yes, but the eggshells alone are worth hundreds of Galleons.”

The realization hit Percy like a stone in his gut. “Unless he didn’t care about the dragon. Unless he wanted something else.”

Hermione nodded fiercely. “Exactly. And we’ve tricked Hagrid into giving away information before—without him being drunk.”

Ron’s face paled as the pieces clicked. “You think he let slip how to get past a three-headed dog?”

Hermione nodded again, already moving. The three of them broke into a run and soon spotted Hagrid outside his hut, a bowl in his lap as he shelled peas.

“Hullo,” Hagrid said cheerfully, grinning at them. “Finished yer exams? Got time fer a drink?”

“Not right now, sorry,” Percy said quickly, cutting to the chase. “I’ve got to ask you something. That night you won Norbert… what did the stranger look like?”

“Dunno,” Hagrid said casually. “Wouldn’t take his cloak off.”

Percy’s stomach dropped. That was exactly what he’d feared.

“It’s not unusual,” Hagrid went on, oblivious. “Lots of funny folk in the Hog’s Head. Might’ve been a dragon dealer, mightn’t he? Never saw his face, kept his hood up.”

Percy pressed, his tone tighter now. “What did you talk about, Hagrid? Did Hogwarts come up?”

Hagrid frowned, scratching his beard as if dragging up the memory. “Mighta. Yeah—he asked what I did, an’ I told him I was gamekeeper. He asked about the creatures I looked after, an’ I said I’d always wanted a dragon… then he said he had an egg, and we could play cards fer it if I wanted. But he said he had ter be sure I could handle it… didn’t want it ter go to just anyone. So I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon’d be easy.” Hagrid seemed to catch what he had said though, because he blanched slightly, "I mean Fang."

Hermione gasped, Ron swore under his breath, and Percy felt his insides go cold.

“And did he—did he seem interested in Fluffy?” Percy asked, keeping his voice as even as possible.

Hagrid froze, his eyes widening as the realization that they knew more than they should sank in. He must have given up trying to deny everything all together because he turned his hard gaze towards them. “How do you know about Fluffy?” he demanded.

Percy swallowed. “Because I’ve seen a three-headed dog on the third floor.”

Hagrid pointed a pea stalk at Percy, his eyes narrowing. “Yeh weren’ s’posed ter go over there.”

“Yeah, I know. Didn’t hear the announcement at the beginning of the year,” Percy brushed off quickly. He waved his hand like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t go up there again. That’s not important right now. Did he ask about Fluffy?”

“Well — yeah — how many three-headed dogs d’yeh meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus’ play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter sleep—”

Hagrid suddenly froze, color draining from his face. “I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I said it! Hey — where’re yeh goin’?”

But Percy was already backing away, Ron and Hermione right on his heels. His stomach had dropped the moment the words left Hagrid’s mouth. Music. That was all it took? That was nothing. Nothing to stop Snape — or worse, Voldemort.

The three of them didn’t speak until they pushed through the castle doors and came to a halt in the entrance hall. The air inside felt colder, heavier, as if the stone itself pressed down on them.

“We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” Percy said firmly. His hand tightened on his wand without realizing it. “Hagrid told that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak. It must’ve been easy, once he’d got Hagrid drunk. I just hope Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might back us up if Bane doesn’t stop him. Where’s Dumbledore’s office?”

They glanced around helplessly. None of them had ever been told where it was, nor did they know anyone who had been sent there. Percy cursed under his breath. For once, he almost wished he’d been in enough trouble to know the way.

“We’ll just have to—” Percy began, but a sharp voice rang across the hall before he could finish.

“What are you three doing inside?”

Professor McGonagall rounded the corner, a stack of books balanced perfectly in her arms. She stopped short in front of them, eyes narrowing behind her square spectacles.

Percy froze. His mouth went dry. Hermione looked startled, and Ron flinched like he’d been caught stealing dessert off the table.

“I—uh—we need to talk to Professor Dumbledore,” Percy managed. He tried to sound confident, but it came out more like a croak.

McGonagall’s eyes flicked between them, her gaze sharpening. “Professor Dumbledore is not here,” she said crisply. “He was called away on urgent Ministry business to London. Now—why, exactly, do you need to speak with him?”

Percy hesitated. This was it. Either he came clean, or he made things worse. He looked down at the floor, teeth clenching. The sting of her last lecture— I’m ashamed of you, Potter —still echoed in his head. The last thing he wanted was to make her say it again.

“There’s something wrong,” Percy said finally, his voice lower now. “Something to do with the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

McGonagall blinked, then went very still.

“How do you know about the Stone?” Her voice was low and dangerous.

Percy shifted uneasily. “We… we figured it out.”

“You figured it out,” she repeated flatly, unimpressed. “And I suppose you’ve also decided it’s your responsibility to meddle in matters far beyond your understanding?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She looked straight at Percy as she continued. “This is exactly the kind of behavior I expected to stop after our last conversation, Mr. Potter.”

Percy felt his face heat. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“You were already caught out of bed at night once,” she said sharply. “Do you truly believe continuing to stir up trouble will earn back anyone’s trust?”

Percy’s mouth opened, then closed again. He hated how heavy her words felt in his chest.

“I don’t know how you discovered the Stone,” McGonagall went on, “but it is none of your concern.”

“But someone is after—”

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall cut Hermione off, her tone like a snap of cold steel. “That will do. The Stone is well protected. No one can get past the enchantments the staff have placed.”

“But—” Hermione tried again.

“That will do,” McGonagall said, final this time. “If you have further concerns, they can wait until Professor Dumbledore returns. I will not have you wandering the castle at night chasing shadows. Am I understood?”

All three of them nodded mutely, heads dropped, and cheeks flushed red in frustration and a bit of embarrassment. She must have noticed their downtrodden faces because she didn't immediately leave after what was clearly a dismissal.

“Children.” She said, her tone softened slightly, and she reached out to place a firm hand on Percys shoulder. Percy glanced up noting that her eyes had softened quite a bit as well. “I don’t know how you came to know about the stone, but the headmaster and professors in this school have contingencies in place. We have everything under control.” She gave them one last nod and swept past without another word, heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Percy ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. He felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. “Well,” he muttered, “that went well.”

“We have to stop Snape from getting the Stone,” Ron mumbled as they shuffled back outside, shoulders hunched.

Percy hesitated. His gut twisted. Ron wasn’t wrong—but McGonagall’s glare still burned in his mind. She hadn’t even tried to hide her disappointment. Percy hated that feeling more than detention itself.

“I just… maybe she’s right,” he muttered. “I mean, the teachers set the protections. If Snape tries anything, they’ll stop him. We already got caught once. Do we really want to make it worse?”

Ron looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Mate, it’s Snape. He’s probably halfway to the third floor already.”

Percy clenched his jaw. He’d broken plenty of rules before—at other schools, he hadn’t cared about the fallout. But Hogwarts wasn’t like those schools. Here, teachers carried weight. Here, if he pushed too far, he risked more than a scolding. He risked losing everything. One year of school without getting expelled—that was already more than he’d managed before. He wasn’t about to throw it away.

“He won’t get past the traps. Not all of them at least, you heard McGonagall,” Percy said firmly, more to convince himself than Ron. “I say we talk to Dumbledore tomorrow. We’re not doing anything else tonight.”

“Harry,” Ron said, exasperated, “he’s going to strike tonight. He’s been waiting for this!”

“We don’t know that,” Percy snapped. The frustration came out sharper than he meant. “What if we’re wrong? What if we go running off and just end up looking like idiots again?”

That was the real fear. Breaking rules was one thing; getting caught chasing shadows was another. If Dumbledore believed them tomorrow, fine. If not… Percy wasn’t going to risk getting expelled from the one school he actually liked. He knew when to keep his head down, he'd been doing it all his life.

The other two were quiet for a moment. Then Ron sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow. But first thing.”

“First thing,” Percy echoed. He forced his voice steady, though doubt still itched at the back of his mind. “We’ll go to Dumbledore.”

Everything was hazy. Percy clearly remembered climbing into bed, muttering a good night to Ron before pulling his curtains shut. He remembered Seamus’s loud snores filling the dorm, and Neville murmuring to himself in his sleep like usual. But then—somehow—he was following behind Ron and Hermione as they crept through the castle.

They were heading straight for the forbidden corridor on the third floor.

“Guys!” Percy hissed, trying to get their attention. Neither of them turned.

Hermione peeked around the corner. “Clear,” she whispered to Ron, and they both moved forward at a brisk pace.

“Hermione!” Percy tried again, louder this time. “Ron!”

Still nothing. It was like he wasn’t even there. His legs felt heavy, sluggish, like he was moving through water. No matter how fast he tried to run, he couldn’t close the distance. He could only watch as they reached the locked door—except the handle twisted easily under Ron’s hand.

That wasn’t right. It was supposed to be locked.

Ron glanced at Hermione, who gave a firm nod, and together they pushed it open. The squeal of the hinges made all three of them wince.

And then Percy was simply inside the room, though he couldn’t remember stepping through the doorway. Nothing made sense.

The cerberus loomed in front of him, snoring thunderously, each breath rattling the walls. A harp sat in the corner, strumming a lullaby on its own, weaving through the air like a spell.

Hermione pointed toward the trap door, and Percy’s stomach dropped when he saw it was wide open. His friends had been right. Snape—or whoever was after the Stone—had already struck. Guilt knifed through him for brushing off their worries earlier, but it was too late to take it back.

He could only watch as Hermione whispered something Percy couldn’t hear over the dog’s snores, Ron shrugged, and then, without hesitation, Ron climbed down into the dark. Hermione followed seconds later.

Percy tried to run forward. Tried to shout. But he couldn’t move. His throat tightened, breaths coming in panicked bursts. They couldn’t see him. They couldn’t hear him. And he couldn’t do anything to stop them.

And then—he woke with a gasp.

His chest heaved, his sheets clinging to him, damp with sweat. Percy shoved them off, sitting upright as his pulse thundered in his ears.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

Only, it didn’t feel like one. The weight in his chest didn’t ease.

He yanked back his bed curtains, the dormitory dim and quiet. He had to check. He needed to know.

Percy slipped out of bed, skin clammy as the sweat cooled on him, and padded over to Ron’s four-poster.

“Ron?” he whispered at the closed curtain. No answer. “Ron!” he tried again, louder, but across the room it was only Dean who grunted and rolled over.

A pit opened in Percy’s stomach.

He grabbed the curtain and pulled it back a crack.

The bed was empty.

Percy’s heart lurched painfully. He didn’t know how—but he knew. The dream hadn’t been a dream at all. It had been a warning. Ron and Hermione had gone down the trap door.

He didn’t waste another second. He shoved on his sneakers, snatched up his wand, and bolted down the stairs to the common room.

Neville was sprawled in front of the fireplace. Percy’s stomach lurched. He hadn’t even noticed Neville wasn’t in his bed.

“Neville?” Percy dropped to his knees beside him. No answer. He rolled the boy onto his back and froze at the wide eyes staring back at him.

“Are you okay?” Percy asked quickly.

Neville didn’t respond. He just blinked, eyes wide with fear.

“Alright… okay. Blink for me. One for yes, two for no. Got it?”

One blink.

“Good. Are you okay?”

Two blinks.

Percy winced. “Right, dumb question. Obviously not. Are you hurt though? Like… broken bones or anything?”

Two blinks again.

Relief mixed with panic. “Okay. Did Hermione and Ron come through here?”

One very firm blink. That was a very aggressive blink. He hesitated on the next question when the pieces seemed to click.

“Did... Ron and Hermione hex you?”

Another single blink.

Percy scrubbed a hand down his face. “Great. Brilliant. Okay.” He didn’t know the spell, didn’t have time to figure it out, and Neville’s wide-eyed look made his chest twist even harder.

“Listen… I don’t know how to undo it. But Ron and Hermione might be in danger. I’ll come back for you, alright?”

Two blinks. Harder this time.

“I’m sorry, Neville,” Percy grimaced. “I swear I’ll explain everything when I get back. Just… try to relax. Maybe sleep.”

Neville blinked furiously, doing everything in his power to fight the spell holding him in this body bind. But Percy didn't have time. Neville would be fine for a few hours.

Percy swallowed, guilt burning in his throat. “I’m sorry, Neville!” he called over his shoulder as he bolted out of the common room. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

It took no time at all to reach the third-floor corridor. He moved faster than he should have, faster than he’d thought possible. He wasn’t even being careful, but no prefects, no teachers, no ghosts intercepted him. Somehow, he just knew the way, every turn tugging him onward. The castle itself seemed to guide him, pulling him along the shortest path, smoothing and softening his steps. A strange certainty settled over him—if there’d been any chance of being caught, the school would’ve stopped him.

His chest tightened as he shoved open the door to Fluffy’s room. The cerberus still slumbered heavily, three heads rising and falling with each rolling breath. A paw twitched, claws scraping faintly against the stone, but the harp in the corner kept the lullaby steady.

Percy didn’t waste a second. He kept low, sprinting across the room, heart hammering.

The trapdoor yawned before him, black and endless. For a moment, he froze. The pit swallowed the light, a hole that seemed to stretch forever downward. If he went in, there was no telling what waited—or if there was even a way back up.

He thought of running back for his broom, but time pressed down on him like a weight. Ron and Hermione were already down there. If he wasted even a minute, it might be too late.

Percy clenched his jaw, sucked in a breath, and jumped.

The fall ended quicker than Percy expected. His boots slammed into stone, the shock rattling straight up his legs and knocking the breath from his lungs. He hissed between his teeth, bracing a hand on the ground. Nothing broken. Just sore.

He forced himself upright, heart pounding, and drew his wand.
“Lumos.”

Light bloomed, throwing long shadows against the walls.

The first thing he saw were the shriveled, blackened tangles of a plant, crumpled across the floor. The vines were limp, brittle, crunching under his boots as he shifted. Percy recognized them immediately—Professor Sprout had drilled them on Devil’s Snare enough times—but these were dead. Burnt out.

His stomach knotted. Ron and Hermione had come through here. They’d fought it and won. The thought steadied him for half a second, but it also made him push forward faster. He couldn’t stop to picture how close they’d come to being strangled, couldn’t waste time being impressed at how they got out. He had to catch up.

He moved down the narrow passage, wand raised. The stone pressed close on either side, damp and cold. The silence wrapped tight around him, broken only by the quick rhythm of his own footsteps.

Then, faintly, light began to glow ahead. Percy snuffed his own with a quick, “Nox,” and pressed on.

The tunnel widened into a corridor that opened into a tall chamber. At the far end, a wooden door stood cracked open, spilling light into the gloom. Percy’s pulse jumped. He wasn’t far behind them.

But then he froze.

A low rustling filled the air, mixed with metallic clinks. He looked up.

The ceiling teemed with movement—hundreds of small shapes darting, swooping, flashing like shards of glass in the light. Birds. That’s what he thought at first. Jewel-colored birds, their wings beating a constant storm of sound.

He frowned. That didn’t make sense. Why birds? Were they supposed to attack anyone who crossed the room?

Hermione and Ron had clearly gotten through—the door was open—but were they attacked? Percy’s stomach tightened.

He drew a breath, raised his arms to shield his face, and bolted forward. His sneakers slapped hard against the stone as he sprinted, bracing for claws and beaks tearing into him—

But nothing touched him. Not a single scratch. He reached the far side, slowing in confusion.

That’s when he noticed the brooms leaning against the wall by the door. Slowly, Percy turned and looked up again at the “birds.”

They weren't birds at all. Their bodies weren’t feathered—they glittered. Glass and metal flashing in the light, each with tiny wings buzzing furiously.

“They’re keys,” Percy muttered, realization sinking in.

He glanced back at the door. Sure enough, one key—a slightly bent, battered-looking one—was already fitted into the lock. The job was done. Ron and Hermione had beaten him to it.

Relief hit him like a wave. He gripped the handle, yanked the door open, and broke into a grin when he saw them inside.

“Ron! Hermione!” He called. They turned to face him, surprise lighting their features. 

It was then, he felt the anger rush over him as well. They could have been killed coming down here. What if the next tests were actually deadly. They had gotten lucky just having to deal with a big dog, plants, and flying so far. 

He sprinted across the room towards them. “Ron! Hermione!” He yelled again, his tone changing from one of excitement to one of anger. “How could you!”

“Harry!” Ron’s voice squeaked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here? Looking for a snack? I’m here to make sure you two idiots don’t get yourselves killed!” 

Hermione’s shoulders hunched in guilt. “We had to, Harry.” She said softly. “I know you said to wait for the headmaster, but we knew that Snape would come tonight. And we were right! Fluffy was already asleep when we got here.”

“I know!” Percy yelled in frustration. “But you shouldn’t have come down here by yourselves. Why didn’t you at least wake me up! I had to find out when you were missing from your bed and anything could have happened.”

Hermione’s face softened, and she reached forward to pull him into a small hug. “Were fine Harry.” 

Ron slapped him on the back. “Yeah mate, we're fine.”

Percy sighed. He pulled from the hug and focused back on them. “Look, why don’t we go get a professor. I know McGonagall isn’t exactly pleased with us but we can go get Flitwick or something. He likes me, he might believe us.”

Ron grimaced at his suggestion. “We can’t mate.” He gestured behind him and Hermione. “We’ve already accepted the challenge.” 

It was then that Percy noticed the room around them. They stood on the edge of a lifted floor. Infront of them were giant black figurines and across the room stood white ones. The raised floor was a checkered pattern, and the realization hit him very suddenly. This was a giant chess set. 

“What would happen if we just left and didn’t finish the game?” 

“I don’t know. In normal wizarding chess it's just a forfeit. The king piece is blown up, but this is a bit different.” Hermione informed him. “We don’t want to take the risk.”

“Okay.” Percy said with a huff. “So what do we need to do.”

“I think we need to play our way across the board.” Ron answered him. “We already tried just walking across but the pieces won't let us pass.”

“How?” Percy asked. 

“I think,” said Ron, “we’re going to have to be chessmen.”

He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out to touch the knight's horse. At once, the stone sprang to life. The horse pawed the ground, and the knight turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron. 

“Do we — er — have to join you to get across?”

The black knight nodded. Ron turned to the other two. 

“This needs thinking about. . . .” he said. “I suppose we’ve got to take the place of three of the black pieces. . . .”

Percy and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron think. Finally he said, “Now, don’t be offended or anything, but neither of you are that good at chess —” 

Percy snorted. That was pretty obvious. “We’re not offended. Just tell us what to do.” 

Despite the situation, Ron perked up. He seemed to glow at Percy's casual mention that Ron was better than them at something. He smiled, his confidence coming out as he took charge and directed Percy and Hermione on what to do.

“Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione, you go there instead of that castle.” 

“What about you?” 

“I’m going to be a knight,” Ron said as he looked back at the dark knight he had just spoken to. 

The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because at these words a knight, a bishop, and a castle turned their backs on the white pieces and walked off the board, leaving three empty squares that Percy, Ron, and Hermione took. 

“White always plays first in chess,” said Ron, peering across the board. “Yes . . . look . . .” A white pawn had moved forward two squares. 

Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved silently wherever he sent them. Percy was getting more and more nervous as the game progressed. He began tapping his foot and tapping his fingers against his legs. What if they lost? 

“Harry — move diagonally four squares to the right.” He did so, not really understanding what was going on. No matter how much Ron had tried to teach him wizarding chess throughout the year, he had never picked it up. But Ron was the best Chess player in Gryffindor tower that he’d seen. He trusted his friend, he would do as he said.

A few moves later, they watched horrified as a white queen took one of their knights. The white queen smashed him to the floor and dragged him off the board, where he lay quite still, facedown. 

“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, looking shaken. “Leaves you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go on.”  

He had hoped that the chess pieces wouldn’t include that part of wizarding chess. It seemed his hope was for nothing.

Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces showed no mercy. Soon there was a huddle of limp black players slumped along the wall. Twice, Ron only just noticed in time that Percy and Hermione were in danger. He himself darted around the board, taking almost as many white pieces as they had lost black ones.

“We’re nearly there,” he muttered suddenly. “Let me think — let me think . . .” He glanced around the board, rubbing his chin and gritting his teeth. The white queen turned her blank face toward him. “Yes . . .” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way . . . I’ve got to be taken.”

“No!” -

“Absolutely not!”-

Hermione and Percy both yelled over each other. But Ron’s gaze hardened as he stared at the white piece in the face. 

"That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make some sacrifices! Once I make my move, and she’ll take me — that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!”

“But —” 

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?” 

“Ron —” 

“Look, if you don’t hurry up, he’ll already have the Stone!”

“I don’t care!” Percy snapped. He walked to the edge of the square and yelled across the board at Ron. “I don’t care. You are not going to sacrifice yourself. Do you understand me!”

Ron turned to him quickly, noticing where Percy stood. “Don’t you step out of that square!” He said coldly, staring at him. 

We lose either way if you do. And Hermione is the next piece to be taken either way.

Hermione whimpered quietly from where she stood across from a bishop. Whoever made this stupid game was an idiot. He hated them so much and if he ever found out who, he’d make sure they knew it too. 

“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined. “Here I go — now, don’t hang around once you’ve won.” 

He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. She struck Ron hard across the head with her stone arm, and he crashed to the floor — Hermione screamed but stayed on her square — the white queen took Ron by the leg and dragged Ron to one side. Dropping him near the other taken players.  He was limp and didn't move and Percy feared the worst. His hands were clammy, and he could feel himself flushed, and he didn't know what to do. Still, he couldn't leave the square yet, not without doing as Ron had instructed or else he would risk losing the game and he and Hermione would be joining Ron.

Shaking, Percy moved three spaces to the left. The white king took off his crown and threw it at Harry’s feet. They had won. The chessmen parted and bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. 

Percy made to rush over to Ron. He had to check on him, make sure he was just knocked out and nothing worse, but Hermione grabbed his arm. 

“We can’t.” she said. “If we go back the pieces will reset themselves and this will all be for nothing.”

Percy looked at her, steel in his gaze but her grip didn’t falter. He looked back over at Ron where he was sprawled on the floor and watched him for a moment.

Some of the tension leaked out of him when he watched Ron’s chest raise and fall in a steady pattern. He was alive. Percy nodded at Hermione, allowing her hand to slide down his arm and grip his hand tightly as she pulled him into the room behind the white chess pieces. 

They had reached another door. “All right?” Harry whispered. 

She nodded quickly, even if she didn’t look it. “Go on.” Harry pushed it open. 

A disgusting stench hit them the moment they stepped inside, so strong it burned Percy’s throat. Both he and Hermione yanked their robes up over their noses, eyes watering against the reek.

Sprawled across the floor in front of them was a troll. This one was even bigger than the one that had cornered Hermione and him months ago, its thick club lying discarded at its side. A dark lump swelled on its head, crusted with blood, and it lay motionless, knocked out cold.

Percy flinched at the sight, his stomach turning. Why in the world would a professor put another one of these things in here? One troll had nearly killed three of the students at the beginning of the year already. What made anyone think bringing in another was a good idea?

There was no time to puzzle it out.

“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Percy muttered, rubbing the back of his head as a phantom ache from that night pulsed through him. He carefully stepped over one of the troll’s massive legs, tugging Hermione along with him. “Come on, I can’t breathe in here.”

The next chamber was nothing like the ones before. They slowed at the doorway, staring. A single table sat in the middle of the room, neatly arranged with a row of glass vials. Each was filled with a different liquid—some clear, some glowing faintly, others dark and swirling like smoke.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, purple flames roared to life behind them, sealing off the way they’d come. At the same time, black fire erupted in the doorway ahead, blocking the path forward. The heat radiated against Percy’s skin even from a distance.

They were trapped.

Heart thudding, they approached the table. In the center, beside the vials, lay a sheet of parchment covered in neat, slanted handwriting. Percy picked it up, squinting at the lines.

Almost immediately, his eyes blurred. The letters twisted and jumped, tangling into nonsense. He clenched his jaw, annoyed, before shoving it toward Hermione.

“Here. I didn’t bring my glasses,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “The letters are jumbling up.”

Hermione nodded briskly, not asking questions. She smoothed the parchment and began to read aloud.

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, 

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead, 

Another will transport the drinker back instead, 

Two among our number hold only nettle wine, 

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. 

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, 

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: 

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide 

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; 

Second, different are those who stand at either end, 

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend; 

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size, 

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; 

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right 

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

Percy looked back at the table, eyes darting over the neat line of potions.

“Brilliant,” Hermione breathed, and for once there was the faintest flicker of a smile on her face. “This isn’t magic — it’s logic. A puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.” She opened her mouth again, ready to go on another tangent to further explain and probably puzzle out the solution but Percy interrupted her.

“It’s that one,” Percy blurted, pointing to a small bottle near the center.

Hermione gaped at him. “Wha—how do you know?” she demanded, completely thrown off by his sudden answer.

Percy shrugged, casual, though his shoulders were tight. “I don’t know. It just feels right.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, staring at him like he’d just skipped ahead in a textbook she hadn’t even opened yet.

“I don’t know how you did that,” she admitted at last, still looking baffled. Then, with a reluctant nod, “But you’re right.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably under her stare, then tried to explain. “Those three—” he pointed to a cluster of bottles, “feel… wrong. Unwell of something. Just gives me a nasty feeling in general. Those two don’t feel like anything at all. That only left these.” He tapped the one he’d chosen. “And my gut says this is it. How'd you figure it out?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though there was no real heat in it. “Logic, obviously.” She gestured to the vial Percy had picked. “The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire — toward the Stone.”

Percy inspected the vial. “There’s only enough there for one of us,” he said quietly. He turned the vial between his fingers. “That’s barely a swallow.”

The weight of the choice pressed between them. Finally, Percy broke the silence. “One of us goes forward, the other goes back for Ron.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Percy cut her off before she could argue. “You drink that one,” he said, pointing firmly to the bottle that would carry her back through the purple flames.

She hesitated, and Percy shook his head hard. “No. Listen. Get Ron, grab brooms from the flying-key room. They’ll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy. Then go straight to the owlery — send Hedwig to Dumbledore. We need him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while, but I’m no match for him on my own.” He knew he couldn't. He was a first year, Snape a professor, but Hermione need the assurance. Even if she probably knew the truth as well. 

“But Harry—what if You-Know-Who’s with him?”

Percy gave her a small, crooked smile that was more for her sake than belief. “I’ll be fine. I was lucky once, wasn’t I?” He tapped his scar. “Might get lucky again.”

Hermione’s lip trembled. Then, with no warning, she threw her arms around him and squeezed tight.

“If you die,” she muttered fiercely into his shoulder, “I’ll kill you.”

Percy huffed out a laugh. “You’ll have to get in line behind my mom.”

He eased her back, pressing the return potion into her hand. “Now go. Get Ron.”

Hermione gave him one last, watery look, then drank. The flames swallowed her as she passed back through the purple fire, safe and unharmed.

Percy turned back to the small bottle in his own hand. He tipped it back, letting the icy liquid burn down his throat, and a strange cold settled into his veins. Magic pulsed through him, alien and sharp, but steadying.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped through the black fire.

Chapter Text

The fire didn’t burn. Percy had braced for pain, but instead it was cool where it touched his skin, like walking through fog. A shudder ran down his spine anyway. He stepped into the chamber, the air thick with dust and his nose already twitching in protest because of it.

The room stretched wide, shadows clinging to the corners. A faint drip echoed somewhere in the distance, the sound swallowed quickly by the stone walls. In the center of the chamber stood a robed figure, back turned, shoulders hunched, muttering words Percy couldn’t make out.

And on top of his head sat that ridiculous purple turban.

“I knew it,” Percy muttered before he could stop himself.

The man straightened at once. He unfolded himself slowly, taller, straighter than Percy had ever seen him. Confidence Percy had never seen before in the man rolled off him in waves. When he turned, his face was smooth, his eyes sharp, and when he spoke, his usual stammer was gone.

“Harry Potter.” His mouth curved into a smirk. “At last. I had hoped I’d be the one to greet you here. Though I am curious—how did you know it was me?”

Percy tightened his grip on his wand. “I didn’t,” he said bluntly. “Everyone thought it was Snape, but that never made much sense to me. Though I hadn't thought you would have been smart enough to do all this.”

Anger flashed in Quirrell's eyes, but it was gone in an instant. Instead of getting angry like Percy had intended, Quirrell just chuckled. “Ah, Severus.” he said, rubbing his chin as if the name itself amused him. “Yes, yes, I suppose he makes for an easy villain, doesn’t he? Always so dour. Always sneaking about. I must admit, it’s been… useful.”

Percy’s stomach twisted, many realizations unfolding in his mind. “So, it was you who tried to kill me during the Quidditch match?”

“Of course.” Quirrell’s smile widened. “I would have had you off that broom in seconds, had Severus not been countering me."

Percy clenched his jaw. “Called that,” he muttered under his breath.

But Quirrell ignored him, already pacing. “He even refereed your next match. Dumbledore suspected something by then, you see. Severus did what he could to keep me at bay. Foolish loyalty. Useless in the end. The teachers and students thought he was sabotaging Gryffindor—oh, the irony.” His eyes glittered, cruel and bright. “What a waste of time, when tonight you’ll die regardless.”

The next things happed rather quickly. Quirrell snapped his fingers and Before Percy even knew to react in any way, ropes erupted from thin air, coiling around Percy’s arms and chest before he could raise his wand. They tightened like iron bands, yanking him off balance. He gasped, struggling against them, but the more he fought, the deeper they bit into his ribs, cutting off most of his air flow. He tried to cry out, but only a strangled squeak escaped.

Panic clawed at him. He’d been punched before, slammed against walls, knocked flat. That, he could handle. But this—he had his wand gripped in his hand, but he couldn’t even breathe enough to curse him.

Quirrell leaned close, studying him with a cold smile, then straightened and resumed pacing, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“You’re too nosy to live, Potter,” he said brushing off imaginary dust from the front of his robes. “Scurrying about the castle, peeking where you didn’t belong. On Halloween night, I let that troll in. A perfect distraction, or so I thought. While everyone was panicking, I had business on the third floor. Imagine my irritation when you and Severus got in the way.”

Percy’s heart slammed in his chest. His vision edged darker the longer the ropes held him tight.

“I could have ended this farce much sooner had Severus not been guarding the third-floor corridor.” Quirrell mused, his tone almost conversational. “And then you had your little act of idiocy and destroyed my troll, anyway, suffering me my distraction.  I had to change tactics.”

He stopped in front of Percy, tilting his head. “No matter. You’ll serve your purpose now.”

Quirrell turned abruptly and strode toward the far end of the chamber. Only then did Percy notice the mirror. It rose nearly to the ceiling, its golden frame gleaming faintly in the dim light. Something about it made his skin prickle, like the air around it thrummed with power.

“This mirror…” Quirrell whispered, circling it like a predator. He ran his fingers along the frame, muttering. “Dumbledore’s work, of course." He began to talk more to himself rather than narrating to Percy. "Always too clever. I see the Stone—I see myself presenting it to my master—but where is it?”

Percy attempted to struggle out of the ropes again, but they only grew tighter. They were cutting into his skin even through the fabric of his bed clothes. Breathing became harder. When he realized it was a futile effort, he sagged against the ropes, his legs trembling. He forced shallow breaths, fighting the dark creeping at the edges of his vision.

“Is it inside the mirror?” Quirrell’s voice sharpened. “Should I break it?” His tone slipped into desperation. He was insane Percy realized through the darkening of his vision. “What does it mean? How does it work? Tell me!”

But then, chillingly, another voice answered.

“Use the boy… use the boy…”

It wasn’t Quirrell’s.

Percy froze a moment of awareness coming back to him. The words slithered through the air, cold and venomous, and every hair on his body stood on end. The sound came from Quirrell but Quirrell hadn't spoken.

Quirrell spun back toward him, eyes alight. “Yes. Potter. Come here.”

Quirrell snapped his fingers again. The ropes vanished, and Percy dropped like a stone. His knees slammed against the hard floor, pain shooting up his legs as his palms skidded out to catch himself. He wheezed, lungs heaving, the world flashing white at the edges of his vision as air finally rushed back into him. For a moment, he just stayed there, face pressed against cold stone, trembling as he tried to force his muscles to work again.

He pushed himself up, but his arms shook violently, and he collapsed back down with a groan.

Then, without warning, he was yanked upward. Invisible hands clamped around him, hauling him clean off his feet like a rag doll. His legs dangled uselessly as he was dragged forward through the air.

“Come here,” Quirrell repeated, his voice sharp and eager now. He flicked his wand, and Percy was yanked to face the mirror, forcing him right up close to the glass. “Look into it. Tell me what you see.”

Percy raised his eyes—and froze.

His breath caught in his throat. The boy staring back at him in the glass was himself, but where Quirrell should have been, there were other people.

On his left stood his mom. Sally smiled at him, warm and radiant, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, her face fuller, her eyes crinkled with joy. She looked healthier, happier than he’d ever seen her.

On his right was a tall man, features blurred at the edges, but unmistakably there. Black hair stuck out wildly, windswept and untamed in the same way Percy’s always seemed to be. Even without clarity, Percy could feel the warmth in his smile, could sense the quiet pride in the way the man’s eyes lingered on him.

And then—his stomach lurched—there were two more. A woman with auburn hair leaned down, cheek pressed close to his, her smile soft and affectionate. Beside her, a man with wild, messy black hair and crooked glasses grinned mischievously, giving Percy a jaunty little wave like they’d been waiting for him all along.

Four figures. Two lives. Two families. All together.

Percy’s chest tightened painfully. It couldn’t be real. It wasn’t possible. And yet there they were—his parents. All of them.

His throat felt raw. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink.

“What do you see, Potter?” Quirrell barked, his patience thinning.

Percy’s lips parted, but nothing came out. “I—I don’t…” He faltered, eyes still glued to the impossible vision. He didn’t understand.

His gaze flicked upward, searching for an answer, and noticed letters carved into the golden frame. At first they blurred into nonsense, twisting into jumbled patterns the way words always did for him. His stomach sank—dyslexia, now, of all times?

But then something strange happened. The letters shifted, rearranging themselves in his mind’s eye until the message was clear.

The Mirror of Desire.

The meaning hit him like a punch.

This mirror didn’t show the truth. It showed what he wanted most. And what he wanted most wasn’t glory, or riches, or power. It was this—his family whole. The family he’d lost and, one where he and his mom cold have been happy.

His vision blurred, but he forced down the tightness in his throat. This was the worst possible revelation at the worst possible time.

Quirrell became more desperate for an answer. His breathing became heavy, and he was glowering from where he stood close to Percy, practically vibrating with his mounting frustration. “Well?” Quirrell demanded. “What do you see?”

Every instinct screamed at Percy to lie.

“I see…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, forcing the words out. “I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore. I—I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor.”

Quirrell hissed in fury. He cursed under his breath, trying to press closer to the mirror as though he could rip the truth out of it himself. Percy could hear the grind of his teeth with how near he was, the man’s breath hot against his cheek.

But Percy’s eyes stayed fixed on the reflection—the family he’d never truly have—and he felt his resolve harden. He couldn’t let Quirrell see the truth. He couldn’t let him near the Stone.

“Get out of the way,” he said, releasing Percy from his floating bind as he magically tossed him to the side. Percy landed with a thump on the ground, his head hitting it and sending a dizzy wave through his body as he lay sprawled against the ground. 

Percy groaned and rolled onto his side, willing the throbbing to settle and the nausea to subside. Another concussion in the span of a year could not be good. 

Percy rolled over to his stomach and gasped slightly when something hard pressed into his chest. Percy pushed off the ground, glancing down into the chest pocket of his bed clothes. 

A small, blood red stone rested there. A faint glow emitting from it and the warm embrace of pure life pressed against his chest. Immediately, the throbbing in his head eased and he could think clearly once again. 

He had the stone. He had to get out of there now while Quirrell was distracted. Get the stone away from the insane man. 

Percy stood up slowly, and took three silent steps, praying that Quirrell wouldn’t notice him leaving. The Hogwarts magic around him was tugging at him, urging him to leave. It practically pulled him off his feet. He tried to listen, but it was no luck.

The strange high pitched, hissing voice he had heard earlier spoke again. “He lies . . . He lies . . .” 

Quirrell whirled on the boy. “Potter, come back here!” he shouted. “Tell me the truth! What did you just see?”

Percy was frozen in his place. He watched the man claw at his own arms, his eyes bulging from his head and turning more and more white as he shouted. Then the voice spoke again. 

“Let me speak to him . . . face-to-face. . . .” 

“Master, you are not strong enough!” 

“I have strength enough . . . for this. . . .” 

Percy couldn’t move as he watched Quirrell slowly reach up and grip the end of his turban. He began unwrapping it and watched as the turban fell away then Quirrell turned around. 

Percy wanted to puke. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible face Percy had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. “Harry Potter . . .” it whispered.

He knew he should have run then. Should have tried to leave or die trying, but he was frozen in his spot, unable to control his legs. 

“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere shadow and vapor . . . I have form only when I can share another’s body . . . but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. . . . Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks . . . you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest . . . and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a  body of my own. . . . Now . . . why don’t you give me that Stone in your pocket?” 

“I don’t-” he tried to say finally finding his voice but he was cut off by the disgusting face again. 

“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your own life and join me . . . or you’ll meet the same end as your parents. . . . They died begging me for mercy. . . .”

Percy felt the blood rush from his face. He honestly wasn’t sure how he was thinking with the lack of blood in his brain at this point. 

It was true then. This… face was Voldemort. His parents' killer. Percy shook his head frantically. He tried to deny it, but he couldn’t speak. 

Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling. “How touching . . .” it hissed. “I always value bravery. . . . Yes, boy, your parents were brave. . . . I killed your father first, and he put up a courageous fight . . . but your mother needn’t have died . . . she was trying to protect you. . . . Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”

“Never.” Percy spoke quietly. 

Percy pulled his wand out of his pocket, raising it at the man. It shook in his grip and Voldemort only smiled, his lipless mouth curling around sharp teeth that protruded through Quirrell’s bald head. Percy shot the only spell he could think of at the time.

"Aguamenti” Percy yelled. A powerful stream of water, one more powerful than he had ever thought possible with this particular spell, shot out of the end of Percy’s wand and hit the back of Quirrell’s head. Directly into the nose slits of Voldemort’s face. 

Voldemort sputtered and Quirrell whipped around to face the teen again, but Percy didn’t stick around to watch anymore. He sprang towards the door, his wand gripped in his fist. 

“SEIZE HIM!” Voldemort commanded. 

Percy ignored him and tried to run, but he wasn’t fast enough. The next second, he felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist, yanking him back.

The following second, a pain Percy had never felt before in his life overtook him. His wrist burned where the man gripped it and his head throbbed. His head felt as though it was about to split in two; he yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go of him.

The pain in his head lessened — he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his eyes. 

“Wha-” Percy asked in surprise, watching as the man gripped his wrist tightly. He looked down at his own wrist in confusion. A symbol was glowing where Quirrell’s hand had wrapped around it. It was a small torch lit by an unmoving fire. Below it was a full moon with two crescent moons on each side. It began to fade almost immediately, and he wanted to study it more before it disappeared, but he didn’t have long. 

“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again. Quirrell gritted his teeth, then he shot up off the ground and lunged at Percy, landing on top of him. The pain shot through Percy again, the throbbing in his scar returning. As Quirrell pushed him to the side, he dropped his wand. It rolled out of reach. 

Quirrell’s hands gripped Percy’s neck, squeezing tight. He was utterly hopeless to fight back without his wand. Quirrell was not a small man, Percy tried to push him off, but it was useless. His scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could hear Quirrell howling in agony as well. 

He couldn’t let Voldemort get the stone. That was his only goal. If he died, it meant Quirrell could get the stone and then Voldemort. That was the most important thing at that moment. Percy didn’t know if it would work, it was possible it might be in vain, but there was only one thing Percy could try to prevent that from happening. He might not live to see it, but his friends he made this year and everyone else in the wizarding world were counting on him. 

With his last remaining strength, Percy reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the blood red stone and launched it as hard as he could across the room. 

Quirrell fell back in surprise. Air rushing back into his lungs. He was still straddling Percy, but his hands were no longer wrapped around his neck. 

“KILL THE BOY!” Voldemort yelled. “KILL THE BOY THEN GO GET THE STONE!”

“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!”

“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched Voldemort. Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Percy reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face.

The man screamed, rolling off him. 

Percy watched as Quirrell’s face blistered just like his hands did. 

Then Percy finally realized what he needed to do. Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin without being burned. His only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from getting the stone.

Percy jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed. He tried to throw Percy off but Percy’s grip was unwavering. The pain behind his scar was building again. And he could feel something wet slip down his face, red dripping into his eye. All Percy could do was shut his eyes tight and bare his teeth down to fight through the pain.

It was ongoing. His head filled with a rushing sound and he couldn’t hear anything else. The last thing he knew before darkness overtook his pain was Quirrell’s arm being ripped from his grip and Percy fell back. He was out before he hit the ground. 

Percy's head was throbbing. Which was very weird because he didn't recall how he could have possibly hit it hard enough for it to cause him this much pain. Whatever had happened, he really didn't want to deal with it. 

God, why was it so bright in the dorm. He had clearly forgot to close his bed curtains again last night or something. He groaned and tried to pull the covers over his head as he rolled over to get a bit more sleep. But paused and frowned when he realized his usual blankets were tucked a bit to tight than what he usually went for. 

"Mr. Potter." someone next to him called. That was definitely not any of the boys in the Gryffindor dorm. 

He opened one eye and peaked over the thin sheet to look at the person who had spoken to him. His brows furrowed together, what was she doing there? 

His brows furrowed. "Professor McGonagall?" he mumbled. 

"Welcome back Mr. Potter." She spoke. She was wearing her usual teaching robes, her grey hair pinned up in its usual tight bun, and her glasses were perched on the tip of her nose. She was sitting in a chair to the side of his bed, a book in her hands perched on her lap forgotten.

Percy was a bit confused. What is she doing here? He looked around the room, finally noticing that they weren't sitting in the dorms. They were in the medical wing. 

"Wha-" he spoke. He swallowed, his mouth dry. The next words out of his mouth were a bit less of a croak. "What happened?"

She looked down at him over the rim of her glasses, her mouth pressed in a hard line. Then she sighed deeply and placed a bookmark in the book before setting it aside. Then she waved her wand and silently summoned a glass of water. 

Percy struggled to sit up, only being able to do so with a McGonagall's firm hand pressed to his back as she helped him. She handed him the glass of water, which he drank quickly as she shuffled the pillows behind him. Finally, he leaned back, propped up against the pillows. 

"What do you recall Mr. Potter?"

Percy frowned. What? Then it hit him.

He lurched forward, gasping. "Ron. Hermione." He said rushed; he glanced around the ward. They weren't in any of the beds. Okay that could be good or bad. He started pulling the sheets off his lap, making to climb out of the bed entirely, but McGonagall stopped him.

She placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "They're fine. Ms. Granger was perfectly fine after your... adventure. Mr. Weasley had a concussion and Madam Pomfrey released him that morning."

Percy stared into her eyes for a moment. They softened and she nodded her confirmation again. 

Percy breathed a sigh, collapsing back in the bed again. 

Percy rubbed his face. “How long have I been here?” He mumbled. 

“Three days.” McGonagall replied. 

“Three days!” he cried. “But what happened!”

She frowned. "It would appear as if your... adventure has done a number on you. You suffered quite a few bruises that appear like ropes were wrapped tightly around you. And Madam Pomfrey says you had a concussion, both injuries had been healed but I imagine you will be very sore and have a headache the next few days." She glanced over his entire body. "That was not helped by your magical core being depleted significantly by the events. That will take a bit longer to recover."

Percy couldn't meet her eyes. 

"Now, would you please explain why you decided to go after the stone by yourself?"

Percy's hands twisted together as he thought about what he should say. It took a moment, but he finally decided to just tell her the truth. "I was going after Hermione and Ron." he stated. "They were going to try to protect the stone and I couldn't let them do it alone."

 "I have already spoken to Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley about what they should have done instead." McGonagall sighed. "But why didn't you go get a professor?"

Percy twiddled his thumbs. "We tried." he mumbled. Finally, he looked up directly into her eyes. "She wouldn't believe us."

McGonagall's face shuddered. She tilted her head down, so Percy wouldn't see her reaction, but he could see her chest moving like she was breathing very deeply. "I... deeply regret that." she said, looking up after a moment. "I apologize for not listening. For not trusting some of my best students to tell me the truth." 

Percy couldn't find the words to speak. He just nodded his head, and they sat in silence. There were heavy emotions circling the room, it was making the surrounding magic brush against his skin in comfort. 

He found the strength to speak again after a moment. "Thank you." he whispered.  McGonagall nodded. 

Something else clicked in his brain then. "Wait! What about the Quidditch match!" he cried

McGonagall sighed though it wasn't as heavy as before. “We didn’t have a backup seeker.” she explained. “Ms. Johnson had to fill in and Mr. Wood got a substitute Chaser, but it wasn’t enough. We lost the cup to Ravenclaw.”

Percy felt a bit hopeless. He had lost his opportunity to make it up to McGonagall. He had caused them to lose the cup and even worse he had let down his team. 

Percy sighed. “I guess you’ll want the broom back?” he asked McGonagall pitifully. 

Her sharp gaze snapped to him, and she frowned. When she spoke, her voice took on a bit of a Scottish twang. “Now why in Merlin’s name would I do that?”

Percy didn’t understand and he told her so. “But I let down the team!” he cried. “I couldn’t play, and we lost the match and I was supposed to make it up to you by winning and and…” He could feel his eyes get a little glassy. And wasn’t that a bit embarrassing. 

McGonagall’s brows furrowed. But she raised her hand to stop his cries before she spoke again. 

“Why would you need to make it up to me?”

Percy’s chest constricted as he recalled once again the disappointment she had that awful night came rushing back. “I broke your trust.” Percy mumbled. “I disappointed you. And I caused the team to lose the game.”

McGonagall's face shuttered again. She closed her eyes briefly to collect herself before turning to face him again. 

“Potter- Harry.” She started, leaning towards him a bit. “I don’t care about the quidditch game. And I certainly am not going to take your broom because of it. It is a game, and in light of what has happened, it is not near as important as your life.”

“But what about disappointing you the night Hermione, Neville and I were out after curfew. Don’t you think I don’t deserve the broom you gave me?”

She sighed again. 

“I know I was harsh that night. I’m afraid I might have let my more Gryffindor tendencies get the best of me. I am very proud of my house, Potter, and I am very proud of my lions. To have three of my brightest breaking the rules... well I might have overreacted a bit.” 

She took a deep breath and continued, staring right into Percy’s eyes. “You are a very bright student, Harry. I could see that even before I was aware of your hindrances in school. And when I saw some of my best first year students out after curfew that night especially with such danger in the castle that year, I had a moment of weakness.”

She leaned over and patted his shoulder. “I apologize for what I said that night. And you are a true Gryffindor. One I am very proud of.” 

Percy could only nod in return. His eyes were wet, and his chest felt a bit tight, but the tension in his shoulders that he had been keeping since everything happened finally loosened. 

“Now.” McGonagall said standing. “I expect you to be ready for Quidditch next year. We need our seeker to finally win us the cup.” She gave him a small smile as she started towards the door. “The headmaster will be down to see you soon. He wants to speak to you.” He nodded at her. 

Before she got to the door though, Percy finally found his voice again. “Professor?” He called. She turned to look at him one last time. “I think Hermione and Neville would appreciate an apology too.” he told her. 

She smiled at him and nodded. Then she turned and exited the healing ward. 

Dumbledore swept into the hospital wing in a set of turquoise robes embroidered with tiny wands that twitched and sparked of their own accord. The man always had a flare for the dramatic.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” he said warmly, settling into the chair Professor McGonagall had vacated earlier that morning.

“Sir,” Percy answered quietly. It struck him then—this was the first real conversation he’d ever had with Dumbledore. The headmaster’s voice carried the same calm he used in the Great Hall, but now it was gentler, more direct. Even so, the usual twinkle in his eye looked dulled, weighed down by something Percy couldn’t name.

“What happened with Quirrell?” Percy asked, his voice raspier than he meant. “Did you get Hermione’s message?”

“We must have crossed in midair,” Dumbledore replied. “No sooner had I reached London than it became clear the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you.”

Percy thought back. He vaguely remembered the pressure breaking, Quirrell being ripped away from him. The memory was blurred by the white-hot pain, but he forced out a quiet, “It was you.”

“I feared I might be too late.” A shadow crossed Dumbledore’s face before he masked it again.

“You nearly were. I couldn’t have held him much longer—”

“No, my boy.” Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes suddenly sharp. “I thought I might be too late for you. The effort nearly killed you. For one terrible moment, I feared it had.”

Percy frowned, but said nothing. He had thought he was going to die too. The words carried more truth than he was ready to deal with.

Dumbledore patted his shoulder, then tilted his head. “There is another question, Harry. You see, I cannot seem to find the Stone. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

Percy’s gut tightened. He knew where it was—he could still feel the phantom weight of it in his pocket from before. But something deep inside him urged caution. Don’t tell him. Not yet. See what he says first. He shook his head.

“I never found it, sir.”

“Are you sure?” Dumbledore pressed gently.

Percy held the lie steady. “Yes, sir.”

Something flickered across the headmaster’s eyes, but it was impossible to tell. Then Dumbledore sighed. “Ah. Well. That is unfortunate. It must be destroyed.”

Percy blinked. “Destroyed? Why?”

“It is too dangerous to leave in existence,” Dumbledore said gravely. “Voldemort would try to use it again if it remained.”

Percy’s stomach churned. He and his friends had read enough to know what destroying the Stone meant. “But what about Mr. Flamel—and his wife? Won’t they die?”

“Oh, you know of Nicolas?” Dumbledore’s lips curved faintly, almost delighted. “You did do your research, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have spoken. He and Perenelle both agree—it is for the best.”

Percy hesitated. His disagreement must have shown on his face because Dumbledor smiled sadly.

“To one as young as you, I know it must sound strange. But to them, it is like going to bed after a very, very long day. For a well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” he explained.

Percy had no answer. He leaned back into the pillows, feeling small. That kind of acceptance was hard to even imagine. He didn't want to argue with the man though.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Percy forced himself forward, his questions burning too hot to ignore. “Voldemort isn’t dead, is he, sir?”

Dumbledore’s face grew solemn. “No, Harry. He is not. He is still out there, perhaps seeking another body. Not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He abandoned Quirrell to die. He shows as little mercy to his followers as to his enemies.”

“He’ll try again, won’t he?” Percy pressed, his chest tightening.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said quietly. Something haunted flickered in his gaze. “He will try. But if he is delayed—again and again—he may never return to power.”

Percy nodded, but without comfort. That wasn’t a promise. It was a hope.

He hesitated before his next question. Dumbledore gestured for him to go on.

“Well… Voldemort said he killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But why me? Why did he want me dead?”

Dumbledore exhaled deeply. “Alas, the first thing you ask, I cannot tell you. Not today. You will know one day—when you are ready.”

Percy’s jaw clenched. He hated that answer. What was so important he wasn’t allowed to know? But he swallowed it down. Pushing would only close the door to everything else.

“Then—why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?” he asked instead.

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “Your mother died to save you. Voldemort cannot understand love. He did not realize that love as deep as your mother’s leaves a mark. Not a scar, but protection. It lives in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred and greed, could not bear to touch someone marked by something so good.”

Percy blinked quickly, his throat tight. Proof. Undeniable proof of what he’d always been told—that his parents had loved him. He turned his head slightly, grateful that Dumbledore looked away and gave him the dignity to wipe his eyes.

It made sense. If what Dumbledore said was true, then his mother really loved him like his mom had said. Maybe the symbol on his hands when he touched Quirrell was a representation of that love. Still even as he thought that it felt like an incomplete answer. There was more that he didn't know.

He steadied his voice wanting to change the subject. Another thought had been nagging at him since the Yule holidays.  “And the Invisibility Cloak—do you know who sent it to me?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore chuckled, the twinkle briefly returning. “Your father left it with me. I thought you might like to have it. Useful things… though he mainly used it to sneak into the kitchens for food.”

Percy gave a weak huff of laughter. “Figures.” Then his mind shifted back. “There’s something else. Quirrell said Snape—”

“Professor Snape,” Dumbledore corrected lightly.

Percy flushed but pressed on. “He was a follower of Voldemort. And Ron and Hermione thought it was him all year. But Quirrell said Snape saved me at the Quidditch match. Why?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Because he owed your father a debt. Long ago, your father saved his life.”

Percy blinked. “What? Then why does he hate me?”

“Professor Snape is… a complicated man,” Dumbledore said, his voice distant. “We all are. But his relationship with your father was a difficult one. Not unlike yours with Mr. Malfoy. And when your father saved him, he could never forgive it. Snape worked to protect you this year so he could repay that debt, and then—return to hating your father’s memory in peace.”

Percy absorbed that in silence. It left many unsaid questions- mainly what had happened between Snape and his father- but at the same time it explained a lot.

When it was clear that Percy was through asking questions, Dumbledore finally rose, smoothing his robes. “Now. I have sent a letter to your aunt explaining the situation. You’ll be going home in two days, and you’ll need rest to rebuild you magical core.”

Percy’s brows furrowed. Aunt? He didn’t have an aunt. He opened his mouth to say so, but Dumbledore was already sweeping for the door.

“Feel better soon, my boy!” the headmaster called over his shoulder, robes billowing as he vanished.

Percy stared after him, unsettled.

Strange. Very strange.

The next two days blurred together. Hermione and Ron pushed their way into the medical ward that night, slipping into the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey hovering behind them like an angry hawk. She wouldn’t let them stay long—fifteen minutes at most—but it was enough. They’d pieced together the rest: Hermione had shaken Ron awake, dragged him towards the owlery, but Dumbledore had met them in the foyer. The moment she told him what was happening, the headmaster had bolted for the third floor. That was how he’d made it in time. Percy was just glad his two friends were alright.

By the next morning, Pomfrey finally released him, though not without a string of warnings about rest and “no more heroics.” He’d barely stepped into the corridor before he realized the rumor mill had been working overtime. Somehow, the entire castle knew something had happened. The details were twisted beyond recognition—half the school seemed convinced Percy had personally fought off an army of trolls, the other half whispered about dark curses and secret duels. Either way, the sudden fascination was suffocating. Everyone seemed to forget they’d spent months sneering at him, too curious now about what had really gone on. Percy ignored most of it. Let them talk.

He had sat down and explained everything to Neville though. He really did feel bad about getting him in trouble. And he really felt bad for leaving him behind after Hermione had hexed him. He had apologized for everything.

Neville had been very quiet for a long time. He started to sniffle a bit and then confessed that he had been hurt by his only friends. He had felt very alone the past few weeks and had missed them. It had only made Percy feel worse. But the entire conversation had ended with Neville squeezing him in a very tight hug and telling him that he was glad that Percy was alright. They had promised to write to each other over the summer. 

Hagrid had also received an explanation and an apology for tricking him into revealing things about Fluffy and the Stone. The man had been furious with him for putting himself in danger but had ultimately been glad he was safe and very proud that Percy had defeated Quirrell and You-Know-Who too. 

That night was the closing feast. Percy hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the platters appeared, dish after dish of Hogwarts’ best, and he ate until he couldn’t anymore. The hall was bright and loud, everyone buzzing with end-of-year excitement, but the biggest shock came when Dumbledore rose to speak. His words carried easily over the hall, and one by one, he awarded last-minute points: Ron, Hermione, Neville… and Percy himself. The final tally tipped just enough to shove Gryffindor past Slytherin.

The eruption of cheers nearly deafened him. Red and gold banners rolled down from the ceiling, the Gryffindor table roared, and even Percy—who usually hated crowds—couldn’t help grinning. The Slytherins sat stony-faced, but Percy figured they’d survive. For Gryffindor, it was the perfect send-off, their last night at Hogwarts before heading home. The food, the laughter, the singing—it felt like the whole school had lifted its weight off his shoulders. For the first time in months, Percy let himself relax.

Percy left when the party had begun to wind down. He hadn’t wanted to stick around the entire night—half the older Gryffindors were already loud and tipsy, and the atmosphere was more chaotic than fun—but Ron had begged him to stay. It was their last night together before summer, and Percy couldn’t bring himself to say no. They’d even talked about meeting up during the holidays, making vague plans to write each other about it later. Now Ron had finally gone to bed, leaving Percy with one last task before he left Hogwarts.

His feet carried him back toward the third floor, each step quiet, purposeful. He let the magic of the castle tug him along as he made the trip. The halls were nearly empty because it was past curfew, but there were still Prefects and Professors making their rounds so Percy still kept his Invisibility Cloak pulled tight around him. Hogwarts had a way of catching rule-breakers when they least expected it, and after everything that had happened this year, he couldn’t afford another run-in. His broom rested across his shoulder, its weight familiar, bristles just barely kept from brushing the floor.

At the corridor door, he paused. With a slow push, the door creaked open. Inside, Fluffy stirred. The three massive heads lifted at once, lips curling back to reveal teeth as long as Percy’s arm. A low growl rumbled through the chamber.

Percy slipped inside carefully, easing the door shut behind him until the latch clicked. The growling filled the room, heavy and constant. He had no harp or spell to lull the beast to sleep. But he had a sense that music wasn’t what he needed this time.

He pulled off the cloak and stepped forward, hands raised. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite his pounding heart. “I just need to get something before I leave tomorrow.”

For a long moment, the dog’s eyes bored into his own. Percy held the gaze, refusing to flinch. His chest felt tight, but then, slowly, the tension ebbed. Fluffy lowered his heads back onto his paws with a heavy thud.

Percy moved closer, cautiously, and laid his palm on the center snout. Magic thrummed under his skin, flowing outward in a pulse as if the dog recognized him. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he slipped past, heading straight for the trapdoor.

He tucked the cloak into his robes, mounted his broom, and dropped into the darkness below.

The descent was easier this time. The obstacles had reset, but he knew the path. He skimmed above the writhing vines of Devil’s Snare, snatched the right key with practiced precision, and flew through the door. The chessboard loomed, but he didn’t stop. Ron’s sacrifice had already proved enough for him. Percy soared above the black and white pieces, ignoring the clatter of weapons swinging uselessly beneath him.

The potion chamber came next. The bottles had refilled themselves, the puzzle reset, but Percy didn’t hesitate. He chose the right one again, downed it, and walked through the flames without looking back.

And then he was there. The last chamber.

The room was just as he remembered—cold stone, heavy silence, and the Mirror of Erised standing tall at the far wall. The absence of Quirrell and the lurking shadow of Voldemort didn’t make it feel less oppressive. Percy landed and forced himself not to look around. He wouldn’t let the memories pull him under. Not tonight.

Instead, he went straight to the mirror.

The reflection sharpened as he drew closer. His breath caught in his throat. It was the same vision, unchanged: himself, flanked by all his parents. His mom, Sally, pressed a kiss to his temple, her smile radiant and warm. On one side of her, the blurred man who had given him life, tall and proud, smiling down with the same wind-tossed hair Percy carried. On the other, Lily Potter leaned in close, auburn hair falling around them, her expression tender. James stood beside her, glasses glinting, grin mischievous.

It was impossible. And yet it felt so real.

Tears stung his eyes before he could stop them. He whispered to the glass. “Mum. Dad.” His voice wavered. He turned to Sally’s reflection. “Mom.” His chest ached at the sight of her so happy. He looked to the blurred figure—his father by blood—and didn’t know what to say. But the man smiled and nodded, as though that was enough.

“I can’t stay,” Percy whispered. The words hurt, even as he said them. Lily only nodded sadly in reply. "Do you have something for me? I don't want to use it for myself, but I need it." She nodded again, gently brushing a hand down his reflections arm. Then, slowly, she reached behind herself. When her hand came forward again, she was holding the glowing red Stone. She stepped in front of the rest of his parents in the mirror.

Percy pressed his palm against the mirror. She mirrored him, their hands meeting on either side of the glass. The surface rippled, cool against his skin, and suddenly the Stone pressed into his palm, real and solid. He tucked it carefully into the inside pocket of his robes. “Thank you,” he murmured.

In the mirror, his parents huddled closer around him. A hand squeezed his shoulder. Another ruffled his hair. Sally smoothed her fingers through his hair in the way she always did. It wasn’t real, he knew, but the surrounding warmth of the magic pressed against him like a reflection of what mirror him was feeling. For one moment, he let his eyes fall shut and imagined it was true—that they were all really there, holding him up after the hardest year of his life.

When he opened his eyes, they were smiling at him. Sad, but proud. They waved, and Percy gave them a small nod in return.

Then he turned away. His hand lingered on the mirror for just a second longer before he left the chamber. The Stone was heavy in his pocket, but he sighed in relief. 

It was finally time to go home.

Chapter Text

Poseidon (Pre Story)

Poseidon kept track of all his favored children. He tucked the feeling of their godly presence deep between his ribs, a warmth settled in the hollows of his divine chest—always there, humming beneath the surface like the current under a calm tide. Every now and then, he brushed his thoughts over each one, checking where they were, whether they were safe, whether they were happy or sad.

Rhode always felt as calm as her mother did. A soothing balm to Poseidon’s ever-changing tide of emotions. She radiated steadiness, like the still eye in the middle of a hurricane. She always seemed content whenever Poseidon pressed against her presence inside him—an inner ripple of calm that reminded him to calm before he leveled some island.

Kym, on the other hand, took more after him. She was always angry, storms raging wherever she went. She had inherited his tempestuous nature and embraced it without shame. Despite their currently strained relationship, Poseidon couldn’t help but grin every time he felt another hurricane tear through the sea somewhere. Her fury was righteous. Her storms were loud. And it told him, at the very least, that she was alive.

Triton, his heir, may have looked like him, but he was every bit his mother’s son. Her compassion. Her strategic mind. Her passion for justice. Triton had been raised to rule—one day, long after Poseidon’s reign ended. It would be millennia before that happened, but Poseidon already knew the kingdom would be in good hands.

His favored children, each of them, nestled beneath his breastbone—held in the chambers of his heart where they could be watched, protected when needed, and felt always. Their presence gave shape to the divine rhythm of his life.

And then came his newest boy.

His demigod son with Sally Jackson.

Perseus, not yet even an hour old, and already Poseidon could feel how different he was. How special. It wasn’t often he felt this kind of attachment for one of his mortal children—but just like his mother, Percy had carved out a place inside Poseidon the moment he took his first breath.

His soft black hair had tickled Poseidon’s cheek as he held him, the baby's wide blue eyes blinking up with quiet curiosity. Most babies lost that color in time—but Poseidon knew his son’s would only turn greener. Sea green.

He had only held the boy once, in those quiet minutes after Sally had fallen asleep—exhausted but smiling, her hand still resting against the crib. Percy had smelled of the ocean, and when Poseidon kissed his forehead to bless him, the boy shimmered with godliness. For a moment, more god than mortal.

Something in Poseidon’s chest pulled—tight, anxious, demanding.

With a breath, Poseidon took hold of that new warmth, that flickering light of Percy, and tucked it beside the others. He placed him next to Triton’s proud strength, Kym’s rolling thunder, and Rhode’s soft stillness. And when he did, a feeling of peace settled into his chest. A new note added to the harmony beneath his ribs.

Then, with a final glance, he laid the child back in his crib and blinked back to the sea—too fast for any of his brothers to notice.

___________________

He knew it wouldn’t last. Perseus was mortal, after all. But he’d been promised nearly a century. Not merely hours.

He didn’t understand it at first—the sensation that followed.

That quiet hum he had just placed inside himself vanished. Percy’s contentment—the drowsy warmth that came only from newborns when they were full and safe—disappeared. Poseidon flinched violently, the spot in his chest replaced by a raw, hollow chasm too new to even hold its shape. It was absence—pure and gaping. He had only felt it once before and his family was still recovering from it.

But how?

His baby had been fine. Barely hours ago.

What could possibly have happened to him?

Poseidon blinked himself back to the hospital.

Sally was screaming, arms outstretched toward an empty cradle, her body bent forward over the sheets. The glow of afterbirth that had bathed her earlier was gone, replaced by a whiteness in her skin that looked terrifying on someone usually sun-kissed and golden.

She reached for him, her voice breaking. “Poseidon.” She sobbed. “Where is my baby?”

He couldn't help it. He reached out and gently pushed her shoulders down, easing her back into bed as she shook.

“I—I don’t know,” he admitted, the words foreign and disgusting on his tongue. A god, and yet helpless. His son— missing .

All he could do was hold the still-bleeding, shaking woman in his arms until exhaustion pulled her under.

Fury overtook him.

He. Was. A. God.

Who would dare take his son?

Poseidon unleashed that rage.

Around the world, strange weather events erupted without warning. Tsunamis—bigger than ever recorded—swallowed islands. Hurricanes bloomed in unnatural places, slamming into coasts and flooding cities. It rained and rained and rained. For a year and a half, the skies did not clear. New York bore the brunt. The sun forgot the city existed. Infrastructure buckled under the weight of ceaseless storms. People fled. Some claimed the world was ending.

But Poseidon didn’t care.

He held the woman who had once been offered godhood and turned it down, choosing a mortal life of love and hardship. He held her, and he planned.

He pulled Triton into his schemes, spinning distractions for the gods so that he could search without being noticed. His son might not have known the purpose behind it, but he obeyed without fail. He ignored his brother’s summons. He ignored the demands to “stop your tantrum before you flood the world, Poseidon.”

No. All he cared about was finding out what happened to his son.

________________

The chasm filled again just as suddenly as it had been ripped open.

The sensation of his missing child— alive —returned, blooming into its place like breath after drowning. Poseidon clutched at his chest and gasped, ignoring the startled looks of his lieutenant and the important meeting happening around him.

Perseus was alive.

Distressed, confused, and in pain. But there .

Poseidon didn’t wait.

He blinked across the world in less than a heartbeat and reappeared on the front walkway of a small, dimly lit house in London. Dawn barely lit up the area, but Poseidon could see the bassinet in front of him. There, in the basket, lay his whimpering infant son.

Poseidon stepped forward and gathered the boy gently into his arms, holding him to his chest and tucking Percy’s head beneath his chin. He tilted his face into the boy’s unruly black hair and breathed in.

He still smelled of the sea.

Good. That meant no one had touched him—no one that mattered anyway. Any god or monster worth their name would’ve known better.

Percy blinked up at his father, wide-eyed. Those eyes, the same sea green as his own, met his, and the weight in Poseidon's chest eased.

Poseidon let his power roll gently over his son. He was alive, healthy even, for a baby that had been taken from his mother.

The only source of pain was a small cut along his forehead, stretching from his hairline to the top of his brow. Poseidon frowned. He pressed his thumb gently to it, letting a droplet of water rise between his fingers and pool over the wound. The cut healed but a faint scar remained. 

He would find out what had happened. And he would exact vengeance on whoever had dared take what was his.

But first—

First, there was a woman, her voice hoarse from praying to every god she could think of, begging for her child.

It was time to take Percy home.

Sally (Just got Percy's Letter) (This one starts a bit heavy with descriptions of marital abuse. It can be triggering to some so please do not read if you will be affected. If you are experiencing any type of abuse please reach out to authorities or programs and please get help. Nothing is worth your life.)

(Read until the dotted lines to skip or skip this POV entirely)

It had been a hard two weeks. One Sally had been very glad Percy had been away at school for—even if she missed him so much her heart ached. She had always known that Percy would never be just her son. He was destined for greater things simply by being born. Then he was taken from her and thrown into a different world, forced to carry an even heavier burden.

She had hoped she could keep him to herself for just a bit longer. Even as the start of school approached, she had prayed for something impossible to happen—anything to give her more time. But it hadn’t been in the cards for them.

A week and a half after Percy had left for Hogwarts, Sally found herself missing him desperately.

Gabe had come home very angry yesterday. Apparently, there had been a potential sale at the store—some business interested in buying a large order of furniture, which would have meant a big bonus check once the deal went through. At the last minute, though, the company had backed out and gone in a different direction.

His already terrible mood had only worsened when Sally was asked to pick up an extra shift for her coworker Keagan, whose father had been taken to the hospital. She hadn’t been home with dinner ready and waiting—and that, apparently, was an unforgivable offense.

He had already started drinking, and from the number of empty beer bottles littering the floor, he’d been at it for a while. The moment Sally opened the door and took in the scene, she had known it would be a bad night.

Gabe had heard the door close and waited for her, arms crossed in the kitchen doorway—his broad frame barely fitting in the space and entirely blocking her path into the apartment.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he had slurred, listing slightly against the doorframe as he glared at her.

She had tried not to shrink into herself, tried to keep her expression calm, to soothe his anger. But it hadn’t helped. She approached him cautiously, hands raised in a familiar, disarming gesture. Normally, that was enough to de-escalate him. This time, it wasn’t.

He grabbed her wrist and twisted it sharply, forcing her body to contort just to avoid having the joint snap. Helpless, she could do nothing as Gabe yanked her toward the stove.

“Do you know what kind of day I’ve had?” he yelled, slamming his free hand down on the counter so hard Sally wouldn’t have been surprised if the laminate cracked. “And I come home to no dinner ready?”

He threw her into the counter then. She had tried to catch herself, but her side had taken the full impact of the hard edge, and she collapsed to the floor.

“Gabe,” she had said softly, still trying to soothe him. “I just picked up an extra shift. You know, so we could maybe go out to get a nice dinner sometime. Just the two of us.”

Sally hadn’t known how much commission Gabe had lost that day, and her optimism and attempt to soothe him did nothing to help mitigate the situation. It only made everything worse.

He overturned the small dining table with a roar, sending everything on it flying across the room. Plates—left from the breakfast she’d made him that morning—shattered on impact. She had to raise her arms to shield her face, but the flying shards still cut into her skin.

“You bitch,” Gabe snarled, taking two heavy steps toward her, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He gripped her hair and yanked her to her feet, pain flaring down her scalp as tears sprang to her eyes. She grabbed at his wrist in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure. He slammed her into the counter again and leaned in so close she could feel his breath, hot and sour, on her face.

“I don’t know why I keep you around,” he spat, flecks of saliva hitting her cheek. “You’d be useless without me. You and that disgusting parasite you call a son.”

Then he released her, lumbered over to the fridge, and pulled out another beer.

“Make me my dinner,” he muttered, already stumbling toward the television.

There had been no time for tears. She couldn’t stay the night—not with Gabe in this state. He would do worse if given the opportunity.

So she pulled herself together.

Just for a moment, she let herself consider the impossible. She thought about praying to Poseidon—letting the god take care of her, like he had once offered. But that meant leaving Percy behind for good. And she shut that thought down the moment it surfaced.

_____________Harsh abuse ends here_______________

Instead, she made dinner. A quick meal. She left it on the tray table beside Gabe, earning nothing more than him pulling it closer with a grunt. Then she retreated to Percy’s room.

There, to her surprise, was Hedwig. The beautiful snowy owl sat on the window ledge, feathers puffed slightly against the cold. Sally had always had the sense that Percy belonged more to the owl than the owl belonged to Percy.

She raised the window, letting Hedwig hop gracefully inside. The owl landed on the bed and allowed Sally to run her fingers gently through her head feathers.

“Hey, pretty girl,” she murmured.

Hedwig preened, then extended one leg toward her.

“You have something for me?” Sally cooed softly, conscious of how thin the apartment walls were—and who might be able to hear on the other side of them.

She untied the small scroll and opened it quickly. Joy surged through her as she recognized the shaky handwriting and the unmistakable signature. Percy had written to her.

There wasn’t time to write back, but she couldn’t let Hedwig leave without some sort of reply.

“I’m sorry, girl,” she said. “I don’t have time to respond right now. And I know you’ve had a long flight, but… do you think you can find me in Montauk?”

Hedwig cooed softly, then hopped back to the window ledge. That was answer enough.

Sally got to work. She shifted the bed aside, pried up the loose floorboards she had installed years ago, and pulled out the small duffle bag she had kept prepared for emergencies. Inside were a few changes of clothes for both her and Percy, some cash she had hidden away, and important identification documents.

Then she scribbled a quick note for Gabe and waited.

Thirty minutes later, she heard the loud, guttural snoring coming from the living room. She stepped out cautiously.

There he was—slumped in front of the television, breathing heavily. With the amount of sleeping pills she had crushed into his dinner, he would be out cold for at least the next twenty-four hours. And with the note she had left on the counter—claiming she’d picked up some extra shifts at the candy shop—he wouldn’t expect her home.

It was a tried-and-true plan. One she had used many times when she and Percy needed a day or two away from the monster that lived in their apartment. Percy had never known the full extent of her role in those quick beach escapes, and that was for the best.

Still, it was time to go—now. No point in risking him waking up.

She’d give him a few days to cool off. Then she’d come back.

For Percy, she reminded herself.

All of it was for Percy.

_____________________

Now Sally found herself sitting by the ocean, enjoying the last semi-warm night breeze rolling in off the sea as the stars shone above her. The parchment lay unrolled beside her, where she had set it down after finishing the letter. She was sore. Her side was a motley of purples and yellows, her wrist bore a handprint-shaped bruise wrapped around it, and her head ached. But she didn’t care.

Her baby had written home about his first week of school.

And it sounded like he was doing so well.

A mix of emotions welled up inside her: pride for her son, deep and overwhelming love, and a dull ache of loneliness that settled into her bones.

She inhaled the rich scent of the ocean and listened to the calm waves crashing against the shore—and with the next breath, a warm presence stirred beside her.

“Poseidon,” she whispered.

“Hello, Sea Star.” His deep, rumbly voice resonated through her, low and ancient, carrying the weight of the tides themselves. She sighed at the sound.
“How is he?” he asked.

Without a word, Sally handed him the parchment. Poseidon took it, reading slowly and carefully, his eyes moving with intent as he drank in every word their child had written. He chuckled softly.

“Well then,” he said at last, handing the parchment back to her. “I’m glad. I was worried.”

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They sat in silence for a while, overlooking the sea—even if she couldn’t see much beyond the moonless horizon. At least the stars were bright enough to let her see her old love clearly.

Poseidon took her hand in his, gently tugging until she leaned into his side, just like she used to.

But he had grabbed her injured wrist, and she hissed softly in pain.

Poseidon went still beside her. Not the stillness of confusion or hesitation—but of a predator scenting blood.

She knew what came next. He was fiercely protective of what he called his own. But she also knew that reason, not resistance, was the only way to temper a god’s fury.

He pulled up the sleeve of her sweater, bringing her wrist close to his gaze. The moment he saw the bruising, his posture shifted into something far more lethal. His stillness crackled with barely restrained wrath.

“I’ll kill him,” he said, his voice as cold and deep as the ocean floor. There was no question in it. He already knew exactly who had done this to her.

Sally curled her injured hand around his, hoping it might calm him. She knew it wouldn’t—but unlike Gabe, she knew Poseidon would never hurt her.

“You can’t,” she whispered, leaning heavier into his side. “I need him alive.”

“Why?” His voice was sharp with fury. “Why should I allow him to live when he’s done this?”

“He’s more useful as a protection to us right now,” she said quietly.

“I can protect you.”

His voice had softened slightly, but the edge remained. His body still held that rigid, coiled energy.

“You can’t protect Percy,” she said, her voice unwavering. “Not with you brothers watching. And I won’t leave him. Even knowing he’ll have to leave me one day—to join your world.”

Poseidon sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of knowing her. He didn’t argue. He knew better.

“Does he hurt my son?” he asked after a beat.

Sally straightened, turning to face him. “I would never allow him to,” she said firmly. “He knows not to touch Percy when I’m around.”

“And when you’re not?”

That question struck deeper than he could have known. It dredged up one of her worst fears. She was always working. She didn’t know what went on when she wasn’t home. But she wanted—needed—to believe Percy would tell her if something ever happened.

She was quiet for a long moment.

“The moment I find out he’s laid a hand on our baby,” she said at last, conviction burning in her voice, “is the moment that monster dies. He serves a purpose right now. He masks our son’s scent from the things that might hunt him from your world. But the instant he outlives that purpose—he’s gone. One way or another.”

Poseidon chuckled. It was low, but not mocking—darkly amused and oddly fond. He knew her too well. He had always known how fiercely his Sea Star could fight, how stubborn and quietly vengeful she could be.

He had no doubt she meant every word.

Sally collapsed back into his side again, and this time Poseidon allowed himself to loosen. His arm slid around her back, tugging her tighter.

“The offer still stands, you know,” he said after a moment of peaceful quiet. “I would build you a castle beneath the waves. You could live as a queen.”

“I know,” Sally said softly.

“Take care of our baby,” he murmured. Then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

And from one breath to the next, he was gone—leaving only the cool ocean breeze to kiss her cheek in his place.

“I will,” she whispered.

Voldemort (Anytime during the story, that creep)

He could feel the boy.

Not just sense him— feel him. The way one feels a storm crawling beneath the skin before it breaks. That raw, pulsing magic —undisciplined and wild, yet terrifyingly deep—radiated off the child like heat from a furnace. Even through the layers of flesh, cloth, and bone he was trapped behind, even smothered by the pitiful barrier that was Quirrell's scalp, he always knew the boy was near.

The castle knew it, too. Hogwarts, with all its ancient enchantments and cursed stones, bent toward the boy— cradled him. He could taste it in the air: the way the wards shimmered brighter when the child passed, the way the shadows recoiled from him even in the deepest corners. Magic itself seemed to wreathe around him like smoke, like armor.

It made him sick.

He wanted to shatter him. To unmake him.

He dreamed of it—tore through Quirrell’s mind at night with howling visions of sinking claws into the boy’s chest and drinking the magic straight from his veins. He would drain him dry. Feast on every drop of blood, every whisper of power that had been unjustly gifted to a mewling infant while he , Lord Voldemort, had been cast into shadow and ruin.

The boy had cost him everything—his body, his followers, his future. And for what? A fluke. A twist of fate. A mother’s dying curse and a child too young to know his own name.

But now … now the boy walked freely , unaware of what crept just behind his back. Unaware of the parasite riding Quirrell’s skull, of the eyes watching him through every corridor, the hate bleeding out with every breath Voldemort took inside this pathetic husk of a man.

He was not yet strong enough. Not yet whole.

But soon .

The blood of unicorns kept his essence clinging to life—putrid, metallic, and wrong , but it dulled the hunger long enough to endure this shell of a host. A temporary torment. A small price to pay for resurrection.

He would bide his time. Suffer the stench of weakness and the indignity of being carried by a stammering coward.

Because the Stone was near.

And once he had it… once flesh returned and the pain was gone…

Then he would finish what he started.

And the boy would scream.

Snape (After he meets Sally)

Severus spent the majority of the train ride back to Hogwarts in contemplative silence, brooding over the deeply unpleasant encounter he had just endured.

The moment the boy and his so-called mother had approached, he’d been forced to draw heavily upon his Occlumency—not merely to guard his mind, but to restrain himself from openly insulting the child in front of his guardian. It was a skill he had not had to employ with such intensity since the height of the war. His mental barriers were always in place, of course, but in this case, suppressing the flood of visceral irritation required far more effort than he cared to admit.

Now, seated in solitude as the train rattled steadily northward, Severus allowed his shields to lower, releasing the emotional tension that had accumulated like steam in a sealed cauldron.

That wretched boy.

Insufferable didn’t begin to cover it. He pranced about the school as if it were his personal kingdom, ignored lectures as though they were beneath him, and submitted essays so offensively incoherent they could have been used as examples in a textbook on neurological trauma. More than once, Severus had simply scrawled a large, aggressive "T” across the parchment just to spare himself the ensuing headache.

He supposed, with no small measure of reluctance, that the revelation of the boy’s so-called "learning disabilities" did explain some of his academic failings.

Severus frowned, his thoughts circling like vultures over a battlefield.

Where, precisely, had these alleged conditions come from?

He was, after all, a spy by training and necessity. Despite his lifelong entrenchment in the wizarding world, he was a half-blood, and had made it a point to stay apprised of significant Muggle developments. One never knew when it might become necessary to disappear, and while retreating into Muggle society would be a thoroughly distasteful last resort, it remained the most practical method of vanishing entirely.

He was familiar with the terms—ADHD, dyslexia, and the like. He had encountered the occasional student with such afflictions during his tenure. They were rare, but not unheard of. And yet… they were often hereditary.

Lily certainly never struggled with such impairments. Of that, he was certain.

Could they have come from Potter ? A repugnant thought, but possible. James Potter had always been excessively animated—exuberant, disruptive. Perhaps his unrelenting hyperactivity had concealed a mild case of attention deficit disorder. As for the glasses… Severus had long assumed they were merely the result of poor vision, but perhaps there was more to it. A magical correction for dyslexia, disguised as a mundane optical aid?

The thought was unpleasant in every conceivable way.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Enough. Enough meandering through the murk of adolescent idiocy and long-dead schoolyard enmities.

And yet… another question remained.

The woman. The one who claimed to be the boy’s mother.

Who was she?

She had dark, curling hair—not dissimilar to the boy’s own. A possible connection to the Potter bloodline? But the Potters were believed to be extinct, save for the boy himself. She wore Muggle clothing, spoke in Muggle idioms, and conducted herself with the unselfconscious ease of someone utterly unfamiliar with wizarding custom. Perhaps she hailed from a long-forgotten Squib branch of the family. It was feasible, if unlikely.

Still, it didn’t align with the narrative they had all been led to believe.

The Headmaster had implied—no, all but declared—that the boy had been left in a loving, wizarding household, treated like royalty. The first part, he grudgingly admitted, might have held some truth based on the woman’s demeanor. But the second? A wizarding household? Hardly. The woman radiated Muggle through and through. There was no pretense to her ignorance. It was… unsettling.

Severus rubbed his temples with long, pale fingers.

He had no desire to spend what little remained of his holiday dissecting the tangled web of Harry bloody Potter’s personal life.

He would have a brief, perfunctory conversation with Minerva regarding the boy’s educational deficiencies. And then— then —he would be done. Washed of the matter entirely. His duties as an educator would be fulfilled, and he could, for a time, forget the boy even existed.

Merlin willing.

________________

“Minerva.” Snape rapped twice on her office door, each knock clipped and deliberate. This was, quite assuredly, the last thing he wished to do after a tedious, headache-inducing return trip to Hogwarts. Frankly, he would have preferred a generous pour of firewhisky and a silent corner in which to forget the entire ordeal. But no—there was an unpleasant matter that demanded attention, and unlike certain irresponsible parties in the castle, Severus Snape attended to his duties.

The door opened to reveal Minerva McGonagall, still in full teaching robes, spectacles perched low on her nose, her mouth tightening into a familiar line of suspicion.

“Severus?” she asked, frowning. “Did something happen on the train?”

“Nothing of the sort,” he replied smoothly, though his tone lacked any warmth. He inclined his head and gestured past her. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” She stepped aside with that usual, brisk grace and returned to her place behind the desk, her presence commanding as ever—though she was a full head shorter than he, she remained one of the few people who could make him feel like a particularly guilty student with nothing more than a raised brow.

Severus seated himself in the visitor’s chair— the chair, the one reserved for students receiving discipline, detentions, or dreadful news. The familiarity of it made him frown. Nostalgia had no place here.

Minerva folded her arms atop her desk and leaned forward slightly. “Is this a conversation to be had over tea and biscuits, or a glass of firewhisky?”

“That, I believe,” Severus drawled, echoing her tone with just a touch of theatrical gravity, “is entirely dependent on your answer.”

Her eyebrow arched, sharp as a quill.

“Were you aware,” he asked, tone deceptively casual, “that Potter has learning disabilities?”

Minerva straightened at once, surprise flashing across her usually composed features. The other brow rose to join the first, and she blinked once.

“No,” she said slowly. “I was not aware.”

Just as he suspected.

Severus allowed himself a small exhale, shoulders relaxing by degrees. “Then I believe I shall accept that tea, Minerva. Spiked, if you please.”

“Yes… I think that would be best.”

With a practiced flick of her wand, she conjured a fine tea service onto the desk, and at the same moment, a tray of sugar and lemon cubes appeared courtesy of the ever-watchful house-elves. She then reached below the desk, deftly unlocking and un-warding a small drawer. From within, she retrieved a modest but well-aged bottle of firewhisky. She poured a respectable measure into both teacups, then gestured toward the one nearest him.

Severus took it without comment. He sipped. Mercifully warm.

“Would you care to elaborate?” she asked, her voice gentler now, but no less direct.

He inclined his head in the manner of a man preparing to recite an unfortunate list. “A woman approached me at King’s Cross—presumably the boy’s guardian. I encountered them shortly after the students disembarked. She initiated a conversation regarding Potter’s coursework—under the guise of polite inquiry, naturally—and then, rather deftly, inserted the claim that he had been diagnosed with dyslexia and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”

Minerva made a thoughtful noise into her cup.

Severus continued, “Naturally, I questioned her further. She seemed untroubled by the idea of revealing this to me, and stated quite plainly that the boy had been formally diagnosed.” He took another sip, jaw tightening. “It was… unexpected.”

“It does explain quite a bit,” Minerva admitted, sighing as she sat back in her chair. “Though no, I wasn’t informed of any such condition.”

“As I suspected.” He swirled the remaining tea in his cup. “She claimed she sent documentation to the Headmaster prior to the school year. Clearly, it went no further than his desk.”

Minerva exhaled through her nose. “Of course it didn’t. I’ll ensure accommodations are made at once. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

That, Severus knew, was a dismissal cloaked in professional courtesy. He drained the rest of his tea in one swift movement and returned the cup to its saucer with quiet finality.

“I’ve instructed the woman to send all future documentation directly to you. Expect it sooner rather than later.”

Minerva gave a tight nod. “Thank you, Severus. I suspect I’ll be having a word with the Headmaster shortly.”

“Enjoy that,” he muttered dryly as he stood. “I’m sure it will be… illuminating.”

She gave him a pointed look over her glasses. “Good evening, Severus.”

He inclined his head and swept from the room without another word.

Sally 2 (Sometime during Second Semester while Percy's at Hogwarts)

Her husband had to go into the office today, which was a blessing really. Especially because she had a day off and could actually enjoy being at home for once. 

Still there was no rest for the weary it seemed, because with a quiet apartment available and the lack of prying eyes for once, she finally had the chance to spread everything out on the dining room table and make sense of it all. Parchment, letters, ledgers, and official-looking statements covered the cheap wood surface, a far cry from the kind of grand desks these documents were probably meant to rest upon.

Some of the more recent ones had arrived by messenger falcon — which had been a surprise in itself. She’d had to scramble for an excuse when the bird the size of a small child began scratching at their window. Gabe thought it belonged to a falconry club out on Long Island. Sally didn’t even think that club existed but it was the first thing she could think of at the time and she knew he wasn’t about to check. He had raged over the disruption to his football game and Sally had to sooth him by bringing him another beer.

 She had decided to sleep in Percy’s empty bed that night. 

Now she had parchment spread out across the small dining room table, going over previous investment documents, statements on vaults, and any properties the potters had left their collective son. 

It was rather fascinating, if difficult. Sally had never been very good with numbers, she was much more interested in the literary arts than math and business. But she could puzzle her way through when she needed to, and for Percy’s sake, she would. These weren’t just numbers. These were the remnants of another family’s legacy. The Potters had left their son — her son — more wealth than she could have imagined. 

It made her feel a bit guilty all things considered. Yes, her son had been taken from her for a year and a half, but she knew he had been loved by his other parents, and now because they were dead, she was benefitting from everything they had left behind. The only thing not making her freak out about this entire situation, was the knowledge that they had left everything to Percy. All of this was Percy’s, she was just making sure everything was up to date and taken care of for her son. 

She straightened a sheet of parchment and dipped her pen, forcing her thoughts back to the task.

This document was about titles and inheritance, written in a script so old-fashioned it made her head ache. Apparently, Percy wasn’t just a boy with a vault full of gold. He was heir to something called the House of Potter. A “Most Ancient and Noble House,” according to the letterhead, which sounded like something out of a dusty old novel.

She hunched over the paper and began writing to the goblins again, this time asking for any reading material that would help her understand wizarding politics. She wasn’t about to walk into this world blind — and she certainly wasn’t about to let Percy walk into it blind, either. He deserved to know what all of this meant, what responsibilities it came with, and what choices he would one day have to make.

The scratch of her pen filled the small apartment. Outside, someone slammed a car door, a reminder of the very ordinary world she still lived in. She sighed and rubbed her temple. There was so much to do.

But beneath the weight of it all, one thought cut through clearer than anything else: She couldn’t wait to see her son again.

Bane (After Forbidden Forest Incident)

Bane’s ears twitched as the night settled heavy again. They watched as the Firenze and the boy disappeared into the forest. Still, the air did not feel the same as before. Something had shifted, a ripple through the patterns centaurs had studied for countless generations. Bane sighed down at the fallen Unicorn, its fresh blood staining its white coat. They would need to light a pier tonight.

Ronan was still watching the heavens, his expression dreamlike. “Mars burns brighter every season,” he murmured, voice low. “Yet tonight… it was not Mars that watched him. It was Neptune, steady and vast, casting its long shadow.”

Bane huffed. “You speak as though the stars themselves lean closer to him.”

“They do,” Ronan replied simply. “Do you not see it? All of the stars will be watching him, even if they don’t know it yet. The boy smells of Neptune’s tides and it reaches for him in return. Saturn’s rings cast shadows down upon him, he will face their trials.” Ronan huffed, finally looking at Bane instead of the sky. “He will wander far beyond these woods, farther even than most of his kind dream to. Storm and sea follow at his heels, though he does not yet know their names. He will fail and all will be lost, or he will be triumphant and all will be saved.”

Bane’s tail lashed against his hind legs, and he crossed his arms, looking deep into the woods where the boy had just left. “Storm, sea, shadow… all the same. It is peril. The boy should not be entangled in such things. The stars mark the path, but we know their ways: triumph always comes at cost.”

“And yet,” Ronan said, his tone oddly gentle, “Venus gleamed when he stepped into the glade. Not with the brightness of one who will love easily, but of one who will bind others together. Fire, water, earth — they will not move apart from him. Even the old powers turn their gaze.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind stirred through the branches, rustling the leaves and they listened for a song long forgotten. It refused to reveal anything yet though.

Finally, Bane said, “The boy is not yet ready. The weight upon him is too heavy.”

Ronan only smiled, his gaze softening in a subtle sadness. “None are ever ready. That is why the heavens prepare them. Saturn tests, Neptune calls, and Jupiter waits. The rest will follow in their time.”

Bane shook his head, though he did not argue further. The stars had spoken, whether he liked their answer or not.

Together, they turned back into the forest, their hooves soft against the earth. Above them, the night sky wheeled on, planets tracing their slow, inexorable paths — whispering futures too great for one boy to bear and yet resting them upon him all the same.

Sally 3 (Percy gets back Home) Note: go back and make sure Sally notices his scar...

They had curled up together on the motel couch, just the two of them and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn between them.

The train had gotten in late, and neither of them had been in the mood to fight their way to a Portkey station, so they’d found a cheap motel nearby instead. When Percy first spotted her at the platform, he’d dropped his trunk where he stood and rushed her without hesitation, burying himself in her arms. She had clung to him like her life depended on it. Maybe it had.

They’d said their goodbyes to his friends—there were promises to write, of course—and now, finally, it was just them again. Percy was walking her through his first year at Hogwarts like it had been a wild summer camp, full of broomsticks and spells and… apparently exams.

She had asked about the final week of term—what they did after classes ended—and his answer had been a casual, offhanded comment delivered mid-chew.

“So anyway,” he said, stuffing more popcorn into his mouth, “when I was in the medical wing, Dumbledore pulled me aside and told me Voldemort’s not, like, fully dead. Just kind of… floating around like magical sludge or something.”

Sally froze. Her fingers stopped inches from the bowl, and she turned to look at her son slowly.

“I’m sorry,” she said evenly. “Back up. Why were you in the medical wing?”

Percy blinked. “Uh… because of the whole face-off with the evil wizard who murdered my parents thing? Did I not mention that part?”

Her hand dropped.

“Excuse me?”

Percy hesitated. “What part didn’t I say out loud?”

She sat upright so fast it jostled him sideways.

“The face-off with the evil wizard part, Percy! That should have been the first thing you told me! I thought you were talking about end-of-year exams and flying practice! How did we jump from Potions finals to someone tried to murder you?!”

He winced. “I mean… it’s kind of a natural escalation curve at Hogwarts—”

“Percy.”

She was standing now, arms crossed so tightly across her chest it felt like she might snap in half if she didn’t hold herself together. Her voice came sharp and strained, high with emotion.

“You told me there were teachers,” she snapped. “You said there were safety wards. You said it was a good school.”

“It is a good school!” he said quickly. “They just… define ‘safe’ a little differently in the magical world.”

“You were in the medical ward. You fought him. And no one thought to tell me? Not even a letter? Not even a letter?!”

“To be fair,” Percy muttered, “I was unconscious. Kind of hard to write when you’re out cold. And when I woke up, it was two days before the end of term—I figured I’d tell you in person…” Percy hesitated before a thought seemed to come to him. “Also, it’s possible there was a letter sent out, but Headmaster Dumbledore said he sent it to my aunt. Which is weird because I… don’t have an aunt.”

Sally’s breath was coming faster now, shallow and heated. “Percy Jackson, I am your mother. I should not be hearing about this while you’re sitting on a motel couch eating popcorn.”

He finally looked guilty.

She didn’t even wait for a response. Instead, she stepped forward, brushing his bangs back automatically like she had when he was little. Her fingers stilled.

“Your scar…” she murmured, narrowing her eyes. “It’s longer.”

He blinked up at her. “Oh. Yeah. It kind of… grew? Hermione and I looked it up. Apparently, curse scars are weird. That’s the official magical consensus.”

Her stomach twisted sharply.

She traced the edge of the lightning bolt now etched deeper across his forehead. It looked redder, angrier than she remembered. Not quite healed.

She yanked her hand back like it had burned her.

“I swear,” she said, voice low and trembling with fury, “I’m writing to Professor McGonagall first thing tomorrow. I’m having them correct your guardianship records immediately. They will send letters to me. Not whatever aunt they think you have. I'll be looking into that too It's possible it's a sibling of your other parents and they think they have you.”

“Mom…” Percy inched closer, his voice gentler. “Hey. I’m okay.”

“No, you weren’t. You were unconscious. You fought an evil wizard. That’s the literal opposite of okay.”

“I didn’t look for him!” Percy said quickly. “It’s not like I woke up and decided, ‘You know what sounds fun today? Dying.’ I was following my friends. I thought they were in trouble. I had to help.”

Her mouth opened—but nothing came out.

Her chest ached. Her hands shook. A dozen emotions slammed into her at once—fear, helplessness, fury… and pride, damn it. Always pride.

She sank back onto the couch beside him, every movement careful and stiff.

“You followed them into danger,” she said softly, brushing his curls away again.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Without telling anyone.”

“I tried to tell McGonagall,” he muttered. “She shut it down pretty quick though. I guess she thought our worries were unfounded and didn't want us getting in trouble. It didn't quite work out how she wanted.”

Sally exhaled, a long breath that made her shoulders sag. She rubbed at her temples. “I should pull you out,” she said, muttering more to herself than Percy. “Take you home. Never let you go back to that school.”

Her son heard her anyway. He turned sharply, panic blooming in his expression. “Don’t do that.”

“Percy—”

“Please, Mom.” His voice cracked a little. “That school makes sense to me. I get it. For the first time, I’m not failing everything. I’m not the screw-up who sets off fire alarms just by feeling things too strongly. I have friends. I actually like school.”

Sally’s heart clenched.

“You’ve never been a screw-up,” she whispered.

He gave her a soft, crooked smile. “I know you think that. But I didn’t believe it. Not until this year.”

She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw someone braver, older, more worn than he had been just ten months ago. Her baby was growing up in a world that didn’t pull its punches.

And still… he smiled.

She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. “I won’t pull you out.”

He sagged in relief.

“But I am writing that letter,” she added firmly. “To McGonagall. First thing tomorrow. Your school records are going to reflect the truth. And next time you get hurt, they will contact me.”

“Totally fair,” Percy said. “Completely.”

They sat for a while after that, silence stretching between them as the hum of the old motel A/C filled the space.

Then she turned toward him again, voice low. “Promise me something?”

He looked cautious. “Depends what it is.”

“Promise me next year, you’ll be careful. None of that heroic nonsense. No flinging yourself at danger for your friends.”

He hesitated, then shrugged a little. “I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just… couldn’t let them get hurt.”

“I know,” she said. And she meant it.

He leaned gently into her side. “But I’ll try. I promise.”

“Good.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He grinned at her, her gut unclenching a bit.

She smiled too, though her eyes were still damp.

Then she passed him the popcorn again.

“Now tell me everything. Everything. No skipping this time.”