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Chapter Text

"For the most powerful country in the Western World, we hold the ultimate privilege–and curse–to host the Greco-Roman pantheon. It is our duty, as the helm and holder of the Western Flame, to contain the demigod threat. They are nature’s purest form of magic constrained to a human body–dangerous, unpredictable, and uncivilized; as such, civilized nations must keep them in check to ensure prosperity to our community."

Emanuel Katz, 48th President of Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA), 1948

Elijah Miller hated his job sometimes. And, to be fair, it looked like Perseus Jackson hated that he did his job at all.

It would certainly make sense that the two were each others’ greatest annoyances, seeing as Elijah had arrested the young adult exactly eight times now over the past eight years. It was a record exactly no one was celebrating. 

Perseus blinked up at him in a faux expression of innocence. “Elijah–”

“ Agent Miller,” he corrected. “It’s been eight years, Perseus, you should know this by now.” Almost of a decade of chasing this reckless, idiotic demigod across the globe, just for him to up a disappear each time he caught up. It was like trying to domesticate a particularly feral house-cat. Except this house-cat was one of the most dangerous demigods in modern history. A minor detail, in Elijah’s eyes. The only detail that mattered was that he scratched (and Elijah means this literally, as Arrest-Number-Three can attest). 

The twenty-year-old’s expression clouded at the mention of his name. “And it’s Percy, you should know that by now too.” Elijah did, in fact, know that, but he ignored it, just as Perseus ignored his proper title. 

Elijah hummed a bit, considering. “See, but I don’t know a Percy, I only know a Perseus Jackson,” he said, just to be a shit to the demigod noticably younger than him. He tapped the official MACUSA file, boldy titled PERSEUS JACSKON: DEMIGOD, WANTED. There was a small blurb talking about how he’s been a menace to society since the ripe age of twelve, ever since he was the subject of a nationwide manhunt, nearly blowing the Statute of Secrecy to hell. It was the nightmare scenario. Congress was in an uproar, an Auror team of twenty– twenty!– was sent out to hunt him down, multiple nations got involved with suppressing the story from the No-Majs (not that they succeeded), blah blah blah. All that racket caused by one little pre-teen. 

And now that little pre-teen had grown up to be the most insufferable demigod in the history of magic.

Secretly, Elijah was a little proud of the kid–not that he would tell anyone that, of course. 

Percy’s eyes snapped to the file, knowing good and well what it said. He scowled. “Yeah, well maybe you should update that.” 

“Oh, so you got a legal name change?” Elijah asked innocently, “That’s the only way to change it, you know.” His expression went from clouded to mutinous. Not that he could do much about it, considering that he was handcuffed to the desk by both hands. There were also a few other magical protections to ensure that he couldn’t break out. Like a goblin steel door that’s only openable by a singular person’s magical signature (which happens to be himself, as the lead investigator of the case). And then there was a simple No-Maj dehumidifier just to make sure that he couldn’t pull any water out of his surroundings. It was a rather impressive setup, if Elijah says so himself. 

And it was all made to prevent Percy Jackson from escaping again. 

If he slipped out of his hands this time, it would mark the fifth time that he got out of his life-sentence at Grimsditch Prison. And with the President breathing down his neck, that could not happen. 

“Can’t you guys just let me out?” Percy huffed. 

“No, Perseus,” Elijah sighed like a tired teacher faced with a particularly challenging student. “What were you doing to get arrested?” 

“I was saving a girl’s life,” he snapped. “She was about to get eaten if I didn’t do anything! And you guys are going to lock me up for that?”

“What’s the law? ” 

“Fuck your law,” the son of Poseidon snarled. Elijah just waited, incredibly used to these outbursts. Percy sighed, but it sounded much more like a growl. “‘Public use of mythological magic or objects with such properties is forbidden to protect the Statute of Secrecy,’” he dully recited. Elijah could only guess how many times that was drilled into his memory. 

“Exactly, and what did you do? Used your demigod powers and weapons.” 

This time, Percy really did growl in frustration. His muscles tensed against his restraints, and Elijah’s blood froze in his veins. He made dead eye-contact with the demigod’s glowing, poisonous eyes. 

The atmosphere became a weighted, physical thing. His heart began to pound–realizing that it didn’t matter that they had a fucking No-Maj dehumidifier in the cell, he was going to die anyways. It was the equivalent of willingly trapping himself in a broom closet with a tiger. His brain screamed inhuman with bright red alarms. He pulled his wand out of his holster, ready to shoot off one or a dozen spells if needed. He was paralyzed–a mere mortal staring into the abyss of something more. Something he could never truly understand.

It was all over in less than a minute. The son of Poseidon went limp against his restraints, and he looked away. Elijah kept his wand out, and the fear and adrenaline kept flowing through him. His body was instinctively reacting to his natural predator, after all. Demigods were simply higher up on the food chain than mortals–even if those mortals were wizards. 

“Unsettled, Agent?” Perseus quietly asked as he stared at the desk in front of him. It was just as unnerving as his eyes.

“You know I am,” Elijah replied just as quietly and maybe a little sadly. As much as he hated– hated –to admit it, he was fond of the boy, and it was truly tragic to watch him become something less and less human as the years went on. It seemed that the godly side of a demigod always caught up. 

The two sat in heavy silence for a few minutes. It didn’t look like he was going to be escaping anytime soon. He tried to imagine it: Perseus Jackson locked up in Grimsditch Prison, never to see the light of day again. The most powerful demigod in generations finally out of their hair. 

It was surreal, but Elijah couldn’t bring himself to be particularly happy about it. He’d practically watched the boy grow up–in a weird, stalker-ish uncle way. He privately thought that Percy didn’t deserve his sentence, but to his core, Elijah followed orders. And his orders were to capture Perseus Jackson for good this time. After all, he was just a case. Once he was gone, there’d be plenty of other demigods awaiting similar fates. 

A knock sounded on the silver door. The transport team? He got up to answer it. “Don’t move,” he said lazily to Perseus, who shot him an acidic glare without any real heat in it. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Elijah made sure to close the door behind him. 

On the other side, there was a woman he’d never seen before. “Hello, Agent Miller,” she began. Elijah blinked in surprise. British? “Please step aside–I must talk to Perseus Jackson.” She stared at him with pale, silver eyes and platinum blonde hair that almost nearly made him reach for his wand–one of Athena’s? But no, he shook himself out of it, she’s much too old to be an active demigod. All those over twenty-five have either all died out or hidden themselves at their unplottable bases, and the woman in front of him had to be well into her thirties or forties.

She spoke with a particular type of condescension that made his hackles rise. After he made sure that she wasn’t actually a demigod, there was really only one other option: a pureblood. And, well, Elijah certainly didn’t have time for any of their schemes–even if she was curiously British. “First of all–who even are you? Second–no. Absolutely not.” 

“I,” the woman sniffed haughtily, “am Narcissa Black-Malfoy, and I insist you open this door.” 

Black. Malfoy. Two pureblood families that managed to migrate over to America in some capacity. However, they weren’t all that important from what Elijah understood. Bottom feeders in comparison to the other families in New York and DC, really. The way she placed so much emphasis on her last name made him feel embarrassed for her–he couldn’t imagine being that proud to be on the same family tree as some low-level yes-men in Congress. “I literally don’t care. I already told you the answer, sorry.” He was not sorry. 

She didn’t even blink at his refusal. If anything, it looked like she was suppressing a smirk. “From my understanding, you uncivilized lot in America seem to care more about money than family history–which suits my goals just as well.”

The indignation and annoyance he felt quickly transformed into white-hot anger. “Are you trying to bribe me?” He asked, absolutely incredulous by the gall of this pureblood. “Do I look–”

“What could possibly be giving you the impression that I’m trying to do something so unrefined as to bribe you?” Narcissa interrupted like she was inspecting a pile of shit that she accidentally stepped in. She smiled at him in a slimy, distinctly politician-like way. “No, no. You misunderstand, Agent Miller, I’ve already been given the permission to speak with the son of Poseidon.”

He found his patience–something he prided himself on because one did not hunt down Perseus Jackson for eight years without it–dwindling all too quickly. “By who?” he snapped. “I’m his handler and lead investigator.” 

“By your President.” Narcissa truly did smirk at him then. Full of pureblood superiority that Elijah thought he was done letting rile him up. 

“How do I know you’re not lying out of your ass?” 

She scrunched her nose up like she smelled something foul when he swore. She pulled her wand out, and Elijah reactively slipped his out of his forearm holster. Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Relax.” She waved her wand and something silver slipped out. A Patronus, he realized with a start. A wordless one at that. It made him instantly wary of the witch–she was certainly much more powerful than her pitiful attempts at intimidating him would suggest. “Tell President Torres that I ran into some issues gaining access to Perseus’s cell.” 

The silver rabbit hopped into the wall and disappeared. “And now we wait,” he deadpanned. 

She flashed him another one of her disgusting smiles. “And now we wait,” she agreed. Elijah groaned, but then thought about how Perseus would react to this visitor. It brought him a certain amount of satisfaction to imagine someone else having to deal with him.

After about two minutes, another Patronous appeared before the pair. It was President Torres’s infamous bald eagle. “Agent Miller,” commanded the bald eagle in the president’s voice, “let Narcissa Black-Malfoy talk to Perseus Jackson alone.” Elijah gaped at the disappearing animal. Unbelievable–there went his vote for her, he swore. 

He spelled the goblin silver door open with a glare. “Having fucking fun,” he snarked, much too immature for someone of his age or position. 

“Trust me, I will.” This time, she didn’t smile or even look at him.

Percy was kind of getting tired of being arrested by wizards. 

At least these wizards were dumb as fucking rocks because a non-magical dehumifidier? Sure, it kept the water out of the air but all that did was make his job easier by collecting the water in the device. Honestly, if he were arrested this many times by the non-magical police, then he’d maybe have some problems. 

Just as he was testing out his control over the water in the dehumidifier–gods, he had to Annabeth about this one–, the door opened to reveal a new woman without poor Elijah. She walked in confidently with her wand aimed at his head, and Percy had to wonder what encouraged this change in script. Over the eight times this happened, he and his ‘handler’, as the wizards liked to say, established a pattern. He’d get detained, Elijah would gloat and put in on his record, and he’d find a way to escape another life sentence. 

That pattern did not account for new people. 

He released his control over the water in the room hesitantly as to not give away his plan just yet. He wanted to see what this woman had to say. “My name is Narcissa Black-Malfoy,” she introduced herself snootily like he was supposed to know who the hell she was. Also–she was British? Percy just stared at her, incredulous. What could she possibly want from him? 

Something in the back of his mind clicked–arrogant witch with heavy emphasis on her last name. Oh gods, a pureblood. What was one of them doing in his cell? Percy could only barely remember Annabeth saying that all the important ones stayed clear of demigods–something about them being bad omens to wizards. Maybe she just wasn’t important? 

Percy surveyed Narcissa’s face and decided that probably wasn’t the best thing to ask unless he wanted to get blasted in the face. 

“Uh-huh,” Percy said finally, “what do you want?” 

“Well, first, I’d like a ‘thank you’ for being the one to suggest placing a muggle dehumidifier in your room.” 

All of Percy’s thoughts about wizard blood politics and escaping screeched to a halt. Because– what? This witch was the one to give him the key to his escape? Again: what? Her self-satisfied smile told him that he wasn’t very good at keeping the dumbfounded look off his face. 

“It looks like I have your attention now,” she murmured as she sat down at the desk directly opposite to him. Elijah always stood up. 

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Percy dared. “I thought wizards–especially purebloods–didn’t know about non-magical technology. What gives?” He wanted to say ‘why do you want me to escape?’ but he wasn’t sure about her intentions just yet. Maybe she was also just another extraordinarily stupid wizard who thought she had bested him–he couldn’t tip her off if that was the case.

There was a pregnant pause after that. “I didn’t know about this… technology,” Narcissa considered, “until I became interested in you.” 

Percy reared back. Now that sounded all too similar to some mythological baddies that he ran into other the years. If not that, then it was just plain creepy. “Okay, Narcissus–what in the ever living hell does that mean? Because no offense, but I’m not really into older women.” 

“Narcissa,” she testily corrected, perfectly manicured finger nails tapping against the silver table. “And I mean that I think it’s a waste to have you rot in prison for the rest of your life.” 

Percy rolled his neck, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. He hated wizards. “While I appreciate the concern,” he drawled with an unsaid not, “but why? I mean, I’m a big bad demigod. Menace to wizards everywhere.”

“I’m under the belief that you and your… kind,” she said with a certain amount of disdain that made Percy roll his eyes. Blood purists are all the same, even if they want his help. “Are useful when you choose to be.”

“Oh, yeah?” Percy grinned a little wolfishly at her, scary enough to make her tense up. Wizards were so sensitive, and they hated knowing that they weren’t the top of the food chain. “Where’s your proof that I’ll comply with your orders?” 

“My proof is that I have something you want.”

Percy kept up his grin, slightly amused. “Right—and what’s that? We don’t know each other, how could you possibly know what I want?” What he wanted right now was to leave and take the longest nap at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, and he doubted she could help him with that. 

“I can get your name off the wanted list.” That certainly wiped the smile off his face. 

And dammit he did want that. 

“How on Earth could you possibly do that?” Percy demanded, leaning forward. 

“I have connections,” she responded with dead eye contact. Her silver eyes almost made him think of Athena, but the way she was trying to snake her way out of giving him a real answer made him think of Zeus or Hades.

“Try again.”

Narcissa sighed like this was the biggest inconvenience of her life. “All you need to know right now is that me and MACUSA’s President have an agreement—if you solve my problem, she gets a much stronger political foothold in Europe and you get your record wiped.” 

Stunned, all Percy could do was gape at this strange witch. He could hear Annabeth calling him a Seaweed Brain in the back of his mind. Getting his name off the gods-damned wanted list… It was a dream.

See, there was this thing called the “Three Strike Rule” in the magical world. It wasn’t enough that demigods were hunted down by monsters and other mythological bad guys, but wizards had to enter the mix too. To them, demigods were the greatest threat to their secrecy to normal people. So instead of making more spells or something to conceal them even more, the Magical Congress of the United States of America decided on this wonderful law that determined that once a demigod was detained three times for public use of “magic”, they got sent to prison for life. No exceptions.

And, well, with two demigod wars… it was hard to avoid detection.

Now, Percy had escaped that life sentence five times now, practically writing his own name on the wanted list in golden, glittery ink. This list made it so wizard bounty hunters and magical law enforcement could come and arrest him even if he wasn’t doing anything to break their little law. He practically lived his life on the run. 

So when Percy retired from demigod business, wizards made it a point to bitch-slap him into reality. And the reality was: he couldn’t live a free, normal life with his name on the stupid list. 

“Say I do help your problem,” Percy admitted sharply, struggling to ignore Narcissa’s smug smirk, “what would I have to do?”

“Oh, nothing,” she studied her nails like a cat who caught the canary. “Just stop a war.” 

Percy could feel his blood drain from his face. Of course it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to fight in another war. 

“Will there be others? Or I am just special.” There was no way he was stopping a war entirely by himself—he’d rather live on the run than die alone.

“Oh, there will be—if they agree,” the pureblood reassured. “Annabeth Chase being one of them.” 

Relief cooled his racing heart, but… Annabeth was on the wanted list too, Percy quickly realized. And two others. 

“And Nico di Angelo and Alabaster Torrington , I assume?” He asked testily. It’d make sense that she’d just go down the list of wanted demigods. They proved they were strong enough to fight off magical combatants and she had something on them. Gods, they really just landed right in her lap. It made him wonder why no one else tried this before—maybe no one was desperate enough until now.

But still— Alabaster?

Percy knew he’d say yes with no hesitation, if he hadn’t already. The leader of Kronos’s demigod army had been exiled, and he knew that running from both monsters and wizards without having Camp to come back to was a death warrant. The fact that he hadn’t died or captured was impressive, but that didn’t make Percy any more excited to work with him. Torrington would probably kill him on sight, the ass.

Narcissa barely batted an eye at the reveal. “Yes, you four would make up the group.” 

Percy let out a long suffering sigh and dropped his head on the desk. He weighed the pros and cons in his head. 

Pro—he got his name off the list, so he was safe to see his mortal family without having a billion disguises on. He could get a mortal job and have a normal life, something he’s wanted since he was twelve. 

Con—he could die, and he had to work with Alabaster Torrington. 

Well, it was kind of clear what he had to do. He almost died everyday, anyways. 

“Fine,” he dragged the word out in an immature groan. “I’ll do it.” 

Narcissa looked so self-satisfied that he was tempted to say no on principle. “Wonderful. I was almost worried you’d say no, and then I’d have to take away the dehumidifier—and that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” 

“Very,” Percy gritted his teeth, “incredibly shameful.” Bribed and blackmailed in the same breath, this lady was something. 

“Well, once you inevitably escape, meet me at the base of the Empire State Building in a week.” With that, she stood up and turned to knock on the un-openable silver door that Elijah seemed so fond of. 

“Wait,” Percy choked out, his head spinning with recent developments, “you’re not going to help me get out?” 

She cocked her head at him like he was a rather cute puppy who just peed on the couch. “Why would I do that?” 

And with that, the door opened, and their conversation was over. Percy turned his head back to the dehumidified and focused. 

He made sure that Narcissa could hear the explosion of the device.

Chapter Text

“From what I’ve observed, demigods live in a state of perpetual war. If they aren’t fighting for their lives against a great beast or for a god’s favor, they play war games with swords and knives. If they aren’t doing that, they’re training. They gape at a wizard’s life of relative peace with jealousy… It’s no wonder that they’d react violently to witnessing a life they could never have.”

Giles Taylor, author of The Final Class of Magical Creatures: An Anthropology, 1856

Narcissa Black-Malfoy, or just Malfoy if you wanted to insult her, vehemently hated New York City. It was, in fact, nothing like London - and that was her being generous. She wasn’t one for city life anyways; she’d always preferred her childhood homes in the countryside of France. Cities, whether London or Paris, were always filled with filth of all sorts. But of course, demigods had to be located in this wretched city. 

They blended in too well with the muggles, scuttling about like the rats New York was very much known for. However, she wasn’t finding them all too difficult to catch. All she had to do was place some irresistible cheese at the mouth of her trap, and suddenly she had the most powerful demigod in the world in her pocket. 

Narcissa was far too amused with her own little analogy that her focus wavered slightly, like an over-arrogant fool. She refocused herself, understanding her place essentially surrounded by enemies. Muggles and mudbloods and blood traitors and demigods alike. 

My, my, isn’t New York a scary place? She mused to herself, trying to fight off the smirk threatening to break out on her face. Purebloods must remain stoic, as is their duty and heritage. They were humanity’s representatives to the gods, and they had to be on their best behavior - especially as Narcissa was shamelessly walking over their doorstep. 

Something collided with her, abruptly knocking her out of her thoughts. Her expression undoubtedly soured. I mustn't ever let Draco visit this place. Her feet continued confidently forward even as she told herself that she was throwing the very shoes she was wearing away. The sheer amount of filth of this city… unparalleled. She had no idea how the gods themselves let their home city become this uncivilized. It must’ve been the American influence - Morganna forbid London look like this when they were the beacon of Western Civilization. The British had their pride for Merlin’s sake. 

As she looked around, she saw things that were progressively more uncouth. Muggles dressed as animals, in capes, and frivolous costumes. People begging along the street. She regretted her decision to survey the city that most demigods called home. She commanded her feet to steer herself to the magical sector of the city, buried in the entrance of the Woolworth building. 

She glanced back at the muggle scene she was leaving behind and scoffed. No wonder most demigods turn out to be good-for-nothing criminals. Godly, yes, but painfully muggle. They have none of the prestige that wizards do, none of the civilization. Wizards were chosen while demigods simply were. 

In the background of her walking, thunder rumbled, yet she thought nothing of it. 

When she reached the base of the Woolworth building, she finally was able to grab her wand for the first time in about an hour. America had such a rigid Statute of Secrecy, and, admittedly, she was quite nervous to even hold her wand when she was out and about muggle areas. When she reached into her sleeve, she expected to feel the reassurance of connecting with the wand she’s had since she was eleven - her fifth limb, if you would. 

And yet, as she grabbed onto the slim wood piece hidden in her sleeve, she felt nothing. A chill traveled up her spine instead, where something was decidedly wrong. She ripped the piece of wood out from its hiding space, and her dread grew into full-blown panic. 

It was the wrong wand. 

At least it was a wand, and not something slipped into the same area via sleight of hand. That meant that a muggle couldn’t have done so, but why would a magical something steal her wand only to gift another to her? 

The panic cooled, if only slightly. It was just a wand. Albeit, the very wand that survived with her through the last war, but still a wand - replaceable. 

She couldn’t lose her head over a wand when she had a mission to complete. She couldn’t let what happened fifteen years ago happen now. Narcissa refused to let her child suffer because of her people’s pride. 

She turned on her heel to stomp over to her lodgings when -

“Looking for something?” 

Narcissa turned so sharply that she gave herself whiplash. It was a girl with dark skin and artificially blonde hair sitting on the stairs of the entrance, haphazardly waving her beloved wand around. 

Pieces clicked in Narcissa’s mind far too rapidly. 

The girl sitting there was no normal witch. It was Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena, and the second person on her list. And she had somehow gotten ahold of her wand. 

Oh, Merlin’s tits. 

“Annabeth Chase,” she started after a rather pregnant pause, “this is a surprise.” 

“I’m sure it is,” the demigod agreed easily enough with a smile. A beat and then - “Especially after you accosted my boyfriend just a few hours ago,” Annabeth said in the same, easy tone as before, and yet Narcissa could feel the undercurrent of tension. It was a different kind of tension that Perseus had. This time Narcissa wasn’t dealing with a demigod in handcuffs or in a detention center - they were out in the open, where anything could happen. 

“Accosted? That seems like a mischaracterization of my encounter with Perseus,” she responded faux innocently before biting her tongue. She wasn’t dealing with one of Draco’s friends. Annabeth Chase was a demigod, a being of raw, uncontrolled power. Someone who had undoubtedly killed a good amount of witches and wizards in the past. Narcissa had to be careful with what she said. 

Surprisingly, Annabeth laughed. “I’m sure he had. Tell me, at what point in the conversation did he call you Narcissus?” 

“It was among the first things he said to me,” she answered honestly, bewildered by how casually the daughter of Athena was acting. Of all the reports she read of the demigods, Annabeth was the quietest, most secretive. MACUSA law enforcement would salivate over the information she probably had, they would call her ‘the key to Olympus’. 

But Annabeth Chase was just sitting on the steps to the wizarding headquarters in America, peacefully, without a care in the world. Laughing, of all things. 

She chuckled, “Of course he did. He’s good, but he’s not the best at negotiations.” 

“And I’m to assume you are?” 

Annabeth craned her head to look up at Narcissa, still standing high above the demigod, practically halfway into the entrance. “Come sit with me.” Narcissa hesitated. She didn’t want people to see her talking to a noticeably wanted demigod, it’d throw her plans out of motion before they’d fully begun. “No one will see you.” 

She supposed that she was obvious with her hesitation. “I don’t suppose you have an invisibility cloak with you then?” 

The demigod threw her head back and laughed. “No, nothing like that. Mortal minds are just… fragile.” 

“You mean muggle minds are fragile. Wizards see through your tricks,” she snapped back before she could stop herself. The idea that this demigod put her and her people on the same level as muggles was - was just -

Annabeth laughed again, and curiously, snapped. The sound was so crisp that it almost echoed off the imposing New York buildings. “I find that wizards more ignorant than no-majs.” 

Narcissa stuttered. The sheer disrespect… “I -” Annabeth threw up a hand to cut her off. 

“Just watch, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

She simmered in barely restrained anger and watched. The world moved on like they simply didn’t exist. Everyone walking up the steps cleanly avoided them without even glancing in their direction. Narcissa could pick out some wizards in the crowd, those with odd outfits or their wands out, and they had no clue they were there, concealed by demigod magic. 

“What spell is this?” she demanded. It was dangerous to know that demigods could do this. 

“No spell, Mrs. Malfoy, just nature.” Narcissa turned to stare at a bustling crowd of people doing something distinctly unnatural . “And I think we’re straying from the point.” 

Narcissa blinked to refocus herself. She wasn’t usually this off-kilter, but this demigod… “Ah, yes, why did you steal my wand and replace it? Actually - how?” 

Annabeth, unlike herself, didn’t blink. Instead, she stared brazenly into the witch’s soul. “I think ‘how’ is also taking away from the point. Also for ‘why’ - well, it certainly got your attention, didn’t it?” 

“I have a feeling you could’ve gotten my attention in my different ways,” came the response, dry. 

“I figured I could give you a taste of what demigods could do,” the young adult said, leaning back. “I don’t have any powers, you know. The other two you’re trying to recruit… they’re some of the most dangerous demigods of the past century.” 

“So you came to warn me?” 

Annabeth Chase smirked, slow and deeply unsettling. “I have a feeling that you’ll be too stubborn to accept a warning - care to tell me why?” She still hasn’t blinked yet. 

“There’s going to be a war, and I need you four to stop it,” Narcissa said simply. Annabeth may be more startling than Perseus, purely because Narcissa did not prepare for this confrontation yet, but she’s not going to get her to reveal everything before it’s ready. 

“Ah, yes, the mortal that supposedly rose from the dead,” Annabeth mused, seemingly to herself, “I had a feeling it was something like that.” 

“What do you know about it?” Narcissa found herself asking. She truly didn’t expect any demigod to keep up to date with wizarding news, especially foreign wizarding news. 

“Just whatever the papers are putting out. I… have been a bit distracted recently. Nico is more up-to-date than I am. What I want to know is why do you want to stop the war? It seems like your side has a guaranteed win.” 

“And my side is?” Narcissa asked, just to be coy. 

Annabeth gave the witch a flat look. “Don’t insult my intelligence. You and Voldemort’s band of merry men - everything’s going right for you. Why stop it?” 

The older woman pursed her lips. She didn’t want to be too transparent with the girl, but she supposed it would be beneficial to provide some trust to gain some in return. “My son,” she grounded out haltingly, “he’s too soft. The Dark Lord has his eyes on him, and he wants him to join his ranks. He’ll fail - I know it, my coward of a husband knows it - and when he fails, the Dark Lord will kill him.” 

Annabeth finally blinked, slowly and excruciatingly. There was quiet for a moment. “So… this is simply a mother caring too much about her child?” There was a slight hitch to her voice. 

Narcissa frowned. “I suppose you could see it like that.” 

More silence followed. 

After about a minute of sitting in silence, Annabeth unexpectedly stood up. “Alright, I think that’s all the information I need right now. You’ll tell us more in a week?” 

Narcissa nodded in a slight daze. “At the Empire State Building.”

Annabeth’s lips twitched in an aborted smile. “Of course it is.” She hesitated for a second. “You know, your kid is lucky to have you as a mom.” 

And then, as suddenly as she arrived, Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena, was gone. The only thing left behind was Narcissa Black-Malfoy’s wand with a note attached: "don't bother tracking di Angelo down, he's on a mission." 

“Oh, come on,” he growled at the seedy werewolf who was the bouncer for this particular club, “my ID literally says I’m twenty-one!” Alabaster could already feel the deep bass of the music from inside in his bones. 

“Alabaster, maybe we should -” Claymore tried to murmur in his ear, but the twenty-year-old shrugged him off. Claymore always disapproved of these places and, even more, of the company he kept. 

“I should be allowed entry!” Alabaster tried again. Even outside of the fact that these places were fun, he had an important contact he needed to meet in there. 

“It’s not your age, kid,” the werewolf sneered, “we don’t want any demigods mucking up our establishment. You know how you people are - vermin.” Quite honestly, that was rich coming from a werewolf. And, well, if Alabaster had anything to say about it, he’d drive the silver letter opener he carried in his back pocket through the mutt’s neck to show him who the true vermin were. 

He bit his tongue and forced his hands into a fist. “I literally just saw a group of vampires enter - you’re telling me that a single demigod is too much for you guys?” 

“Alabaster…” Claymore warned. 

“Not right now, Claymore,” he snapped at the mistform of his friend. “You’re lucky I don’t call MACUSA on your asses.” 

“You should be lucky that I don’t report you to MACUSA,” the bouncer snarled back quickly. Alabaster tracked the man’s fingers as the werewolf pulled out his wand. He smiled in a way that bared his teeth—like that would stop him. “If you wanna make a scene, fine but once you get your ass hauled to Grimsditch Prison, the only person you’ll be able to blame is yourself.” 

“This is discrimination!” 

“Leave!” the werewolf barked. Alabaster threw his hands up in exasperation—he might as well just mist the guy and walk in. “If you try anything funny—“

“I got it, I got it,” Alabaster flatly responded. He considered forcing his way in, but… nah, it was too much trouble for this one contact. “Tsk, whatever—let’s go, Claymore.”

The man mumbled, “ Finally ,” to himself, and Alabaster rolled his eyes. It was too much to ask to even get a drink around New York City. Magicals were so touchy. 

“Where do you think we should go next?” he asked the doctor. Not a literal doctor, mind you, with medical expertise, but a fancy PhD that doesn’t do him much good wandering America as a mist form. Luckily, that gave Alabaster access to his bank account.

(Alright—Claymore gave him access, but that makes it sound less cool.) 

“Maybe Ohio?” the good doctor responded sarcastically. “Honestly, I think we should just ignore these magical types from here on out.” 

Alabaster snorted into the dark, empty alleyway that they were walking through. “I wish.” Minus the fact that he was actively wanted , he operated in the magical underworld. He smuggled mythological goods to certain clients—for a price. Information, mostly, or bribes—ways to get away from Aurors. Another mark on his record against the gods. “We’re surrounded by nuisances, Claymore.” 

“I heard London is nice this time of year,” a sudden voice interjected (British?). “Really, lovely weather, interesting… people.” Alabaster’s body moved on autopilot. He grabbed a mistform card and immediately summoned his imperial gold sword. He spun, dragging the large sword through the air, and pointed it directly at the woman’s neck. “Oh, scary, aren’t we?”

“I’d like to think so,” Alabaster responded aggressively. “Who are you?” 

“Narcissa Black-Malfoy,” she responded primly, sniffing her nose in the air. She looked almost offended that he had to ask. “And before you ask, I have a proposition for you.” 

He sighed, dragging his hand through his hair. A client, then. He hesitantly put his sword down but didn’t put it away. “You want me to get something for you?” 

“Something like that,” Narcissa said with a sly smirk. Alabaster was already irritated, but the fact that she was acting like she had the higher ground here was truly getting on his nerves. He’s dealt with enough smug people to last a lifetime, thank you very much. 

“Get on with it, then,” Claymore interrupted. “It’s not often clients track us down in dark alleys.” 

Narcissa’s eyes flashed over to the man like she had just realized he was there. “And who are you?” 

“Dr. Howard Claymore, at your service,” he drawled with a sarcastic bow. Narcissa’s face contorted into something deeper than disgust. 

“A muggle, then.” 

“What he is doesn’t matter,” Alabaster snapped. He hated wizards and their mundane bigotry. Small-minded with a superiority complex - the worst, and most headache-inducing, combination. “And my patience is running thin. What do you want?” 

“To stop beating around the bush, I want you to stop a war.” She looked far too satisfied with herself for such a request. 

Alabaster laughed, fully and loudly enough for it to echo. “Yeah, okay,” he chuckled. “I’m leaving.” None of his clients could offer anything that would risk him getting involved in another war. He began to walk away from her, still laughing at the gall of the witch. He swore, their audacity grew each time he talked to a witch or wizard. 

“I can get your name off the wanted list, Mr. Torrington,” she called at his back. Suddenly, he stopped laughing. All of his thoughts flew out the window. 

He spun to face her once again. “You can do that? How?” he demanded. He had tried everything to get his name off that damned list. He’d even gone as far as to infiltrate MACUSA, but gods damn it all, he didn’t have the magic to remove his name. It was like Prometheus was laughing at him. 

Narcissa kept smiling at him. She didn’t understand how important this was. This was his life. Ducking in and out of shitty bars and clubs, committing illegal acts left and right to stay alive because he was being hunted for the crime of existing. He had no place to take refuge in - no Camp Half-Blood or Camp Jupiter because he was a traitor . “I have an agreement with the President. You solve my problem, and she solves hers and yours. Three birds with one stone, if you will.”

Or… she knew exactly how important this was. Alabaster cast his eyes up to the sky. Mother… why do I get thrown into the worst situations? If he knew his mother as well as he thought he did, she was laughing right now. Everyone chooses their own pathways, my son. 

Claymore was behind him, passively watching the interaction. Waiting for an answer. They survived Gaea together, and so they’d survive whatever bullshit war this was too. 

“Fucking Hades,” he ground out. “Alright, fine. What do you need me to do?” He had to ignore her smug smirk or he was going to loose his only way of getting his name scratched off the wanted list. 

“Meet me and the other demigods at the Empire State Building in one week.” 

“ Other demigods?” 

“Oh,” Narcissa pretended to think, “I didn’t tell you?” 

“You haven’t told me anything,” Alabaster helpfully pointed out. 

“Well, there will be three other demigods with us. You didn’t think you’d be stopping a war on your own, did you?” In full honesty, he did and he thought little of it. Maybe that shows how desperate he was. “Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase, and Nico di Angelo will be helping you.” 

Alabaster’s mouth dropped, and he could hear Claymore cackling behind him. “di Angelo? Chase? Jackson?” he repeated, shrill. 

“This is going to be fun!” Claymore called out from behind him, clapping his hands together. 

A week later, true to Annabeth Chase’s word, Nico di Angelo was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Text

”When Metternich said, ‘When France sneezes, the rest of Europe catches a cold,’ I’m unsure if he foresaw how rapidly the cold would turn into an unstoppable epidemic. The French Revolution turned the ruling class of Europe away from the ideals of progress, closing the doors between man and god. Men began to fear the gods instead of celebrating the growth they bring, so they turned their fear and anger onto the most vulnerable target: their children.”

Theodore Kenny, A Plea for the Demigods: An Examination Between Mortals and Magic, 1986

Note: this piece of literature has been banned from most wizarding public libraries and institutions for radical beliefs and inclusion of non-magical scholarship.

In Alabaster’s twenty years of life, he had killed two mortals, thirteen demigods, eighteen wizards, and an uncountable number of monsters. He knew exactly how to disable Narcissa Black-Malfoy and her unfounded arrogance and prevent her from ever wielding magic again without breaking a sweat.

But her deal choked him as if a python had been wrapped around his neck, and so he went to the Empire State… the place where he lost his best friend and a war.

Even Claymore wasn’t truly aware of how this place affects him.

So forgive him for being a little… touchy.

“Gods damn it, Torrington!” snarled Percy Jackson as he was met with imperial gold nearly stuck up his nose. “Couldn’t even wait just a second, could you?” The look of sheer hate and frustration radiating off of Jackson’s face made this whole thing a little nostalgic—in a fucked up way, of course. 

“Why wait?” Alabaster sneered back, slightly hysterical. It was like he was going to look behind him and find Kronos peering over his shoulder. Or even worse, Luke Castellan. Jackson met his imperial gold with celestial bronze. Alabaster knew that between the two of them, he certainly was not winning a sword fight. He dismissed his mistform blame back into a card form, letting Jackson fall forward as he swiftly stepped out of the way. “What was that saying about falling on your sword?” 

He clicked his tongue as he moved his leg to kick Jackson in the torso while he was off balance. He was so focused on defeating the son of Poseidon that he forgot one of the key sayings in the Titan Army— if you can’t see Annabeth Chase on the battlefield, you’re already dead.

Suddenly, his feet were swept out from under him and the wind was knocked out of his chest. He fell harshly onto the unforgiving New York City sidewalk and instinctively knew that was going to bruise along his side.

Without even taking a second to recuperate himself, he felt a blade at his throat. 

“Hello to you too, Chase,” Alabaster wheezed because he was nothing if not polite (although many tended to disagree). 

“Torrington,” she acknowledged, sounding rather amused with the situation. “So are you going to be this uncooperative the entire time?” 

“C’mon, Annabeth,” Alabaster could hear Jackson whine outside of his peripheral vision. “I totally had that.” 

She hummed and condescendingly snarked, “I’m sure you did, sweetie.” 

At the same time, Alabaster managed to wheeze out a strong, “you certainly did not.” 

“The two of you are just lucky no one saw you greeting each other with mythological blades,” Annabeth chided with a slight edge in her voice. Percy looked sheepish and quickly put away his sword. If Alabaster was free, he would’ve dramatically looked around for the incoming Aurors—but oh well, comedy would have to be sacrificed this time around.

“Can you let me go?” he tried to ask semi-innocently.

“Are you going to attack my boyfriend again?” 

Alabaster twitched. He would love to, but he could see he was outnumbered here, especially if di Angelo showed up. “No,” he mumbled like a chastised kid.

“No,” Percy Jackson mocked in a comically high voice. The hero of Olympus, ladies and gentlemen. Alabaster rolled his eyes up to the sky and tried to not to kill Annabeth Chase’s boyfriend. “Can we just leave him here? We’d do a better job without him.” 

Alabaster’s eyes immediately snapped towards him, narrowed in thinly veiled rage. “I need this more than you do,” he snapped. “You have no idea what I have had to go through because of this list. Don’t you dare suggest you do this mission without me.” During his little rant, he decided to throw all his self preservation skills out the window, peel himself off the ground, and get into the son of Poseidon’s personal space. “In fact, why don’t you go home?” He stabbed his finger into Jackson’s chest just to make a point.

He swatted it away like a fly. “ I have no idea—“

“Oh my gods,” Chase sharply interjected. “The two of you need to stop acting like you’re sixteen.” She flicked one of her braids out of her face and leveled a glare at Alabaster that would’ve made a lesser demigod piss himself.

Children of Athenas’ eyes are always  the scariest. 

It didn’t help that directly in front of the Empire State Building was incredibly busy. Their little… display… made pedestrians give them a wide berth, barely batting an eye. You had to love non-magical New Yorkers.

Alabaster crossed his arms, trying not to appear like a petulant child. “It looks like we’re missing two people in this reunion party.” 

“Nico isn’t showing,” Jackson decided to graciously inform him. He didn’t look too happy at the news either.

“Aw, did the kid think he was too good for the rest of us?” 

He actually laughed at that—-a little too sharply to be friendly. “Seems like it.”

That gave Alabaster a pause. It seemed like that laugh was geared at di Angelo and not him. “Oh? Are things not all kumbaya at Camp?” 

“ Where in the world is Narcissa?” Annabeth snapped in Greek, aggressively tapping her foot and staring at the crowd in front of her.

“Hopefully her wand snapped and she had a mental breakdown,” Alabaster suggested cheerfully.

Jackson snorted. “ Don’t make me agree with you.” 

“ I swear to the fucking gods—“

“Well,” rang out one of the most annoying voices Alabaster’s ever heard, “you lot certainly put on a good show.” 

“I’ve never heard anyone this comically British before,” Jackson snarked before crossing his hands over his chest, similar to Alabaster. Alabaster quickly put his hands in his pockets to pettily avoid any unwanted similarities.

Annabeth just looked incredibly unimpressed. “So you were just watching us?” 

Narcissa spread out her hands in a “what can you do” motion. “I needed to see how you all interacted—I’m risking a lot on you three.” 

“Damn,” Alabaster stage whispered, “di Angelo’s a bitch.” 

In the corner of his eye, he could see Annabeth suppressing a smile. “Or maybe he’s the only sane one,” she offered.

“Well, that’s definitely not the reason,” Jackson interjected.

“Regardless of Nico di Angelo,” Narcissa cut in. Alabaster could tell she was annoyed that she didn’t have the son of Hades in her grasp. She seemed like the type to bet before having all her eggs in one basket. “We’ll be leaving now.”

“Woah,” Jackson threw his hands up in a mock-surrender, “I thought this was like an informational meeting.” 

“We need our stuff,” Annabeth agreed. Although, she didn’t look nearly as surprised as her boyfriend did. Interesting.

Alabaster didn’t care either way. He had everything he needed on him, and Claymore was anchored to his soul, so he could reform wherever Alabaster was. It was funny seeing the two thrown off their feet though.

Narcissa rolled her eyes rather dramatically. “We’re leaving to the place where we can safely discuss everything. You can get your stuff later.” Slightly comforted by this, the couple nodded—although Jackson always added a ridiculous flair. “Everyone must grab a hold of this in,” she made a big show of checking her watch, “55 seconds.” 

She tossed them an old boot. Alabaster was pretty sure it smelled like it was there when Kronos still actively ate his children for lunch. 

“Gross,” Jackson gagged. “Is this your attempt at murdering us?” 

“It’s a portkey, stupid,” Alabaster sniped. He snatched at the boot, half tempted to hold it away from the other two demigods before either tagged along for the ride. 

“I don’t even know—“ and his idiocy was cut off by the portkey activating. He hoped that Jackson let go. 

Annabeth Chase was a daughter of Athena— of course she wasn’t surprised when Narcissa wanted to move them to a new location. Oldest manipulation trick in the book. She just didn’t want Narcissa to know how well she could predict her tricks.

When they landed, the first thing Percy did was theatrically curse the entirety of wizarding society. It was a rather colorful and detailed defiling of magic, even Apollo would’ve been impressed. Annabeth wasn’t as phased by it—she had stolen a portkey a few times before (particularly on the run as a child; stealing them directly from MACUSA was a pretty big accomplishment for a seven-year-old). They tended to be helpful for a quick getaway—even if she didn’t know where they were supposed to land. She pushed down her remaining queasiness stubbornly.

Alabaster looked even less phased than Annabeth. She supposed that the rumors of him working with magicals may be true after all. 

“And where are we?” the son of Poseidon demanded, positively fed up with being jerked around by the witch.

Annabeth glanced around. They were outside, and the surroundings were drab and cold. There was a dull grayness that settled over everything, turning a world of color into a slate of monochrome.

From what she could tell, they were standing on large, man-made plots with a small hill in the distance. It was tiered, almost like ancient Mayan pyramids that she’s dreamed of seeing. Annabeth automatically assumed they were in the UK just because their… patron, for lack of a better word, resided there. The weather aided in her theory, but the topography…

She wracked her brain on anything she could remember about English (or Scottish or Irish) geography. 

Narcissa stayed quiet, letting them take in their surroundings for a beat longer than necessary.

“This place…” Alabaster hissed out. The son of Hecate breathed in sharply, staggering backward as if the weight of his realization was too heavy to physically stand. He spun to face Narcissa. “You’re suicidal for coming here.”

Annabeth gave up guessing. She didn’t think they’d be transported anywhere dangerous. “ What is he talking about?” she asked. She tried to keep her frustration out of her voice as much as possible, but it didn’t seem like she did a good job.

Percy glanced between the two other demigods as if to note the tension in the way they held themselves. He drew Riptide. “Alright, I’m going to need an explanation ASAP, and I’m not going to say please.” 

Narcissa sighed deeply, like the idea of explaining herself was tiring. “Are all demigods this dramatic?” 

“Only when you bring them to places like this,” Alabaster snapped. Annabeth saw him twitching, and suddenly, she understood.

Children of Hecate, while they couldn’t do mortal magic, could certainly sense it. From the way Annabeth heard it described, there were certain historical spots that anchored magic to the Earth, almost as if Prometheus were still stealing fire from the gods. (She never got to experience it herself as most of the North American sites were destroyed when European settlers arrived— the history reminder wasn’t needed here, Annabeth , she scolded herself before forcing her train of thought back on the correct track.)

Alabaster, and other children or followers of Hecate like Hazel, could use these places to siphon magic out of the air. Like if Percy took a dip in the purest ocean water he could find. The side effect is that it tends to be a little… overwhelming. She had no idea where the four of them were, but did that really matter anymore?

“You brought us to an anchor?” she demanded. Mortal magic barely compared to the godly magic that demigods naturally held in veins; so if Alabaster, Hecate’s most powerful child, was oversaturated with magic, a mortal witch would be damn near incapacitated. 

If Narcissa even tried using magic, Annabeth could only imagine that it would be like a baby stabbing a fork into the electrical socket. 

“I didn’t ask to be barated by a few demigods that were barely out of schooling,” Narcissa sniffed. Her posture was completely straight with her hands held loosely behind her back. She looked completely comfortable in this kind of environment, but Annabeth could see the cracks. Her eye twitched here or there, or her smirk wasn’t as condescending as it usually was.

Alabaster scoffed. “Objection—I dropped out of school when I was nine. I’d say I’m very well out of school.” 

“ Whatever the case,” she snapped—another crease in her mask. She took a sharp inhale. “Regardless, this is perfect practice within pureblood circles. These areas have too much flowing magic for anything to be traceable. Any listening or tracking spells have been washed away as soon as we landed here. This is the safest way to discuss our plans.” Narcissa’s speech was choppy, off putting compared to her typically smooth speech patterns.

There was a pregnant pause after her explanation. Annabeth could see the logic there, but she wouldn’t do it, personally. Too much risk without enough pay off, even as a paranoid bitch. Internally, she seethed at the amount of control Nacissa was showing over the demigods. It was as if to say “see? I am perfectly defenseless, and you three won’t do a thing.” 

Annabeth Chase was no one’s attack dog.

Percy broke the tense silence, as he usually did. “Alright—gotta admit, I have about zero clue what’s happening here, and I don’t really care. What’s the plan?” Annabeth should probably explain this whole thing later. 

Her most sincere apologies to her loving boyfriend, she didn’t expect to get dragged to a magical anchor for a quick debrief. It seemed a bit overkill when she was planning out Narcissa’s moves.

Something ticked in Narcissa’s expression. Her expression like she had shit up her nose only deepened. “I cannot believe I brought demigods to the grounds that hold thousands of years of pureblood tradition only for them to soil it with their ignorance. You are standing in King Arthur’s kingdom, act like it.” Annabeth, quite frankly, didn’t care about traditions—but her just bringing it up meant that Percy was going to have a lot to say.

“Oh, yeah?” Percy, true to form, started snidely. His arms were crossed, Riptide haphazardly looked under his belt. He was even tapping his foot in impatience. The point? He was channeling his ‘grumpy summer counselor’ appearance for all its might. “These grounds won’t be the only thing I soil if we spend too long standing around doing nothing. I had a lot to drink earlier this morning.”

They will ignored Alabaster’s squawk of, “We’re in Camelot?” 

Narcissa’s facial expression deepened further with that comment. If they weren’t in a very prevalent ‘no magic zone’, Annabeth would be pretty concerned about her blasting her boyfriend off the map. Instead of saying anything in a pointless rebuttal, her hand slipped into her pocket to grab a small purse. She tossed it to Annabeth. 

Who, of course, caught it effortlessly—not to brag or anything.

“That is all the wizarding money that will be funding your little mission. If you run out, I won’t be able to help you because Malfoy money is heavily charmed against outsiders using it, no matter the circumstances.” The unsaid message was: you poor demigods better fund yourselves. “Additionally, you’ll have to find your own housing— I wouldn’t recommend using a portkey to go home to New York every night. Until this mission is over, I suggest—” read: order— “you stay in Europe.” Annabeth caught both Percy and Alabaster rolling their eyes at the witch. Alabaster was much more subtle about it, she’d have to admit. “That’s for the basic necessities. I won’t be able to help any of you during this due to my family’s close alliance with the target, of course.” Narcissa staunchly disclosed with the feeling and cadence of a commanding military officer. 

“Now that we got that out of the way,” Annabeth tried to forcefully segway into actual intel. “Helpful intelligence?” 

“Does anyone know about the brewing conflict in Britain?” the pureblood asked in lieu of an answer. 

Percy shook his head in a no, Alabaster see-sawed his hand in a kind of. “Some of my clients have an invested interest, but I assume you don’t mean what American criminals think about it,” he explained once Narcissa shot him an odd look. 

Clients, Annabeth personally repeated, disgusted. She could only imagine what he offered them. Secrets to the Greek pantheon, no doubt. She doubted that he was selling out fellow demigods—but, well, desperate times would call for desperate measures. 

When Narcissa looked over to Annabeth, she shook her head in a no. “Only what newspapers were saying, remember?” Narcissa almost looked faintly disappointed in her—and that sharply decreased her patience with the witch. It’s not like she was going to tell Narcissa that she had an inside source telling Camp everything already.

“Well,” she sighed as if this inconvenienced her deeply, “I suppose I have to provide context for you. Around twenty years ago…” and on she went, thoroughly explaining the first war, and the one quickly brewing in the now. Percy’s eyes were glazed over when she began rattling off numbers. Annabeth and Alabaster, however, paid prompt attention. Luckily, Annabeth remembered to bring a notebook. 

Annabeth mostly knew all of this, but the specifics were, admittedly, very nice to operate with. Of course, she assumed they weren’t a hundred percent accurate or would at least change relatively quickly.

“Now… I believe I must tell you something that only a select few know of,” Narcissa hesitantly began, as if doubting this whole thing altogether. “And when I say select few, I mean myself, I’m sure Albus Dumbledore, and many graves.” 

“Intimidating,” Percy drawled, alert once again. 

“This is the main reason I felt compelled to reach out to demigods to fix this problem instead of relying on Albus Dumbledore. It’s out of the wheelhouse of normal wizards.” Annabeth thought that Albus Dumbledore was already way out of the realm of ‘normal wizards’, but she digressed. “My cousin discovered this during the first war, imparting his knowledge into his family home—“ Annabeth isn’t even going to question the backstory to that. “—and it’s how the Dark Lord managed to come back to life after his own spell killed him.” 

After well over an hour of talking, Narcissa paused. She swallowed deeply, more unruffled than Annabeth had seen her yet. 

“Voldemort has split his soul, achieving his name: flight from death.” 

Chapter Text

“Demigods are painfully—regrettably—magical. In a way that a wizard’s magic is a blessing, a demigod’s is a curse… upon both the child and the world around it. Rivaling only the obscurus in raw, destructive power, the demigod is a force of nature unbound by man’s laws. It is our duty to capitalize upon that power before it turns against us. For the greater good.”

Gellert Grindelwald at an Acolytes rally, 1912, Germany

Percy wished he found it in himself to be surprised. Wow, a bad guy made himself immortal to do extra evil things? Color him shocked—usually, they’re already immortal. 

“Split his soul… how, exactly?” Annabeth’s borderline bored stare conveyed she was thinking the exact same thing. She had a notebook out, and on it, Percy caught a glimpse of illegible notes with a bunch of arrows and squiggles. 

He bit back a sigh. He loved his girlfriend, truly, and there was no one he’d rather be on a quest with, but her battle strategies were torture to read. The most torturous part is that they worked, like, ninety percent of the time. And so he was subjected to them once again.

Alabaster, on the other hand, looked much more stressed. He also paused in his similarly frantic note writing, staying as still as a statue—as if he were holding his breath. 

“He made horcruxes—“ Percy almost laughed at that name, but quickly disguised it as a startled cough. “I’m not sure how many or where they are. All I know is that he can imbue his soul into random objects, and as long as even one of them is still active, he can never truly die.” 

Alabaster decided to cut in with his own thoughts—gross. Percy didn’t even bother disguising his eye roll. “But if we manage to destroy all of the whore cruxes—“ 

“Horcruxes,” Narcissa corrected, like there was a difference. 

“Yeah, whatever—so if we destroy all of these horcruxes, he’ll still die?”

She answered, “I assume so,” which isn’t very reassuring in Percy’s book.

Alabaster sighed in relief. “So he’s still mortal.”

“Yeah, mortal with extra steps, though,” Percy complained. “This is so much work.” 

His complaints were ignored by the group… rude. “Why hasn’t Thanatos dealt with this yet? This has to be a major breach in security,” Alabaster demanded.

Percy involuntarily twitched at that god’s name. Even if his quest to Alaska was over three years ago, it still gave him the heebie-jeebies. “Oh, wow, so now you want the gods to do their jobs?” 

Alabaster leveled a glare at Percy that promised he would be meeting Thanatos a second time if he didn’t shut up. “Hop off, Jackson.” 

“No, really, continue complaining about how a god hasn’t cleaned up a security breach when he’s still tracking down souls from three years ago?” 

“What happened three years ago?” The tension between the two demigods suddenly dissipated as Percy realized he had an audience—a witch who looked all too excited to hold mythological secrets in her palm. Percy and Alabaster both sent a wide eyed look at Annabeth—a silent: holy Hades what do we say?

Annabeth stepped up to the plate. (Thank the gods). She also, quite literally, stepped much closer into Narcissa’s personal space than the witch is probably comfortable with. Annabeth put her hand on Narcissa’s shoulder—gently, almost reassuringly. “Ah, just a small conflict… you know how the gods can be,” she lied, smiling as if to say aren’t they just so silly? Percy noticed her kept her hand on her shoulder, a threat more than a friendly gesture. 

Percy shot Annabeth a look—they still needed Narcissa, even if she was a magical pain in their ass. She gave him an acidic smile in return. 

“Ah,” Narcissa responded, too neutrally to be anything besides calculated. Annabeth hummed before removing her hand and retreating slightly.

“So these horcruxes,” Annabeth continued like nothing happened, “can be any object?” 

“Yes—just like a portkey, it could be as insignificant as a boot or flowerpot if the Dark Lord wanted it to be.” Narcissa delicately frowned. “I doubt that’s the case; he tends to prioritize prestige over anything.” 

Alabaster scowled and tapped his foot impatiently. “And you really don’t know how many there are?” Narcissa shook her head in a definitive no. “Fucking hell,” he swore.

Narcissa sighed. “As much as I dislike Albus Dumbledore, I believe he may be the best chance you have in locating these objects.” 

Annabeth narrowed eyes at the witch in pure annoyance. Probably thinking something along the lines of: why would she think that we would need help? Uh oh, and now Percy had to run damage control before Narcissa takes any offense. “We’ll see,” he cut in neutrally, “we might try our own way first.” 

Alabaster scoffed, “You mean Chase’s way.” And suddenly, in the heavy atmosphere of fog, Percy’s patience snapped. 

“Stop whining like a five-year-old in time out,” he retorted sharply. He just wanted to leave. To not deal with Narcissa or Alabaster any more. 

“Whining—“ 

Narcissa cut off Alabaster’s enraged rebuttal with another sigh. “I truly hope you all can work together to fix this issue, there’s a lot at stake here.” 

“There’s a lot at stake for us too,” Annabeth placated. “This is our top priority.” 

“For the fate of Wizarding Britain, I hope so.” 

Percy had to bite his tongue. They certainly weren’t doing this for the good of Wizarding Britain. The three of them were pretty much done with saving the world.

Like with most other things, Nico di Angelo was alone in his love for wizards. 

Because after all, who else could possibly have made this? 

There, in the middle of Flourish and Blotts, was a book titled Devilish Demigods: MACUSA’s Most Wanted! by a Gilderoy Lockhart. That wasn’t even the best part. The best part was the synopsis. 

“Perseus Jackson has been on the Magical Congress of America’s watchlist for years now. The son of Poseidon, as the magical world knows by now, is dangerous and unpredictable—the list of his crimes far too long to count (see: Page 15). I, Gilderoy Lockhart, will recount my journey of tracking this demigod down with a squad of American aurors. It was a perilous journey, and sadly, Perseus escaped during the time it took for me to write this book. Hopefully this will help you, dear reader, in the instance that you come across a dangerous demigod yourself!” 

A few spaces down, it had a list of accredited, or what Nico assumed to be accredited, reviews of the book. 

“A stunning recount of the dangers these creatures pose to us!” proclaimed one Angela Baggards, author of bestselling book Self Care with Veelas. 

“An international masterpiece!” raved The Daily Prophet. 

“A Defense Against the Dark Arts classic in the making!” assured James Peaks, renown curse breaker and author of Egyptian Mythos and Magic.  

Nico snorted in barely contained glee. The very existence of this book was incredible, and justified the very being of wizard kind. The cherry on top was Percy’s honest-to-gods wanted poster on the front cover. It had him dramatically behind bars, his green eyes glinting a bit too bright to be human, and his hair a crazed rat’s nest. 

Someone next to him cleared their throat, presumedly to get his attention. His eyes snapped up. A girl was staring at the book in his hand with a rather complicated expression on her face. 

“Yes?” Nico tried, hoping for as little social interaction as possible. 

The girl’s eyes stayed hooked on the picture of the author. Maybe she liked him? Nico couldn’t say Gilderoy Lockhart was his type, but he supposed he could see the appeal. “I just wanted to let you know that Lockhart’s a fraud. He steals people’s memories and writes those books like he did those things, when he really didn’t.” Her dark face flushed when she finally made eye contact with him. “I, um, just didn’t want you to waste any money on that book without knowing.” 

In total honesty, Nico knew that the book was probably fake. Too good to be true and all that, but it didn’t mean he still wasn’t going to give a copy to both Annabeth and Sally for Christmas—and keep one for himself, of course. 

In the girl’s own hands was a large stack of books that had to be at least over thirty pounds (the American weighing measurement, not English currency—whatever), the one at the very top being Covert Magical Warfare Around the World, which made him a little concerned about what the rest of the books were about. 

Nico let out a little laugh. “I assumed—most books on demigods aren’t all that accurate.” And he got a kick out of it each time too. 

Her expression grew from less embarrassed to more curious. “Are you interested in demigods then? Personally, I’ve been researching werewolves more,” she said with a minute smirk on her face, like she just told an inside joke. 

“I guess you could say that.” Nico waved away the girl’s curiosity. “I met one when I lived in the States, and I’ve been obsessed ever since,” he added with a charginned smile. That was certainly one way to put it—leaving out the fact that he learned he was one too. 

(And then Bianca died, and then Labyrinth, and then…) 

The girl was clearly impressed by his white lie. “Wow! That’s amazing—did you get to talk to them? Did you see them fight? What was their magic like? How would you compare them to XXXXX creatures? What—“ 

Nico laughed a bit more, suddenly self-consciously reminded of his ten-year-old self accosting Percy Jackson. “I can’t really talk about it,” he cut her off apologetically, “MACUSA’s rules and all that.” He mimed zipping his lips shut. 

MACUSA would have made him sign an NDA, if they could catch him long enough to sign anything at all. 

The girl, who had to be fourteen or fifteen years old, slumped in minor disappointment. “Oh,” she wilted. She perked up again quickly though. “Good luck finding your demigod books, sir!” 

And the young witch dashed off. 

As the girl sped around the messily stocked and tall bookshelves, Nico felt his smile fade. 

His reason for being there was not to find funny wizarding books. Instead, he’d been tasked to watch. 

That girl was no ordinary witch. He just had a conversation with Hermione Granger, best friend of Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, and Nico was going to have to take his position as a spy much more seriously.

Britain, Nico determined, was wholly unprepared for demigods. Maybe they grew soft after Olympus left London for New York, but it was certainly different from the constant suspicion and wanted posters tacked up everywhere. Mortals could forget a lot in half a century—even wizards.

It was fun at first, but now he’s starting to feel like he was taking candy from a baby.

He actually decided to buy Devilish Demigods: MACUSA’s Most Wanted! against Hermione Granger’s wishes. 

It had less to do with the fact that the book was, objectively, laughable, and more to do with the author—the same author that had Granger wear an expression of complicated emotions. Shared history, perhaps? It could always be that she was just a young girl who had looked up to the man until he turned out to be a fake, but Nico figured that a lead was a lead.

And now, all that’s left is to follow the paper trail. Nico had landed himself in a small sequestered space in the middle of the Maughan Library in London, practically abandoned, that the wizards used as their own. 

The mist worked in mysterious ways, and Nico could never guess why it hid the wizards from non-magical eyes. 

Luckily, the library was updated consistently—with magic, of course (as if that were any surprise). And there he had found himself a proper lead.

If a “proper” lead could be considered “Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award: 93rd Edition” that had Gilderoy’s annoyingly smug—you guessed it—smile stretched across the cover. It seemed that this man was somehow more arrogant than Narcissus himself. But that didn’t matter—what mattered was the small blurb “ Now Hogwarts Defence Against the Darks Professor!” 

Who in their right mind would make this man a professor? 

Nico heard the rumors of the old headmaster of Hogwarts going senile, but he never took any stock in it… maybe he should revisit that. 

Nico dug into the magazine eagerly, dyslexia be damned, for hints about this Lockhart man. Only blips of cultural references that he didn’t really understand caught his attention through this entire magazine—it was infuriating how superficial magicals could be. They have all this power at their disposal… but they just make stupid contests and magazines and smiles. 

They don’t know the cost of real power. Nico supposed that was for the best, really. Children in this world could be happy without constant pain and loss—a privilege demigods were never afforded. 

A privilege he was never afforded. 

The crinkling of paper made him realize he was ruining the magazine; he uncurled his hand from the harsh fist he had unknowingly made at his side. Research, Nico reminded himself, research what’s going on. Find leads. Find the source. Find the target. But most importantly, leave no trace.

Nico stared at the flamboyant picture of Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor, huh?

Interesting.