Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Regrets Don’t Lie

In his approximately three thousand years of life, Perseus (also going by various monikers, such as the God of Heroes, the God in Chains, the Shield of Olympus, etcetera, etcetera, although he preferred Percy) had met many mortals, few of whom had ever made much of an impression on him. Sure, he’d had a few favourites, a few hundred kids, and the occasional one or two (read: several thousand) that he’d smote simply for being too damn annoying, but he generally kept himself to himself. Although a version of him could usually be found eating grapes in the company of gorgeous nymphs on Olympus, or throwing temper tantrums in the Atlantic, others could be found in hospital treatment rooms, courtroom witness stands, and battlegrounds both metaphorical and physical, giving courage to those who most needed it.

And, occasionally, in the offices of now-elderly favoured heroes. After all, it was not in his nature to ignore a direct plea from his favourite living hero. Especially when they addressed him by name. And burned cookies in offering.

I’m doing it out of duty, he tried to convince himself. His mouth watered in disagreement.

The scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the circular office as he materialized between two sleeping portraits. The Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts was exactly as Percy remembered it from his last visit decades ago: cluttered with silver instruments, shelves of books reaching toward the ceiling, and Fawkes the phoenix preening on his perch. The portraits of former headmasters stirred restlessly at his sudden appearance, their painted eyes following his movement with curiosity.

Albus Dumbledore was sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. The fire from the brazier took the dark shadows from his face, but he still looked infinitely older than the last time Percy had seen him.

“Is there a problem, Al?” he asked.

“Percy,” said Albus Dumbledore, rising from behind his desk with a slight bow. Even at a hundred and fourteen, the wizard carried himself with the quiet confidence that had first drawn Percy's attention during Al’s youth. “Thank you for coming. Was it the cookies that tempted you?”

“Amongst other things,” Percy confessed, settling into the chair across from Albus without ceremony. Percy leaned back, studying his old friend. It had been Percy who had whispered courage into Albus’s ear during his confrontation with Grindelwald, though the wizard had never known the source of that sudden bravery. Looking at him now, Percy could see the weight of years and responsibility pressing down on shoulders that had once seemed invincible.

“You're troubled,” Percy observed. “More than usual. What’s happened?”

Albus moved to the window, gazing out at the grounds where students were making their way between classes. “The Ministry grows more interfering by the day. Minister Fudge is determined to control every aspect of magical education, particularly here at Hogwarts.”

“And this concerns me because...?”

“Because he intends to place one of his people in a teaching position here. Defence Against the Dark Arts, specifically.” Albus turned back to face Percy. “Dolores Umbridge.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. The name meant nothing to him, but Albus’s expression suggested it should be cause for concern.

“I have had trouble finding someone to take the job. There have been some … unfortunate accidents over the years.” Albus’s slight smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “Fudge is taking the opportunity to plant one of his lackeys, where she can ensure that students learn only what the Ministry deems appropriate.”

“Which is?”

“Theory. Nothing but theory. No practical application, no preparation for real threats.” Albus’s voice grew grave. "Percy, Tom Riddle has returned. Voldemort lives again.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Percy’s carefully maintained mortal disguise flickered for just a moment, revealing eyes that held the depth of ocean trenches and the fury of hurricanes. Several of the silver instruments on Albus’s desk began to hum ominously.

“Tom,” Percy said quietly, the name carrying the weight of years of regret. “I should have seen what he would become.”

“You were not to know—”

“Wasn't I?” Percy's voice carried an edge that made Fawkes shift nervously on his perch. “I'm supposed to recognise heroism, Al. I'm supposed to nurture it, guide it, help it flourish. Instead...”

“The past cannot be changed,” Albus said gently. “But the future remains unwritten. Will you help me write it?”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on a point beyond the office walls. Teaching at Hogwarts would mean maintaining a mortal disguise for months. It would mean pretending to be limited by the same constraints that bound wizards, when he could level mountains and divert rivers with a thought. It would mean being around children again, young heroes-in-the-making who might look at him with trust and admiration he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“To take the Defence position before Fudge can install Dolores Umbridge there,” Albus said. “Prepare the students for war. And …” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “There is a boy here. Harry Potter. He bears a curse scar from Voldemort, and I fear there may be more to that connection than we understand. He will need guidance.”

Percy knew of Harry Potter, of course. Killing a 30-foot basilisk was just too cool for him not to notice. He could hardly say he kept close tabs on the boy, though.

Before you judge him too harshly, please keep in mind that Percy was (a) over 3000 years old, (b) very busy, and (c) a little scatter-brained at the best of times. The occasional oversight is reasonable.

And yet.

“I'll do it,” he said finally. “But I do this my way, Al. No Ministry interference, no bureaucratic nonsense. These children will learn to fight, or Tom will destroy them all.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Albus’s smile was both grateful and slightly worried. “However, tell me … does this not violate your laws?”

In truth, yes. Many laws indeed. But Percy didn’t care. “Not at all,” he lied.

For a moment, Percy thought about what would happen when Zeus heard about this, and thought maybe he’d made a mistake. Then he saw the blessed relief in Albus’s eyes, and thought of perfect place Zeus could shove his Master Bolt.

As Percy rose to leave, Albus called after him. “Percy? Thank you. For this, and for ... before. During the war with Gellert. I always wondered where that sudden surge of courage had come from.”

Percy paused at the door, his hand on the ornate handle. “You never needed my help, Albus. The courage was already there. I just reminded you of it.”

And with that, he vanished, leaving only the faint scent of sea breeze and the sound of distant waves. Fawkes trilled softly, and Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile of hope.

The Great Hall buzzed with the familiar energy of the start-of-term feast, students filing into the four long House tables under the starless black ceiling. Interspersed between the usual gossip about new haircuts and who had broken up with whom over the summer holidays, Harry caught students dropping their voices to whisper conspiratorially as he passed. Even after several weeks with his friends at Grimmauld Place, a familiar rage bubbled under his skin at the reminder of his isolation at Privet Drive while the Ministry denied Voldemort’s return.

“Cheer up mate,” said Ron, glaring at some third years whose whispering and pointing made no effort to be concealed. “At least we’re away from that bloody screaming portrait.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. “Although,” she said, voice wavering slightly, “this place feels different somehow.”

Harry wasn’t listening. “He’s not here.”

“Who?” asked Ron.

“Hagrid. He’s not at the staff table.”

The trio made a show of scanning the table a few more times, although it was redundant. Hagrid’s enormous size meant he was immediately obvious in any room.

“He can’t have left,” said Ron, sounding slightly anxious.

“Of course he hasn’t,” said Harry firmly.

“You don’t think he’s … hurt, or anything, do you?” said Hermione uneasily.

“No,” said Harry at once.

“But where is he, then?”

There was a pause, then Harry said very quietly, so that Neville, Parvati, and Lavender could not hear, “Maybe he’s not back yet. You know — from his mission — the thing he was doing over the summer for Dumbledore.”

“Yeah … yeah, that’ll be it,” said Ron, sounding reassured, but Hermione bit her lip, looking up and down the staff table as though hoping for some conclusive explanation of Hagrid’s absence.

“Looks like there have been some changes around here,” Hermione noted. “Who on earth is that?”

It didn’t take Harry long to realise who she meant. Sitting beside Professor McGonagall was a woman in shocking pink robes whose saccharine smile made Harry’s stomach flip. Everything about her screamed artificial sweetness. “It’s that Umbridge woman!”

“Who?” said Hermione.

“She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge!”

“Nice cardigan,” said Ron, smirking.

“She works for Fudge?” Hermione repeated, frowning. “What on earth’s she doing here, then?”

Harry shrugged. “No idea. Who’s the young bloke, too?”

Sitting on Dumbledore’s left-hand side was a man who couldn’t have been much older than the seventh years, yet carried himself with an authority that seemed to fill the space around him.

“I’d guess from where he’s sitting that he’s the new Defence teacher,” said Hermione.

“Maybe that's good,” Ron said hopefully. “Young teachers are usually less mental than the old ones.”

“Not sure about that, mate,” said Harry. “Lockheart was young and an absolute nutter.”

Their speculation was paused by the opening of the doors from the entrance hall, through which a long line of scared-looking first years entered, led by Professor McGonagall, Sorting Hat in hand.

A thousand years, this stool I’ve sat

And sorted children into four,

But never has this ancient hat

Felt such darkness at our door.

In ancient days, magic first born,

Two worlds walked separate ways,

Wizards with wands at break of dawn

And those with gifts from older days.

Long these realms keep secrets of their own,

Each guarding power within,

But evil stirs and chills the bone –

United we must stand or sin.

For darkness seeks to twist the pure

Corrupts old bonds with lies,

Neither word can long endure

The shadow that shall rise.

Gryffindor still takes the brave of heart,

With burning courage of a flame.

Ravenclaw, wisdom’s counterpart

Where learning brings them fame.

Hufflepuff gathers the loyal true,

Where friendship’s bonds grow strong.

And Slytherin takes those with will to do

Great things their whole life long.

And now the Sorting Hat is here

And you all know the score:

I sort you into Houses

Because that is what I’m for,

But this year I’ll go further,

Listen closely to my song:

Though condemned I am to split you

Still I worry that it’s wrong,

Though I must fulfill my duty

And must quarter every year

Still I wonder whether Sorting

May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,

The warning history shows,

For our Hogwarts is in danger

From external, deadly foes

And we must unite inside her

Or we’ll crumble from within.

I have told you, I have warned you

Let the Sorting now begin.

The hat became motionless once more; applause broke out, though it was punctured, for the first time in Harry’s memory, with muttering and whispers. All across the Great Hall students were exchanging remarks with their neighbours and Harry, clapping along with everyone else, knew exactly what they were talking about.

“Branched out a bit this year, hasn’t it?” said Ron, his eyebrows raised.

Professor McGonagall, who was waiting to read out the list of first years’ names, was giving the whispering students the sort of look that scorches. The mumbling quieted, the Sorting passed without incident, and the ensuing food was as excellent as ever.

During the feast, Harry’s eyes kept being drawn to the young new professor. There was something about the man that felt familiar, though Harry was certain they’d never met. He had a bright, blinding smile, and when he laughed at something Professor Flitwick whispered to him, the sound carried a warmth that seemed to touch something deep in Harry’s chest.

When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the hall was starting to creep upward again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. The usual announcements followed – no magic in the corridor, Forbidden Forest is off limits – and then there was what Harry was really interested in.

“We have had three changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Jackson, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Finally, Professor Binns has decided to move on to his next great adventure. His replacement for History of Magic will be Professor Umbridge.”

“Jackson,” said Ron, over the round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause. “Muggle name?”

“Must be,” said Hermione. “I haven’t met a ‘Jackson’ since primary school.”

Dumbledore continued, “Try-outs for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

He broke off, looking inquiringly at Professor Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then Professor Umbridge said, “Hem, hem,” and it became clear that she had got to her feet and was intending to make a speech.

It may have been the most boring thing Harry had ever heard.

At the end of her speech Dumbledore clapped. The staff followed his lead, though Harry noticed that several of them brought their hands together only once or twice before stopping. Jackson did not clap at all, but kept his eyes trained on Umbridge the way one would watch a rogue Blast-Ended Skrewt. A few students joined in, but most had been taken unawares by the end of the speech, not having listened to more than a few words of it, and before they could start applauding properly, Dumbledore had stood up again.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now — as I was saying, Quidditch try-outs will be held …”

A short while later, there was a great clattering and banging all around them; Dumbledore had obviously just dismissed the school, because everyone was standing up ready to leave the Hall. When Professor Jackson finally rose to leave the Great Hall, his gaze found Harry’s.

Harry felt an odd prickle across his scar.

Not pain, exactly. Something else. Warmth. As if some part of him recognised this man, though Harry was certain they’d never met.

Then he was gone, leaving Harry with more questions than answers.

Gods, in general, didn’t sleep. But invulnerability had its prices (and didn’t he know it), so Percy rather enjoyed getting a few hours shuteye every now and again. He was still one of the first beings awake in Hogwarts that morning, and he didn’t see anyone on his morning run (gods got out of shape too, you know; just look at Dionysus). The early risers amongst the student body were just trickling in for breakfast as Percy arrived. And so was a certain teacher.

“Good morning, Dolores,” he chirped, collapsing into the seat next to her. She was using a teaspoon to eat bland, unflavoured porridge.

“Professor Jackson,” she greeted stiffly. A stickler for the rules, evidently. Perturbed by overly friendly behaviour. Probably didn’t appreciate informality. He could work with that. “How are you?”

“Fantastic, thank you!” He flashed her his most dazzling grin. “Just been for a run—it’s lovely round here, isn’t it? Such fresh air, no pollution like in some cities.” He grabbed a piece of bacon straight from tray and ate it with his hands like beef jerky. “So why’d you decide to teach History of Magic?”

“The Minister decided that ghosts were unfit to teach,” she said. Her voice alone would give someone diabetes if they listened to it for too long. “So I’m here to make sure children receive a proper education.”

“What will you be teaching them?”

“The Goblin and Giant Rebellions, mostly. And a few other noticeable occasions when people have tried to defy their superiors and failed.”

Percy bit back the instinctive and all the times they succeeded?

“What examples specifically?”

“The French Revolution is one,” she specified, “it’s new on the History of Magic O.W.L this year.”

“And what lessons will you be teaching them about that?”

“That the peasants may have overthrown the aristocracy, but it led to a dark age in which everyone lived in fear. All the old Pureblood magic was lost, and the half-breeds and Muggleborns—” she said ‘Muggleborns’ with thinly veiled contempt “—could not hope to rival it.”

Percy hummed in ambivalence. He had been quite a fan of Robespierre – at least, before he got a bit … megalomaniacal.

“But what about all the things that came afterward?” he inquired. “Universal suffrage, abolishment of slavery, the French National Assembly, les droits des hommes, and the rise of feminism with Olympe de Gouges’ Les Droits des Femmes et la Citoyenne? Surely, you have to give a balanced analysis of the aftermath?”

“I see nothing balanced about the systematic destruction of the legacy of a majestic empire at the hand of savages!” she hissed.

“Calm down, Dolly.” He smirked. “You’re going to have to get used to a bit of a challenge if you’re teaching kids.”

“And you’d know that how?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“The Ministry looked into your records. You have had no employment in a British school.”

“No,” he agreed, “but I have taught many young people across the world – most recently in the US, but in Greece, Macedonia, Persia … plenty of places.”

“And why did you decide to teach here?”

“Felt like it.” He didn’t think telling a Ministry lackey that he was an old friend of Dumbledore’s was a good idea. “I like a change of scene every few years.”

“You don’t look very old.”

Percy smirked. “I’m older than you think.”

“How much older?”

Percy was saved from having to think up a witty response by the arrival of Minerva McGonagall.

“Professor Jackson,” she greeted, neither warmly nor coolly. “Your timetable.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled pleasantly. “Thank you very much.”

“Professor Umbridge.” McGonagall turned to the other witch, her voice much more distasteful, proffering the timetable almost reluctantly.

“Thank you, Minerva,” said Umbridge, her saccharine smile becoming even sweeter.

“First years first,” Percy mumbled, half to himself. “What a delightful way to start the year.”

Umbridge, on the other hand, looked sadistically gleeful.

“Good timetable?” he asked, sure he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Oh, nothing.” She giggled breathily. “Only …”

“Only?”

“I have the fifth years first.”

“Meaning?”

“That Potter brat.”

“A fan, are we?”

She giggled again, this time almost hysterically. “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s an arrogant attention seeker determined to bring down the Ministry with his conspiracy theory that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned.”

Percy wanted to enquire as to why he must not be named, but he imagined it would be better to ask Albus. So he nodded instead.

For some reason, he was almost looking forwards to seeing this feud unravel over the year.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to be excited about Defence after the nightmare of a day he’d had. It started with Umbridge calling him a liar and an attention-seeker in History of Magic and somehow had only gone downhill from there.  As the Gryffindors filed into Jackson’s classroom, a static filled the air. Judging by Jackson’s calculating expression, he had made out the dividing line quite quickly: Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville on one side of the room; the other Gryffindors on the other. The room was silent.

Jackson appeared to take it in his stride. “Good afternoon class,” he said brightly.

“Good afternoon Professor Jackson,” they all chanted back obediently, their lesson from Umbridge still burned into their minds.

Jackson quirked an eyebrow at this but carried out, unphased. “I know you've had quite a few Defence teachers over the years, so I'll try not to hex anyone or get possessed by dark artefacts. No promises about the werewolf thing, though.”

Some of the students chuckled. Harry felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards reluctantly.

“Now, you may have heard over the summer that there have been changes to the O.W.L course this summer. Luckily, this doesn’t impact much of what you’ve learned so far: all the content Professor Lupin covered with you about dark creatures is still relevant, as is Professor Moody’s work on curses. The Ministry, in their infinite wisdom, have insisted on a greater focus on de-escalation and contextual theory. You will see this is why the delightful book Defensive Magical Theory was on your reading list. Am I correct in assuming none of you have yet so much as cracked open the first page?”

Jackson scanned the room. The slightly guilty silence confirmed his sentiments.

“Excellent. It’s a load of tosh. However, it is part of your assessment, and Professor Dumbledore informs me that Hogwarts likes its students to get good grades in the exam, even the useless portions of it. I have absolutely no time for it, so I’ll be assigning you a chapter a week as homework on Mondays, an occasional short essay, and we shan’t be touching it again unless you have questions on it. Make sense?”

They all nodded. Harry felt a cautious hope blooming in his chest.

“The focus of this class,” Jackson continued, waving his wand at the blackboard behind him, “is to teach you one key lesson.”

On the blackboard, in sharp, harsh writing read: DEFENSIVE MAGIC 101: HOW NOT TO DIE.

“In Defence Against the Dark Arts, we are here to learn one thing and one thing only: how not to die horribly when something nasty decides you'd look better as a corpse.”

Ron snorted. “Charming way to put it,” he muttered to Harry.

Jackson looked over at Ron with an amused expression. “I try,” he said wryly. “I believe in practical learning. Defence Against the Dark Arts isn't really something you can master from a textbook. You need to practice, make mistakes, and learn to trust your instincts. I hope you're all ready to work.

“We’re going to start this year looking at defensive spells and counter-jinxes. Towards Christmas we’ll be moving on to recognising curses and mind-altering spells, building on what you did with Professor Moody last year. That should take us until February. Then we’ll be finishing with some more practical work – real-world applications to duelling, tactics and situational awareness.  Does that sound good to everyone?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically, sitting up straighter. Whatever Jackson was – and Harry was still waiting for the other shoe to drop on that – he actually seemed to care about whether they survived, not just whether they passed their exams or followed Ministry guidelines.

“Fantastic.” Jackson grinned. “Let’s start off with the basics: who can name me a counter curse?”

Hermione’s hand shot up.

“Miss Granger?”

“Well the most reliable is finite incartartem—”

“No, no. Stand up.”

Hermione looked surprised but hesitantly rose from her desk.

“Come up to the front and take a thing of chalk. Everyone else, take out your quill and parchment.”

Harry reached into his bag hesitantly. The rest of the class looked confused.

“Now Miss Granger, you have sixty seconds to write all the counter curse names you can think of. Once you’re done, the rest of the class has two minutes to note down the wand movements and incantations for each. Ready?”

Hermione gulped but nodded. “Ready.”

“Go!”

Hermione wrote down ten different counter-curses. Harry recognised all of them but could only remember the incantations and wand movements of seven. As soon as the two minutes were up, Jackson summoned all the papers to the front without so much as a ‘by your leave’; Seamus’s had a jagged rip at the bottom left by his quill.

“Excellent work, Miss Granger, especially for a first attempt. You can sit down. The rest of you, have a quick discussion amongst yourselves about what you remembered and what you missed while I look over your answers.”

Harry could honestly say it had been one of his favourite Defence classes ever. Jackson was a commanding presence, every word dripping with unquestionable authority, yet somehow a relaxed one. Like flying in the morning while a storm brewed on the horizon. He never stuck to one task for long, moving through the lesson plan with practiced ease, as if he had been doing it for years despite his age. The second half of the lesson was entirely practical, with students throwing counter-curses at all-too-realistic dummies. Harry had received ten points for Gryffindor when he successfully liberated all ten dummies within six seconds.

But something about Jackson didn’t sit quite right with him.

He deliberately packed up very slowly, waving Ron and Hermione on ahead of him. “I’ll catch you guys at dinner,” he said. “Just gimme a minute.”

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows but eventually followed Ron, who had simply clapped him on the back and said “See ya!”

“Something on your mind, Potter?” asked Jackson.

Harry hesitated. The question he wanted to ask seemed almost silly, but the strange feeling he'd had around Professor Jackson hadn't gone away. If anything, it had gotten stronger during the class.

“Professor,” he said finally, “have we met before? I mean, before you came to Hogwarts?”

Professor Jackson paused in his shuffling of parchments, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Not directly, no. But I may have... crossed paths with your story before. Why do you ask?”

“It's just ...” Harry struggled to put the feeling into words. “You seem familiar.”

He didn’t know how to say ‘my scar feels like it’s just drunk a hot butterbeer every time I see you’ without sounding like a lovesick teenager – or worse, the lunatic the Daily Prophet had been accusing him of being all summer.

Jackson must have read his mind, though, because his eyes flickered very briefly to Harry’s scar before meeting his eyes again. “I get that a lot,” he said, voice tinged with some private amusement. “You aren’t the first to say; I doubt you’ll be the last. Now go on – you have an essay to write.”

As Harry turned and walked away, Percy almost wished he’d said something about the scar. No doubt the boy had people ogling at it constantly. But Percy didn’t look out of some starstruck worship, no – that scar was definitely more than just a curse mark. He could feel something resonating from it, something that called to the godly part of him he tried so often to ignore.

Almost more concerning was that Harry’s sentiments echoed his own. There was something about the boy that felt familiar. But there was also something else. A darkness that seemed to cling to the edges of Harry’s soul like a shadow.

Percy had encountered enough cursed objects and dark magic in his long existence to recognise the signs, but this was different. More complex. Whatever was affecting Harry Potter, it wasn't going to be easily resolved.

Patience did not come naturally to Percy, but a life of 3000 unwilling years teaches you some things about delayed gratification. Nonetheless, he couldn’t shake the feeling the time was not on his side.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Tempered Discourse

The trouble with Dolores Umbridge began, as most troubles with Dolores Umbridge did, with a sickeningly sweet smile and a clipboard.

Percy was a mere two weeks into his tenure as Defence teacher, and his classes had developed a reputation throughout the school. Students who had previously dreaded Defence were now arriving early and staying late to practice the techniques he taught. Even students who had dropped Defence at NEWT level were asking to sit in on the classes in their free periods.

This success had not gone unnoticed.

One dreary September morning, Percy opened his copy of the Daily Prophet at the breakfast table to this headline:

MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM

DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED

FIRST EVER HIGH INQUISITOR

Well, he thought, this made the game a bit more interesting.

He didn’t have to wait long to see what effect the new appointment would have on Umbridge. The very same day, he heard a prim, short rap at his office door.

“Professor Jackson,” came the familiar voice. Percy looked up from the essays he was grading — a surprisingly insightful analysis on recognising curses by light pattern by Hermione Granger — to see Professor Umbridge standing in the entrance, wearing her usual pink cardigan and an expression that managed to be both pleasant and threatening.

“Dolores,” Percy replied with fake jubilation, setting down his quill and leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

Umbridge entered the classroom without invitation, her eyes taking in the scorch marks on the walls from that morning's practical curse deflection lesson and the furniture that remained pushed aside to provide space for movement.

“I've been hearing some very interesting reports about your teaching methods,” she said, settling herself into a chair that Percy was certain he hadn't offered.

“Oh? I hope they've been positive.”

“That depends on one’s perspective.” Umbridge's smile could have been carved from ice. “I understand you've been teaching students practical application of defensive magic. Some might say... combat magic.”

Percy studied the woman across from him. She had an air of petty authority that reminded him unpleasantly of minor bureaucrats he'd encountered throughout history. The type who wielded their small power with the enthusiasm of a tyrant.

“I've been teaching them to protect themselves,” Percy said carefully. “In a world where Dark wizards exist, that sometimes requires practical experience.”

“The Ministry has very clear guidelines about what should and should not be taught to students,” Umbridge said, consulting her clipboard. “The approved curriculum for Defence Against the Dark Arts emphasises theoretical knowledge and proper understanding of defensive principles.”

Percy scoffed. “Theory without practice is nothing more than an elaborate suicide.”

Umbridge's smile became even more unpleasant. “Are you suggesting, Professor Jackson, that Ministry educational policy is ... inadequate?”

“I'm suggesting that Ministry educational policy was written by people who have never been in a real fight in their lives.”

Percy was making an effort to contain his rage, but his patience with bureaucratic incompetence had always been limited. The water in the tanks around his classroom began to vibrate.

“Professor Jackson,” Umbridge said, her voice taking on a formal tone, “I am the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, appointed by Minister Fudge himself to ensure that educational standards are maintained. I will be observing your classes to determine whether they comply with Ministry guidelines.”

“Observe away,” Percy replied. “But my students will be prepared for what’s out there, whether the Ministry approves or not.”

After Umbridge left, Percy remained in his classroom, considering the implications of the conversation. He could continue teaching as he had been, preparing students for the reality of magical combat, and risk Ministry interference. Or he could bow to pressure and teach the watered-down theory that would leave his students defenceless when they faced real threats.

Neither option was acceptable.

That evening, Percy made his way through the corridors toward his office, noting the way students scattered before Umbridge as she stalked through the halls with her clipboard. The woman had already begun making changes: new Educational Decrees appeared on the notice boards almost daily, each one restricting student activities a little more.

He was so lost in thought that he almost didn't notice Harry Potter sitting on the floor outside his office door, looking troubled.

“Potter?” Percy said, unlocking his office door. “What are you doing here? It's nearly curfew.”

“Professor Jackson,” Potter said, scrambling to his feet. “I wanted to ask you about something. About Professor Umbridge.”

Percy gestured for Potter to follow him into his office. “What about Professor Umbridge?” he asked, settling behind his desk.

Potter took the chair across from him, his expression troubled. “She's saying that the Ministry doesn't believe You-Know-Who is back. That it's all lies spread by Dumbledore and...” He hesitated. “And me.”

Percy leaned back in his chair, studying the boy across from him. Harry looked older than his fifteen years, with the kind of weariness that came from carrying too much responsibility too young.

“What do you think about that?” Percy asked.

“I know he's back,” Potter said quietly. “I saw him return. I watched him kill Cedric Diggory. But everyone thinks I'm lying, or that I'm crazy, or that I'm just trying to get attention.”

“Not everyone,” Percy said. “I believe you.”

Potter looked up sharply. “You do?”

"Potter, I've been fighting Dark forces longer than you've been alive. I know what evil looks like, and I know it's not gone from the world.” Percy's expression grew grim. “Tom Riddle—Voldemort—is exactly the kind of monster who would find a way to cheat death.”

“Then why won't the Ministry listen? Why won't anyone else believe it?”

Percy was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Potter, why do you think Umbridge is here?”

“Because Professor Binns couldn’t teach. Because of that new law.”

Percy shook his head. “Wrong way round. That new law was passed because Umbridge was needed here. Why do you think that?”

“Because the Ministry is trying to interfere at Hogwarts?”

Percy inclined his head in agreement. “Why?”

“Because I said Voldemort is back?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What more could there possible be to it?”

Percy sighed. He wondered if he’d been this unobservant when he was young, rash, and mortal. “How much do you know about the Minister?”

Potter’s eyebrows furrowed. “He’s … short. Fat. Has a lime green bowler hat. Bit … bumbling.”

“Does he strike you as confident? A leader? Knowledgeable?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“And do you think any of the electorate who voted for him thought that he was?”

“I wouldn’t imagine so, no.”

“So how do you think he got their confidence? To get them to vote for him?”

“Some clever marketing? Maybe … I dunno … a friend?”

Percy smiled approving. “Very close. He had some very good advisors. Guess who was chief amongst them.”

“Malfoy?”

“Far less sinister than that, Potter. It was Albus Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore?!” exclaimed Potter. “Why would Dumbledore support him?”

“Fudge is talented,” said Percy. At least, Al had said he was. Percy had never met the man before. “Very diplomatic, very smart, believe it or not. Maybe not the most knowledgeable, but he knows where power resides, who knows what … nothing goes on without him noticing it.”

“Then how does he not know Voldemort it back?”

“Look at the evidence, Potter,” Percy coaxed. “Dumbledore fails to notice a very Dark magical artefact in his school, several Muggleborns almost die, Fudge’s second-closest political advisor pushes for his removal as Headmaster … sure, it resolves itself in the end, but it makes him realise perhaps Dumbledore isn’t as infallible as he thought.

“Then your third year. Dumbledore demands the release of a very dangerous convicted mass murderer—”

“He was never given a trial!” Potter growled.

“Did anyone tell Fudge that? No. He just saw Dumbledore take the word of two teenagers over those of every single one of his advisors. So, quite understandably, he questions Dumbledore’s judgement a bit more. Not too much, but the seeds are sown. Then, Black goes missing. In Hogwarts. Right after the Headmaster made it clear that he should be freed. Not only is this a major humiliation for Fudge, it’s also a direct undermining of his authority by Dumbledore … assuming Dumbledore helped to set him free, of course. No proof of that.”

A faint blush came to Potter’s cheeks. The boy was dreadful at acting innocent. Even if Percy hadn’t seen everything that had happened that evening (an act of heroism straight after that Basilisk feat? If course he saw it!), he could’ve guessed Potter had had a hand in it.

“Then comes your fourth year. Dumbledore’s been pushing for the reinstatement of the Triwizard Tournament for a while now. The Minister starts to get cold feet; he’s had many reasons to question Dumbledore’s judgement, and now reinstating an incredibly dangerous tournament, right after the embarrassment of the Quidditch World Cup? It doesn’t take a great leap of judgement to think maybe Dumbledore doesn’t have Fudge’s best interests at heart.

“Do you see, now, why Fudge may have reacted so badly to you, a well-known Dumbledore supporter, coming out of that Maze with a dead body and a rather unbelievable story about the Dark Lord returning?”

Potter slumped in his chair, the weight of isolation evident in his posture. "So what do I do? How do I convince people?"

"You don't," Percy said simply. "You prepare. You get ready for what's coming, and you help others get ready, whether they want to believe it or not."

Potter was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "Professor," he said finally, "why are you really here? I mean, you're obviously more experienced than most teachers. You could probably do whatever you wanted. Why teach at Hogwarts?"

“Coincidentally enough, Professor Umbridge.”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“‘Huh’ is not a word,” Percy chided. “‘Pardon’ or ‘I’m sorry’ work far more effectively. But to address your sentiments, yes, Dolly Dearest is the reason for my … unorthodox appointment. Fudge wants to keep an eye on the school. Wanted her to have my post, actually … Albus had to plead a bit to get me to come.”

“He asked you personally?”

“Of course.” Percy grinned arrogantly. “You didn’t think he’d let Hogwarts be unprotected now the darkest wizard for a generation has returned, would you?”

“How do you … how did he know to ask you?”

Percy resisted the urge to laugh. Somehow, he didn’t think the idea that he was bribed by burnt cookies would be a satisfactory explanation.

“Oh,” he said flippantly, “I’m an old friend of Al’s.”

“An old friend?”

“Yes.” Percy’s eyes lighted with a humour he knew would be confusing for the boy, but which he couldn’t help. “A very old friend.”

The next morning brought Professor Umbridge's first official observation of Percy's Defence class. His Monday double-period with the Gryffindor fifth years. For some reason, Percy imagined having Umbridge and Potter in the same classroom was something of a disaster waiting to happen.

Percy loved disasters.

He strode purposefully into the classroom at three o’clock on the dot, the door shutting just as the bell rang. Umbridge sat in the corner, clipboard at the ready, smiling.

“Good afternoon class!”

“Good afternoon Professor Jackson,” they chirped, more enthusiastically than usual.

“Now, today we will be practicing—”

“Hem, hem.”

“—recognising and countering basic hexes. I hope you all have your essays I set last lesson—”

“Hem, hem.”

“Yes, Dolores?”

“You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

“I did indeed!” Percy grinned. “Now, essays from last week—”

“Are you sure you’re moving through the course at an appropriate pace?” queried Umbridge. “Hexes, after only two weeks—”

“I am sure Dolores,” Percy said firmly. “Now, essays—”

“I really think—”

“—should be completed to the standards we talked about last week.” Percy flicked his wand and the learning objectives appeared on the wall. “I expect strong AO1 and AO2 as discussed. The examiners are looking for a recognition of when we are faced with a jinx and how to choose the most effective counterattack.”

“We all read chapter twelve of Defensive Magic: Practicing the Theory for homework, yes? Five minutes, group discussion, I want a summary of the three key points of the chapter and how you would respond to the case studies. Your time starts … now!”

Harry opened his textbook, watching Umbridge out of the corner of this eye. She was scrawling notes on her clipboard, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“So,” said Umbridge, “you’ve been in this post how long?”

“About two weeks,” Jackson replied nonchalantly.

“And for how long have you been teaching?”

Jackson laughed. “Too long!”

“How many years, exactly?”

“Professor?” said Lavender. “I don’t understand the case study.”

Jackson walked to the other side of the classroom.

“That was a strange answer,” mused Hermione.

“He seems experienced,” said Ron.

“If only we could move onto the practical stuff,” said Harry. “The book is good but I want to practice.”

“Do you have an objection to the syllabus, Mr Potter?” Umbridge rounded on him.

All eyes in the classroom turned to him. Harry could almost feel Jackson’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

“No,” he said. “Professor.”

“Do you feel satisfied with the quality of teaching in this class?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“But you don’t like the safe, Ministry-approved theory?”

Harry gritted his teeth.

“Dolores,” Jackson interrupted, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow my students to continue with the task they have been set.”

Umbridge smiled predatorily at him. “I’m merely gauging the opinion of the students.”

Jackson’s smile was even more vicious. “Please do so when I’m not trying to teach them.”

Collectively, the whole room shuddered. The sun disappeared behind a newly appeared grey cloud. The portraits on the wall fled their frames.

Umbridge’s smile faltered. “Of course, Professor Jackson,” she said.

“Excellent! Anyway, back to chapter twelve …”

Umbridge sat stewing in the back of the class for a short while. Then came the moment Harry had been waiting for, his favourite bit of the lessons.

“Fantastic work everyone!” Jackson announced. “Solid understanding so far. Now get up, put your bags at the back of the classroom and get your wands out.”

The students did as told. With a swish of his wand, the tables were all pushed to the sides of the room, creating a large, open floor space.

"Excuse me," Umbridge interrupted, her voice cutting through the classroom like a knife. "Professor Jackson, are you planning to have students actually cast spells at each other?"

"At each other? Goodness no!” Jackson laughed loudly. “I will have them practice the sound theory behind the wand movements, ensure their technique is sound, and then they will practice with targets.”

"I see." Umbridge made a note on her clipboard. "And you believe this is... appropriate... for students this age?"

"I believe students this age need to know how to defend themselves," Jackson said, a touch of ice in his voice. "But if you have concerns about safety, I assure you I'm perfectly capable of preventing any serious injuries."

Collectively, the whole room shuddered. The sun disappeared behind a newly appeared grey cloud. The portraits on the wall fled their frames.

Umbridge’s smile faltered. “Of course, Professor Jackson,” she said.

“Excellent! Returning to counter jinxes …”

Harry wasn’t sure if his performance had failed to impress Umbridge, or if she simply wanted to goad him more, but she continued to show up to all of the fifth year Gryffindor defence lessons … which meant more theory.

All things considered, Harry thought he was holding his tongue quite well. Once it became clear she wasn’t going to get a rise out of him, she turned her attention to Jackson.

“Are you satisfied with the quality of management at Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” said Jackson. “It’s as well run as any of the other schools I’ve taught at.”

“And … where have you taught?”

“I believe you can find my employment history and references on my curriculum vitae,” he said.

“Could you summarise that for me?”

“I believe you’ll find my résumé on … my résumé.”

“When did you qualify as a teacher?”

“Before you did, that’s for certain.”

“How old are you, Professor Jackson?”

“Old enough to remember your mother,” he sniped. “What was her name again? Eleanor Cr—”

“Older than you look, then,” interrupted Umbridge.

“Yes. Far older.”

The class gave up any pretence of working, eyes flicking back and forth as though watching a tennis match. The two professors stood toe to toe, Jackson towering over the diminutive Umbridge. The wind whistled through the stones in the wall, the sudden storm catching them by surprise.

“I must say, Professor,” said Umbridge, “I’m beginning to doubt your veracity.”

The pitcher of water in the corner of the room shattered.

“That’s a shame,” Jackson almost purred. “Because I don’t care.”

“It’s a bit strange, innit?” whispered Ron as they left. “The way the weather changes when Umbridge questions him?”

“I am going to kill that woman!” Percy declared, throwing himself into the chair opposite Al’s desk.

“Violence is never the answer,” said Al, not looking up from his parchment.

“Do you know how long it’s been since a mortal has spoken to me so disrespectfully and lived?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Neither do I! That’s how long it’s been!”

Al chuckled. “Have you considered anger management courses?”

“No, I have not.” Percy spun on the now-spinny chair. “How do you deal with these people? All day, every day?”

“With a great deal of patience.”

“I’m a god. I don’t have patience.”

“Even gods can learn from mortals.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

After the fifth consecutive Defence inspection, Harry finally snapped.

“Is there any reason,” said Jackson, “you insist on disrupting my lessons so much?”

“The Minister is very concerned about the quality of Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching at Hogwarts,” simpered Umbridge.

“I’m aware it has been inconsistent,” said Jackson, eyes raised skyward as if praying for patience, “but your insistence on interrupting my lessons is affecting my consistency.”

“Frankly, Professor Jackson, your lessons are consistent in … an undesirable way.”

“Oh really?”

Seemingly unaware of the danger she was in, Umbridge pressed ahead. “Like many of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professors in this school’s history, you allow the children far too much licence. Of all the professors these children have had, only Professor Quirrell—who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects—would have passed a Ministry inspection—”

“Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher,” said Harry loudly, “there was just that minor drawback of him having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head.”

“Detention, Potter,” barked Jackson, before Umbridge could open her mouth.

“I’ll take Mr Potter’s detention.”

“I’m more than capable of supervising a detention, Dolly Dearest.”

The pronouncement was followed one of the loudest silences Harry had ever heard. Then—

“Of course, Professor.”

Harry’s detention came the following Wednesday, after he had finally served the last of his detentions with Umbridge. It … wasn’t what he expected.

He arrived five minutes late, having had a run-in with Peeves on the dining room corridor. A bad start already.

Jackson’s office was different from most other professors’ offices. Most made some sort of attempt to make it homely; pictures of children and loved ones, well-read books, creatures of interest, but not Jackson. His office was Spartan by comparison: a large wooden desk half covered in a mess of parchment, a clock on the far wall, the grey curtains drawn open to allow full view of the lake. A pitcher of water and a stack of glasses sat on the clean half of the desk between two chairs.

“Professor?”

“Evening, Potter.” Jackson smiled easily. “Get held up?”

“Yeah, um … Peeves was—”

“Ah, yes, that scoundrel.” Jackson waved a hand. “Can’t be helped. Would you have a seat?”

Cautiously, Harry sat.

Jackson’s eyes turned sharp. “What’s on your hand, Potter?”

“Huh?”

“Your hand. Your left one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Show me.”

With a great deal of reluctance, Harry showed him the half-healed wounds on the back of his hand.

The professor’s eyebrows furrowed. “That looks painful.”

Harry shrugged defensively. “It’s not too bad.”

Jackson hummed noncommittally. The water from the pitcher rose and wrapped itself around his hand, leaving nothing but faint scars in its wake.

“How did you do that?” exclaimed Harry.

“Secret.” Jackson winked.

“But—that was wandless—nonverbal—how?”

“Practice.”

There was a moment of silence. Harry wasn’t sure how to respond to his professor’s careless grin. Then—

“Do you know why you’re in detention?”

“Because I shouted at Umbridge?”

“That’s one reason,” Jackson acknowledged. “The other is for ignoring Professor McGonagall and me—don’t look at me like that; she warned you about how dangerous Dolores Umbridge can be.”

“I’m not very good at avoiding danger. It just kind of …”

“Finds you?” Jackson sounded amused.

“Yeah.”

“I know how it feels. But learning to hold your tongue is just as important as learning to fight.”

“She’s not too keen on letting us learn that, either.”

“I know.” Perhaps it was just Harry’s paranoia, but Jackson’s grin seemed more than a little bit mad. “That’s where I come in.”

He passed his hand over the desk in front of them, a purple book shimmering into existence in its wake.

“You want me … to read?”

“Nonsense,” Jackson tsked. “That’s for homework. I want you to duel.”

“What?”

It wasn’t his paranoia; Jackson’s grin was definitely mad.

“A duel! Come on, get up, I’m going to teach you some real combat magic!”

Hesitantly, Harry rose from his seat.

“You know the basics of duelling I suppose?”

“We had a duelling club in my second year,” said Harry. “We didn’t learn much.”

“Probably for the best. Nothing I need to unteach you. So, the basics: how do you stand?”

“Um … like this?”

Jackson looked Harry up and down, the tsked again. “Hardly. You’re far too square on. You need to present a smaller target. Turn a bit, like this … no, right leg forward; you’re right-handed aren’t you? No, not on a tightrope: you’ll lose your balance far too easily … there we go!”

Feeling a little bit ridiculous, Harry stood in the middle of the room, legs slightly bent, wand raised in front of him.

Jackson looked inordinately pleased.

“Brilliant! Great start! Now, what’s the first thing you do when someone starts firing spells at you?”

“Err—block?”

Jackson shook his head. “No. You run. Run like the wind.”

“But I thought—”

“You’re fifteen, Potter. If you’re duelling an adult, you probably don’t stand a chance. Your best bet is to get out of there as soon as possible.”

Harry thought back to the graveyard where Voldemort had risen; how he’d have been fresh meat if Voldemort hadn’t wanted to toy with him first. “That … makes sense.”

“But, let’s say you can’t leave. What do you do then?”

“Not block?”

“Well,” Jackson hummed, “maybe. But there’s a better option. Dodge.”

“Dodge?”

“Yep. Give it a try. Dolorus!”

Harry squealed when the Stinging Hex hit him in the leg.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “I told you to dodge.”

“I tried!”

“Try harder. Dolorus!”

Harry leapt to the left.

“You don’t need to move that much.” Jackson shook his head. “Big movements will tire you out. Small movements are all you need. Dolorus!”

Harry shifted a half centimetre to the right.

“Better!” Jackson’s grin returned full force. “You’re a natural! Let’s try again …”

Harry returned from his detention around eight o’clock, much earlier than his detentions with Umbridge. Hermione and Ron were waiting for him.

“How was it?” said Hermione, her bottom lip torn and bleeding from her nervous habit of chewing it.

“… Weird.”

“Whaddaya mean?” asked Ron.

“He taught me to duel.”

“That’s … good,” said Hermione.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, collapsing on a free armchair nearby. “Said if I wouldn’t learnt to hold my tongue I might as well learn to fight.”

Ron noted, “You look exhausted.”

“I was dodging.” Harry winced as he shifted in the chair. “’Parently first thing you should do is run, and if you can’t run you should dodge until you can run.”

“His practical lessons are good,” said Hermione, “but he’s reduced them for the Inspection. I hope we get back to them.”

“I don’t think he got a good report from Umbridge,” said Ron. “The weather around the castle got really strange for a while.”

“I don’t think Jackson can control the weather,” Hermione said. “No-one’s that powerful.”

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Ron frowned. “What were you gonna say, mate?”

“Nothing, just—”

“Just…?” Hermione prompted.

“He healed my hand. But … weirdly. Like, with water. And no wand. Or spell. Just …”

“That pitcher of water exploded when Umbridge accused him of lying,” Hermione recalled.

“Okay, so Jackson’s weirdly powerful.” Ron shrugged. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? That Dumbledore would want a good teacher now You-Know-Who is back?”

“Remember when Umbridge asked him how long he’d been teaching?” Harry said. “And he couldn’t give an answer?”

“And said he’s old enough to remember Umbridge’s mother, but he barely looks older than us.” Hermione bit her lip again.

“He said he was an old friend of Dumbledore’s, when I spoke to him after the first lesson. Like it was a joke.”

“Maybe he’s a vampire!” Ron sat up straighter, eyes alight. “And actually he’s like two hundred years old—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Hermione. “His skin’s too tanned, and he eats too much regular food to be a vampire.”

“Spent a lot of time looking at his skin, have we?” snapped Ron. “He knows a lot of magic whatever, and he’s immortal—or really old at least—”

“Maybe he could teach us more defence!” Harry blurted. “He knows magic—his practical lessons are great—Umbridge obviously doesn’t like him, and we know he thinks her course proposals are rubbish—”

Ron was nodding. “It’s worth asking. Worst he can do is say no.”

Hermione was less sure. “If we think he might be hiding something, we should find out more about him. I mean, we don’t have the best history with DADA professors …”

“We can ask him questions during lessons,” suggested Harry. “Parvarti and Lavender do all the time; he doesn’t get annoyed at them.”

“No, but he doesn’t answer either.”

Harry shrugged. “He’s had plenty of chances to kill me and hasn’t.”

“So did Crouch.”

“He needed him for You-Know-Who’s trap thing,” Ron pointed out. “Not exactly that need now.”

“Either way, I don’t trust him yet,” said Hermione stubbornly. “He’s still under Umbridge’s control as long as she’s here. We need someone else …”

“Maybe,” said Harry, just to get her to shut up. “But for now I’m going to bed.”

The following Saturday, Percy decided to have a … chat with Umbridge.

He knocked on her office door, entering without waiting for acknowledgement.

“Professor Jackson,” she said. “I didn’t invite you in.”

Percy shrugged. “I didn’t invite you into my classroom either,” he replied flippantly. “Which is something I’d like to talk about.”

“I have a duty to the Ministry to inspect all Hogwarts staff—”

“You know as well as I do there is nothing wrong with my teaching. Even Potter keeps his mouth shut in my classroom.”

Umbridge’s cheeks reddened. “We have serious misgivings about the past quality of Defence teaching at Hogwarts.”

Percy wanted to laugh. “So they wanted to give the post to you? You only got your teaching qualification in August!”

“And why did Dumbledore decide to give the job to you instead?”

“I was the only one qualified person who’d take it.”

There was a silence between them that lasted just half a second too long. Umbridge evidently expected him to elaborate. He did not.

“Were you sought out personally?”

“Oh yes.” He smirked. “Head-hunted.”

“Why?”

“I have a reputation.”

“For?”

“Knowing things.”

“Knowing things?”

“Yes.” This time he did elaborate: “For instance, Dolores, I know all about you.”

The colour drained from Umbridge’s flushed cheeks.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. The half-blood daughter of janitor Orford Umbridge and Muggle Eleanor Cracknell, older sister to a squib and ex-wife to a known murderer. I must say, Dolly Darling, your history is quite the marvel.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Umbridge stiffly. “My family can trace itself back to the—”

“Selwyns, yes, so you say.” Percy summoned a book from Umbridge’s sparse shelves. “And yet you don’t appear anywhere on their family tree.”

He flicked through the pages.

“Yes, there was an Umbridge, along the line, a squib daughter long disowned, but your link even to them is … dubious.”

He turned the book to face her, the double-page spread of the Selwyn’s family tree suspiciously devoid of any Umbridge.

She said nothing.

“So, Dolores,” Percy closed the book, “I’d quite appreciate the chance to teach my classes in peace. Lest I get bored and start saying things I shouldn’t.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Has it taken you this long to cotton on? I know you only got an A on your Defence NEWT, but I had higher expectations.” Percy leaned over her desk, their faces only an inch apart. “Allow me to make myself perfectly clear. You will stay out of my classroom. You will not harass my students. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll avoid me entirely.

“I’m a powerful enemy to have, Dolores. You’d do well to remember that.”

She did not turn up to his next class. Percy breathed a sigh—of relief or disappointment, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Old Enough to Know What’s Right

Percy knocked on the door to Dumbledore's office, the familiar scent of lemon drops and old parchment greeting him as he entered.

“Percy,” Dumbledore said warmly, looking up from a stack of correspondence. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Professor McGonagall was already seated in one of the chairs facing Dumbledore's desk, a cup of tea balanced on her knee. She nodded curtly at Percy as he settled into the chair beside her.

“I wanted to discuss something with both of you,” Percy began. “My students are eager to learn practical defence, but our classroom time is limited, especially with Dolores breathing down my neck nearly every lesson like a particularly persistent harpy.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall said dryly. “I understand she's taken to timing your practical demonstrations with a stopwatch.”

“Among other charming habits,” Percy muttered. “The woman has all the subtlety of a charging Minotaur and twice the malice. I’ve managed to get her to back off for the time being, but it’s only a matter of time until she finds some other stick to beat me with. The point is, I'd like to start an extracurricular club. Something official, above board. A Practical Magic Society, perhaps.”

McGonagall set down her teacup with a sharp clink. “Perseus, while I admire your dedication to our students’ safety, I must point out that any such club would need Ministry approval. And given Professor Umbridge’s ... influence ... I doubt such approval would be forthcoming.”

“Which is precisely why I want to do this properly,” Percy said. “If we establish the club now through official channels, get the students enthused and interested, it becomes much harder for her to shut it down later without student and parent backlash. She needs to get the repercussions of her decisions in the manner she understands best: politically.”

“A sound strategy,” Dumbledore agreed. “Though I suspect Dolores will not be pleased.”

Percy's grin was decidedly wicked. “Oh, I'm counting on it.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “You seem remarkably unconcerned about antagonising the bastion of Ministry power at Hogwarts.” Although her voice dripped with disdain, the concern was genuine.

“Minerva,” Percy said, his voice taking on that strange, ageless quality that sometimes slipped through his careful mortal facade, “I've dealt with petty tyrants before. They're all the same. They rely on fear and bureaucracy because they have no real power. The Ministry does not frighten me. Dolores Umbridge most certainly does not.”

“Perhaps not,” McGonagall said carefully, "but she has the backing of the Ministry. That makes her dangerous in ways that go beyond personal power.”

“Which is why we need to be smart about this," Percy replied. "If I can get the club officially registered before she thinks to ban student organisations entirely, we’ll have a head start over her machinations. It won’t last long but it’s better than nothing."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, considering. “What sort of activities were you planning?”

“Three sessions a week. One for years 1 to 4, another years 5 to 7, and one advanced class. Advanced defensive techniques, situational awareness, some basic healing magic. The sort of things that might keep them alive if—when—they encounter real danger.”

“That sounds remarkably like military preparation,” McGonagall observed.

Percy met her gaze steadily. “Because that's exactly what it is. These children are going to face a war, Minerva, whether the Ministry admits it or not. We can either prepare them for it, or send them out to die.”

The office fell silent except for the soft ticking of various silver instruments. Fawkes ruffled his feathers and let out a low, mournful trill.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. “I will support this endeavour, with one condition.”

"Which is?"

“Groups must be mixed between houses. This must be a chance for interhouse unity. Teaching children advanced magic without fostering unity will only increase their ability to kill each other as tools for an uncaring overlord.”

“Agreed. I’m trying to get through to Draco Malfoy. The boy has potential. I hope he won’t follow his father’s path.”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “If we're going to do this, we should move quickly. I’ll handle the paperwork for official registration. Better that it comes from my office than yours, Perseus. It might draw less immediate scrutiny.”

“Thank you, Minerva.”

“Don't thank me yet,” she said grimly. “Thank me if we manage to keep these children alive.”

As Percy rose to leave, Dumbledore stopped him. “Percy? Be careful. I fear Dolores Umbridge is not as powerless as you believe.”

Percy paused at the door, his hand on the ornate handle. “I know how dangerous power is in the hands of hose without morality to check it, Al. But I also know what's coming. I’d rather face the Ministry’s wrath than explain to parents why their children died because we were too afraid to teach them properly.”

“Morning, class!” Jackson called out as the fifth-year Gryffindors filed into Defence. His usual energy seemed heightened, almost manic. “I trust you all slept well? Wonderful dreams of defensive theory, no doubt?”

A few students chuckled nervously. Umbridge had been conspicuously absent from their last lesson, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Now," Jackson continued, "I have some rather interesting news. Following the results of my many inspections – and by ‘inspections’ I mean her standing in my classroom glaring at me like I've personally offended her ancestors – by our favourite High Inquisitor, I have been informed on no uncertain terms that I must cease any and all practical lessons in the class. In fact, it was her recommendation that I should require everyone to leave their wands at the door.”

Harry’s heart sank.

“The thing is,” Jackson continued, beginning to pace in front of the blackboard, “Minister Fudge and his lackeys seem to be under the impression that the best way to protect you from Dark magic is to pretend it doesn’t exist. They’d rather you learned to write essays about defensive theory than actually defend yourselves.” He stopped pacing and turned to face the class directly. “I, on the other hand, prefer my students breathing. Call it a character flaw.

“So,” Jackson said, his grin sharp enough to cut glass, “Professor McGonagall and I have just established an official Practical Magic Society. Fully registered, completely above board, with the Headmaster's blessing. We'll be focusing on advanced defensive techniques, real-world applications, and—” his eyes glittered with mischief “—creative problem-solving."

“But Professor,” Parvati said quietly, “if the Ministry—”

“The Ministry,” Jackson interrupted, “can go stuff itself as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been fighting dark wizards since before any of you were born, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let bureaucratic cowardice get you killed.”

Harry felt a thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension. This was exactly what he'd been hoping for, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Jackson was walking into a trap.

“Now then,” Jackson said, clapping his hands together, “who can tell me the three fundamental rules of magical combat?”

Several hands went up tentatively.

“Miss Brown?”

“Um ... keep your guard up?”

“Good start, but not quite what I'm looking for. Mr Longbottom?”

“Don't let them get behind you?” Neville offered.

“Also a good idea, but no cigar. Anyone else? No? Right then, allow me to enlighten you.” Jackson waved his hand, and the desks slid themselves against the walls with a scraping sound that made several students wince.

“Rule one: Stay alive. Everything else is secondary. Your pride, your grades, your desire to look heroic—none of it matters if you're dead. Pride is for people who can afford to lose.”

He began pacing again, and Harry noticed that his movements had a predatory quality to them, like a tiger pacing its cage.

“Rule two: There is no such thing as a fair fight. If someone is trying to kill you, you use every advantage you can get. Kick them in the bollocks if you have to. Dark wizards certainly won't hesitate to fight dirty.”

A few students giggled nervously at this.

“And rule three,” Jackson's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but somehow everyone could hear him perfectly, “never, ever underestimate your opponent. The moment you think you’ve won is the moment they'll surprise you.”

He stopped in the centre of the room and looked around at each student in turn. “These rules have kept me alive through more fights than I care to count. Learn them. Live them. Because I guarantee you, there will come a time when your life depends on remembering them.”

The lesson that followed was unlike anything they'd experienced in Defence before. Jackson had them practice combat stances, footwork, and basic evasion techniques. He demonstrated advanced shielding charms and showed them how to cast multiple spells in rapid succession.

“Potter!” Jackson called out as Harry successfully deflected three curses in a row. “Excellent work. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

As the lesson drew to a close, Jackson called for attention one final time.

"Before you leave,” he said, "I have a proposition for you. Some of you may be interested in additional defence training beyond what we can cover in our regular lessons. After speaking with the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall, I've been given permission to start an official Practical Magic Society. We've registered it through proper channels, so it's completely above board. We will focus on advanced defensive techniques, tactical awareness, and real-world applications of magic. However, I should mention that while the society is officially sanctioned, I'd prefer to keep our activities ... low-key. Some people might not appreciate our emphasis on practical training.”

“You mean Professor Umbridge?” said Dean.

“I mean anyone who might prefer students learn theory over survival skills. Attendance is voluntary, of course, but if you do join, I expect discretion.”

"Would this be Ministry-approved?" Parvati asked nervously.

Jackson chuckled darkly. “There is no Educational Degree about safe, supervised student study groups established with the consensus of nearly all of Hogwarts’ upper management. ”

After the lesson ended, most of them stayed behind. Only Seamus, Lavender and Parvati left, with Parvati throwing a slightly mournful glance over her shoulder as she did.

"Professor," Harry said, “about this study group...”

“Ah yes.” Jackson's expression became more serious. “I should be clear about what I'm offering. This wouldn't be a casual commitment. Real combat training is dangerous, exhausting, and sometimes painful. You'd be learning magic that could seriously injure or kill someone if used improperly.”

“We understand,” Hermione said firmly. “We want to learn.”

“All of you?" Jackson looked around the group. When everyone nodded, he smiled. “Excellent. Thursday evenings, this office, seven o’clock. I will beginning planning the sessions tonight. In the meantime, I want all of you to think carefully about this decision. Once you start down this path, there's no going back. You'll see and do things that will change you. Are you certain you're ready for that?”

Harry thought of Cedric's death, of Voldemort's return, of all the times he'd barely escaped with his life through luck rather than skill. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “We're ready.”

As the others turned to leave, Harry caught Jackson’s eye. Jackson held a hand up silently, a clear sign for him to stay. Harry nodded at Hermione and Ron to go ahead.

“This study group,” Jackson said quietly, “it's going to attract attention eventually. Are you prepared for that?”

"You mean from Umbridge?"

“Among others.” Jackson's expression was grave. “What we're planning goes directly against Ministry policy. If we're discovered, there will be consequences. Serious ones.”

Harry thought of Umbridge's quill, of the lies in the Daily Prophet, of Voldemort's return being systematically denied and covered up.

“I don't care,” he said firmly. “People need to know how to protect themselves.”

Jackson studied his face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Good. Because let me be clear: Umbridge wants me gone. Not just me, but Professor Dumbledore too. She won’t stop until all of Hogwarts is under her thumb. If for any reason I am unable to continue the society, or practical lessons – or teaching at all, for that matter – we need to be prepared.”

Jackson’s eyes burned into Harry’s. There was no doubt at all about what he was insinuating.

Harry swallowed nervously. “You mean – if you have to leave – I should get Hermione or—”

“No, Harry. Not Hermione. Not Ron. They can help, of course. I have no doubt they will and that their advice will be good. But I’ve seen you in practice. More than you even realise. You have a gift, Harry. Take it from someone who knows.”

Harry didn’t say anything, brain whirring.

“There’s no need to confirm anything now, of course.” Jackson leaned back on his chair, his moment of sudden, all-consuming intensity past. “However, I would like you to consider it. Discuss it with your friends and your godfather, if you like. But you know what’s out there, as much as I do. We can ensure everyone else has their eyes open to it, or they can sleepwalk into it. I know what I would prefer.”

Understanding himself to be dismissed, Harry turned to leave. As he did so, he caught something in Percy's expression. A kind of resigned determination, as if he was already planning for his own absence.

“Professor?” Harry paused at the door. “You're not planning on going anywhere, are you?”

Percy's smile was enigmatic and somehow sad. “I never plan on going anywhere, Harry. But the Fates have their own ideas about these things.”

The following evening, Harry arrived at Jackson’s office five minutes early, his stomach churning with nervous excitement. He paced in front of the blank wall, concentrating on their need for a training space, and the familiar door appeared.

Inside, the room had transformed again. The mats were arranged in a large circle, and the practice dummies had been moved to create different training stations. Jackson was already there, dressed in dark, practical clothing that looked nothing like his usual teaching robes.

“Potter,” he said with a nod. “Ready for this?”

Harry smiled wryly. “Don’t think I really have a choice in that.”

More students began filtering in. To Harry’s surprise, it wasn't just Gryffindors. Padma Patil arrived with two other Ravenclaws Harry recognized from the year above, followed by several Hufflepuffs including Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan. Even Luna Lovegood and a handful of Ravenclaws. Most surprising of all, three Slytherins entered: Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, and a seventh-year Harry didn't know by name. Harry counted nearly thirty students spread across all four houses and years four through seven.

“Right then,” Jackson said once everyone had gathered. “Welcome to what I like to call ‘Defence Declassified: Dark Arts Survival Guide.’”

A few students chuckled, but most looked too nervous to laugh.

“Before we begin,” Jackson continued, “I want to make something absolutely clear. What we're doing here is not a game. The techniques I'm going to teach you are designed to disable, incapacitate, and if necessary, kill your opponents. Some of you may find that disturbing. If so, you're welcome to leave now, no questions asked.”

No one moved.

“Excellent,” Jackson said, settling against the front of his desk. “I'm pleased to see such enthusiasm for practical learning. To start with: ground rules.” He gestured to the mixed group before him. “First, in this room, house divisions don't exist. You're all here for the same reason: to learn skills that might save your life and the lives of others. I expect you to work together regardless of which dormitory you sleep in.”

The Gryffindors and Slytherins looked at each other suspiciously. Harry caught Blaise Zabini’s eye, but surprisingly, the boy simply nodded at him in acknowledgment.

“Second,” Jackson continued, “what we discuss and practice here stays here. While this society is officially registered and sanctioned, some people might misunderstand our focus on practical applications. Discretion is not just advisable. It is essential.”

“But we are following Ministry guidelines, aren't we?” asked Hannah Abbott nervously.

“Guidelines? No. But the law? Absolutely,” Jackson replied. “Everything we do falls well within approved parameters for advanced defensive education. We're simply ... emphasising the practical aspects more than some might expect.”

Blaise Zabini spoke up from the back of the room. “Professor, may I ask why you’ve decided to mix Houses in this club? The last time a professor tried to teach duelling to a mixed House group, the results were … undesirable.”

Harry winced at the memory of the second year duelling club. He didn’t really fancy reigniting any rumours based on his Parseltongue abilities.

“There are many reasons I am mixing the Houses here, Zabini,” said Jackson. “The first and foremost being that you are all souls with your own lives and your own worth. Everyone should be able to defend themselves against someone who wants to harm them. Second, when someone tries to kill you, they won't check your house affiliation first. Every student in this school deserves to know how to protect themselves—and protect others."

Luna looked up from her magazine. “My father says that dark wizards often target people they think will be easy victims. Learning to defend yourself isn't about what side you're on—it's about not being defenceless.”

“Exactly right, Miss Lovegood,” Jackson said with a warm smile. “Now, we’ll start with what I know you already know, and I’ll give you some extra instruction on that.”

Jackson had them demonstrate basic defensive spells, practice shield charms, and show their duelling stances. He moved among them with easy confidence, offering individual corrections and encouragement.

“Excellent improvement, Longbottom,” he called out as Neville successfully cast a particularly strong shield charm, “Your stance is exemplary.”

Neville beamed, his confidence visibly growing.

“Greengrass, try adjusting your wand grip slightly—there, much better. Your spell work is quite precise.”

Harry watched in fascination as Jackson seemed to instinctively know how to connect with each student. He was encouraging with the nervous ones like Hannah Abbott, challenging with the confident ones like Ernie Macmillan, and respectfully direct with the older students.

When he reached the seventh-year Slytherin, who turned out to be Adrian Pucey’s younger brother Adam, Jackson's approach shifted slightly.

“Pucey, isn't it? I hear your brother is a talented Quidditch player. Do you play?”

“Chaser,” Pucey replied warily.

“Excellent. Quidditch players often make good duellists—you already understand positioning, timing, and reading your opponent's movements. Let me see your footwork.”

As Pucey demonstrated, Jackson nodded approvingly. “Good foundation. You might consider incorporating some of those Quidditch reflexes into your defensive work.”

By the end of the session, the initial tension between houses had noticeably eased. Students were helping each other with spell techniques and sharing observations about different approaches.

“Right then,” Jackson announced as they gathered their things, “same time next week. I want everyone to practice the shield variations we covered tonight. And remember—”

“Discretion,” several students chorused.

“Exactly. Miss Abbott, could you stay behind for a moment? I have some reading you may appreciate.”

Harry lingered near the door, watching as Jackson spoke quietly with Hannah Abbott, who was nodding eagerly and looking far more confident than when she'd arrived.

When she left, Jackson looked up to find Harry still there.

“Potter? Something on your mind?”

“That was brilliant, Professor. I was just wondering though …” Harry hesitated. “If you … can’t continue this class anymore. How do you make sure everyone in different Houses feels included? The Slytherins aren’t particularly fond of me.”

Jackson's expression grew thoughtful. “It’s important to look past the colour of one’s robes, same as the colour of their skin or their blood status. I have plenty of experience bringing together people who don't naturally trust each other. Sometimes the strongest alliances form between the most unlikely partners.”

“You really think this will work? All of us training together?”

Jackson’s voice carried that strange weight again. “Some of the greatest victories in history have come from uniting divided people against a common threat. Your generation might just surprise you.”

Before Harry could ask what that meant, Jackson had gathered his things and headed for the door.

“Get some rest, Potter. Tomorrow we start preparing for war.”

As the door closed behind his professor, Harry was left alone in the empty office, wondering exactly what kind of man he'd just agreed to follow into battle.

No, not follow. The man he’d agreed to let teach him to lead others into battle.

Harry’s morning began with the announcement that all Hogwarts organisations were hereby disbanded by order of the High Inquisitor. Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four was pinned to the notice board in each common room, its parchment still crisp and new.

“Well, that's us stuffed then,” said Ron gloomily, stabbing his bacon with unusual violence.

“Not necessarily,” Hermione said quietly, glancing around the Great Hall. “She can ban official organisations, but she can't stop students from studying together informally.”

Harry watched Jackson at the staff table, noting how the man's usual easy smile had been replaced by something harder, more calculating. When their eyes met across the hall, Jackson raised his coffee cup in what might have been a casual gesture but felt more like a salute.

The Defence lesson that afternoon was notably different. For the first time in weeks, Umbridge was nowhere to be seen, and Jackson seemed to have regained his usual easy confidence.

“Excellent news, class,” Jackson announced as they filed in. “We're returning to practical work today. It seems Professor Umbridge has decided her time is better spent elsewhere.”

Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. Although they were glad to be returning to Jackson’s usual lesson style, Umbridge’s abrupt absence felt more ominous than reassuring.

The lesson started off in Jackson’s usual style: one member of the class was challenged at sword-point to list all the potential tells that an object had been cursed. The rest had to note down the potential corresponding curses to which those tells applied. Once Jackson was satisfied they had the basics covered, he moved to clear the desks with a casual wave of his wand

“Today we're going to practice identifying cursed objects through practical examination.” Jackson gestured to a collection of seemingly innocent items arranged on the table in the middle of the room: an ornate hand mirror, a quill with an unusually dark feather, a small music box, and several pieces of jewellery. “One of these objects is genuinely cursed. The others are harmless but charmed to appear suspicious. Your task is to identify which is which using the detection methods we've discussed.”

The lesson proceeded with the sort of hands-on learning Harry had come to associate with Jackson’s teaching. Students worked in pairs, carefully examining each object whilst Jackson moved among them, offering guidance and corrections.

“Well done Potter,” said Jackson approvingly as Harry successfully identified the cursed music box. “That lovely piece would have had you dancing uncontrollably for the next twenty minutes. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

As the lesson drew to a close, Jackson's expression grew more serious.

“Before you leave,” Jackson said quietly, “I need you all to understand something. The latest Educational Decree may have disbanded official Hogwarts organisations, but it says nothing about students meeting informally to study. And it certainly doesn't prevent a professor from offering additional help to students who request it.” His eyes swept the room, lingering on Harry. “Of course, any such informal study sessions would need to be conducted with appropriate discretion. We wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression about what constitutes an ‘organisation’ versus simple academic collaboration.”

“Professor,” Hermione asked carefully, “if students were to request additional help, where might such informal study sessions take place?”

Jackson's smile was enigmatic. “I'm sure resourceful students could find appropriate spaces for private study. Hogwarts is full of rooms that serve different purposes depending on one's needs. For those with immediate questions, however, my office door always remains open.”

As the class began to pack up, Jackson caught Harry's eye and nodded indicated once more for him to stay. Harry lingered as the others filed out, Ron and Hermione barely bothering to shoot him a questioning look anymore – it seemed Harry was asked to stay behind after Jackson’s classes more often than he was permitted to leave on time, recently.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“Indeed.” Jackson waited until the last student had left before speaking. “I imagine you're wondering how we proceed from here.”

“Are we going to continue the defence group?”

“That depends,” Jackson said, settling behind his desk. “Are you prepared for things to become significantly more dangerous? Because make no mistake, Potter, Umbridge isn't finished with us. This decree is just the beginning.”

Harry shrugged. “Even when I try to avoid danger, it seems to find me. I’d rather be facing a danger I can plan for.”

Jackson studied him for a long moment. "Then we'll need a place to meet. Somewhere Umbridge can't find us, can't monitor us. Do you know of anywhere like that?"

Harry frowned, thinking. “Not really. Everywhere in the castle has portraits, and they all report to Dumbledore—or now probably to Umbridge.”

Jackson frowned. “I see. Unfortunately Umbridge and Filch have taken to watching me like hawks, so I’m not particularly free to explore the castle as I wish. If you find anywhere, let me know.”

“I will,” Harry promised. “I’ll get right on it.”

Dobby was a genius, Harry thought. Only two days after his conversation with Jackson, Harry made his way to the seventh floor under cover of his Invisibility Cloak on the advice of the free elf. The corridor was empty except for the soft snores coming from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, paused in his endeavour to teach trolls ballet.

I need a place to practice defence magic, Harry thought, walking slowly past the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry. Somewhere Umbridge can't find us. Somewhere safe.

On his third pass, a door appeared.

Harry stared at it for a moment, hardly daring to believe it had worked. The door was made of dark wood with an ornate brass handle that gleamed in the torchlight. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was perfect. It was spacious enough for dozens of people to practice spells, with high ceilings and walls lined with what looked like defensive training equipment: practice dummies, spell-absorbing panels, and shelves stocked with books on defensive magic. Soft, warm light emanated from floating orbs near the ceiling, and the far wall was dominated by a large tapestry depicting the four Hogwarts founders standing together.

"Bloody hell," Harry whispered.

He spent several minutes exploring the room, marvelling at how perfectly it suited their needs. There were even what appeared to be observation areas with cushioned benches for students who might need to rest between practice sessions.

Harry walked straight to Jackson’s office. Although it was late, he heard voices from inside the door.

“Doughnuts?” came a guffaw.

“Doughnuts,” a voice that was unmistakably Jackson’s said wryly. “Give him a doughnut and you had that horse’s eternal loyalty.”

“Did you even have doughnuts back then?” asked the other voice. Harry furrowed his brow. It sounded like … surely not …?

“Well,” Jackson said, “not doughnuts exactly. But fried dough, definitely. My mother used to mash up black beans, wrap the paste around figs and fry it. We didn’t have refined sugar or white flour so they’re very different from most foods you get nowadays.”

“That sounds … charming.” No, it was definitely him.

“It is. But I much prefer doughnuts.”

“I would too,” Dumbledore agreed.

Harry knocked on the door hesitantly. It wasn’t curfew just yet. He wouldn’t be in trouble. But equally, Dumbledore hadn’t spoken to him or even made eye contact with Harry all year. He wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Come in, Harry,” Jackson called.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry greeted with a nod. “Professor Jackson. I have something I’d like to tell you. About the … project, you mentioned a couple days ago.”

“I think,” said Dumbledore primly, “that this is my sign to take my leave. Goodnight Percy, Harry.” With that, Dumbledore walked out the door, not sparing Harry a second glance.

“I found something,” said Harry, trying not to linger on this dismissal too much. “A place where we could meet if ... if we needed somewhere the Ministry couldn't monitor. Somewhere completely private.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Show me.”

Harry brought out his Invisibility Cloak, which Jackson eyed with curiosity.

“There is no need for that, Harry,” he said. “I am capable of disguising us more than adequately.”

Harry blinked. “You know what this does?”

“Yes,” said Jackson. “I’m well acquainted with it. With that Cloak in particular. But I haven’t seen it for … well, not for a very long time.”

They made their way through the castle without the Invisibility Cloak. Although they walked as usual, Harry was surprised to note that not even the portraits seemed to notice them. Even when walking under the Cloak, the portraits tended to stir at the sound of his feet on the cobbles, or the opening and closing of doors. But whatever magic Jackson had cast, nothing around them seemed any the wiser as to their presence. When they reached the seventh floor, Harry stopped in front of the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

“Here,” Harry whispered.

Jackson examined the wall with interest. “Unremarkable stretch of corridor. What am I missing?”

“You have to pace in front of it three times while thinking about what you need,” Harry explained, already beginning to walk back and forth. We need a place to teach defence. We need somewhere safe and private. We need a room where we can prepare for war.

On his third pass, the familiar door appeared.

Jackson went completely still. When he spoke, his voice was awed. “Well, I'll be damned.”

They entered together, and Harry watched as Jackson took in the transformed space. The room had created itself as a perfect training facility: mats covered the floor, practice dummies lined one wall, and weapon racks held training wands and practice shields. Bookshelves filled with defensive magic texts occupied another wall, and comfortable seating areas were scattered around the edges.

“Magnificent,” Jackson murmured, running his hand along one of the weapon racks. “The room knows exactly what we need.”

“How does it work, Professor? Do you know?”

Jackson was quiet for a long moment, his expression distant. “Very old magic. The kind that comes from need and sacrifice, built into the foundations of the castle itself. I imagine you could hide from the most powerful beings on the planet in here and they would be none the wiser.” He looked around the Room curiously. “In fact, if it is what I think it is …”

Jackson closed his eyes and spread his arms wide. The air around him began to shimmer like heat waves rising from summer pavement. When the shimmer faded, the room had transformed completely.

Gone were the stone walls of Hogwarts. Instead, they stood in what looked like a vast outdoor amphitheatre surrounded by towering pine trees. The scent of strawberries and sea salt filled the air. In the distance, Harry could see the glint of water—a lake that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Wooden cabins dotted the landscape, and a large dining pavilion sat at the centre of it all. The sky above was a perfect blue, dotted with white clouds that seemed to glow with their own inner light.

“What is this place?” Harry breathed, turning in a slow circle.

Jackson’s expression had grown soft, almost melancholy. “Home. Or what used to be home, a very long time ago.” He gestured to the training grounds that had appeared around them—combat circles marked in the dirt, archery ranges, and obstacle courses that looked far more challenging than anything Hogwarts had to offer. “This is where young heroes learned to fight, to think, to survive. Where they found family among those who understood what it meant to be ... different.”

Harry noticed that the practice dummies had been replaced by straw targets shaped like monsters—things with too many heads, serpentine bodies, and claws that glinted in the sunlight. “Heroes?”

“Children, really. Children who had powers they didn't understand, who faced dangers they shouldn't have had to face. But they had each other. And they had teachers who understood what they were going through.”

“Like you?”

Jackson nodded slowly. “I taught many of them. I was one of them, once. Watched them grow from frightened children into ... into the kind of people who would sacrifice everything to protect others.” He touched one of the archery targets, and for a moment it seemed almost real—Harry could swear he heard the distant sound of laughter and training calls.

“What happened to them?”

“What happens to all heroes, eventually. They grew up. They fought their battles. Some lived long enough to find their happiness. Many didn't. The world moved on, as it always does.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, absorbing the weight of loss in Jackson’s voice. “Is that why you're here? At Hogwarts? Because you see the same thing happening again?”

“Perhaps.” Jackson waved his hand, and the room shifted back to its previous state—stone walls, practice mats, weapon racks. But something of that other place lingered in the air, a sense of possibility and belonging that made Harry's chest tight with unexpected longing. “Or perhaps I'm here because some fights are worth having, regardless of how they end.”

He turned to face Harry directly, and his eyes held that ancient weight again. “That place I showed you. It was built on the idea that everyone deserves a chance to become their best self, regardless of where they came from or who their parents were. Rich or poor, powerful bloodline or humble origins—it didn't matter. What mattered was courage, loyalty, and the willingness to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.”

“It sounds perfect.”

“It wasn't.” Jackson laughed ruefully. “We had our rivalries, our prejudices, our failures. But we tried to do better. We tried to teach young people that their differences made them stronger, not weaker.” He looked around the transformed room. “This space—the Room of Requirement—it could be that for your generation. A place where house colours don't matter, where Muggle-born and Pureblood train side by side, where what matters is character, not birth.”

They stood a moment in silence. And then:

"Professor Jackson?" Harry hesitated, then plunged ahead. "In our first lesson, you said you were older than we thought. And just now, you said you hadn’t seen my Cloak long time. How long have you really been alive?"

Jackson turned from his examination of the training equipment, and for a moment, his careful mask slipped. Harry saw something ancient and weary in his eyes—the look of someone who had seen too much and carried too many burdens.

“Long enough to know that what's coming will test every one of us in ways we can't imagine,” Jackson said quietly. “Long enough to recognise courage when I see it, and to know that you have what it takes to lead when the time comes.”

He moved to the centre of the room, his voice taking on the tone he used during lessons. “This room will be invaluable if we need to continue the society in secret. The magic here is older and stronger than anything the Ministry can penetrate. But Harry—” Jackson’s gaze became intense, almost burning. “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“If something happens to me, if I'm forced to leave or if I'm ... incapacitated ... you won't try to face whatever's coming alone. You'll keep the society together. You'll make sure everyone – from all Houses – has a place to belong and a chance to fight for what's right.”

The weight of the request settled on Harry's shoulders like a heavy cloak. But staring into depth of his professors eyes, Harry felt no fear. Declining seemed impossible. “I promise. But Professor, you're not going anywhere, are you?”

Jackson’s smile was sad and knowing. “I hope not, Harry. I truly hope not. But if there's one thing I've learned in my very long life, it's that hope and preparation go hand in hand.”

The next evening, Harry led a small group of students to the seventh floor. Word had spread quietly through their original defence group: tonight they would discover whether Jackson's informal study sessions were worth the risk.

Ron and Hermione were with him, of course, along with Neville, Ginny, and Luna. Dean had decided the risk was too great, but the Weasley twins had come, as had several older students from different houses.

“This is mental,” Ron muttered as they climbed the stairs. “If we get caught ...”

“We won't get caught,” Hermione said firmly, though she kept glancing over her shoulder. “And even if we do, we're just students meeting to study. There's nothing illegal about that.”

“Tell that to Umbridge,” Ginny said darkly.

When they reached the seventh floor, Harry was relieved to see that Jackson was already waiting for them. The professor looked different out of his teaching robes—younger somehow, wearing dark, practical clothing that looked designed for movement rather than ceremony.

“Right on time,” Jackson said approvingly. “I trust you all understand the discretion required for what we're about to do?”

Everyone nodded.

“Excellent. Potter, would you do the honours?”

Harry walked past the blank wall three times, concentrating on their need for a safe place to practice. The door appeared, and Jackson's eyebrows rose in appreciation.

“Well done. After you.”

The group filed into the room, and Harry heard several gasps of amazement. The room had somehow configured itself even more perfectly than the night before, with practice areas set up for different types of training.

“Welcome,” Jackson said, his voice echoing slightly in the large space, “to what I like to think of as our real Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.”

Luna raised her hand. “Professor, what should we call this group? We can't very well refer to it as the 'Practical Magic Society' anymore.”

Jackson looked thoughtful. “I suppose we need something more ... informal. Any suggestions?”

“The Shield Society?” suggested Hermione tentatively. “Since we're learning to protect ourselves and others?”

“I’m not too sure about leading a society where the acronyms are ‘The SS’; that’s somehow even worse than PMS,” said Jackson wryly.

“The Unbound,” said Neville quietly, surprising everyone. “Because we're not letting rules and regulations stop us from learning what we need to know.”

Jackson’s expression flickered with something Harry couldn't quite identify—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. “The Unbound,” he repeated slowly. “I rather like that. What does everyone else think?”

Harry looked around at the group. At Neville standing straighter than he had in years, at the Slytherins who'd chosen to stay despite house prejudices, at all of them willing to risk punishment to learn how to protect themselves and others.”

“The Unbound,” he said firmly. “It's perfect.”

There were nods of agreement around the circle.

“The Unbound it is,” Jackson said. “May you always remain so.”

“What do we do first?” asked Neville, looking nervous but determined.

“Exactly what we were doing before,” said Jackson. “We learn, we teach, and we grow.”

If Harry had thought Jackson’s first advanced lesson was the most intense he had every experienced, this one put it to shame. Jackson’s teaching style combined the discipline of a military instructor with the practical knowledge of someone who'd actually fought for his life. The focus, Jackson said, was on 'combat awareness'—the ability to track multiple opponents whilst maintaining defensive positioning.

“Potter!” Jackson called out as Harry successfully deflected three simultaneous curses from practice dummies. “Excellent work. Your reflexes are outstanding.”

Harry felt a warm glow of pride, though he was too exhausted to do more than nod in acknowledgement.

“Longbottom, much better! I can see you’ve been practicing that shield charm.”

Neville beamed, sweat dripping from his face but looking more confident than Harry had ever seen him.

As the session drew to a close, Jackson gathered them in a circle.

“I want you all to practice the techniques we covered tonight. And I want you to think carefully about whether you're truly committed to this path, because next week we're going to start learning some rather more serious magic.”

“What sort of magic?” Hermione asked.

Jackson's smile was enigmatic. “The sort that might save your life when facing a Dark wizard who doesn't care about fighting fair.”

As the group filed out, Harry lingered behind.

“Professor?” he said. “That place you showed me before the meeting. The one with the pine trees and the training grounds. Was it real?”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, staring at the spot where the vision had appeared. “As real as anything ever is,” he said finally. “Why?”

“It felt ... familiar. Like I'd been there before, in a dream maybe.”

Percy's expression sharpened with interest. “Did it? That's ... intriguing.”

“What does it mean?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Percy admitted. “But … that feeling you had. Trust it. Sometimes our instincts know things our minds haven't figured out yet.”

The pain started during Transfiguration on a grey Tuesday morning in November. Harry was attempting to turn his hedgehog into a pincushion when his scar suddenly blazed with white-hot agony. The quill slipped from his fingers as images flashed through his mind—anger, frustration, the feeling of being thwarted—emotions that weren't his own.

"Mr Potter!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the haze of pain. "Are you quite alright?"

Harry blinked, realising he was gripping his forehead with both hands whilst his hedgehog sat on the desk, still very much a hedgehog and looking rather offended at being ignored.

"Fine, Professor," he mumbled, though his scar continued to throb with a dull ache that seemed to pulse in rhythm with something dark and distant.

The episodes continued throughout the week. During History of Magic, he felt a surge of cold satisfaction that made his stomach turn. After a Quidditch practice, waves of fury so intense they left him shaking. Each time, the emotions felt foreign yet somehow connected to him, as if they were being transmitted through some invisible thread tied to his forehead.

Harry tried to wave them off, but Ron and Hermione were growing increasingly concerned.

After Ron observed him clutching his scar, Harry translating the emotions without knowing what he was saying, he went pale. “Harry,” he said, sounding both scared and awed, “you’re reading You-Know-Who’s mind ...”

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It’s more like ... his mood, I suppose. I’m just getting flashes of what mood he’s in ... Dumbledore said something like this was happening last year ... He said that when Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling hatred, I could tell. Well, now I’m feeling it when he’s pleased too ...”

There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the building.

“You’ve got to tell someone,” said Ron.

“I told Sirius last time.”

“Well, tell him about this time!”

“Can’t, can I?” said Harry grimly. “Umbridge is watching the owls and the fires, remember?”

“Well then, Dumbledore —”

“I’ve just told you, he already knows,” said Harry shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg, and swinging it around himself. “There’s no point telling him again.”

“Jackson, then,” said Ron stubbornly. “He’ll know what’s going on.”

“Yeah,” said Harry uncertainly, “maybe.”

By Friday evening, Harry had made his decision. Jackson was the only teacher who'd ever seemed to understand that Harry's life was anything but normal. If anyone could help him make sense of what was happening, it would be him.

He found the Defence teacher in his office, grading what appeared to be first-year essays on properties of magical creatures. Jackson looked up as Harry knocked on the open door, his usual easy smile faltering slightly when he saw Harry's expression.

“Potter,” Percy said, setting down his quill. “You look like you've seen a Grim. What’s wrong?”

“Professor, I need to ask you about something. It’s …” Harry struggled to put it into words. He knew Jackson wouldn’t think he was crazy. But would he decide Harry was dangerous? He had seen how Jackson handled dangerous creatures: an easy dispatch, a curse one-two, wash your hands and move on.  

Percy's expression grew more serious. "What about it?"

"It's been hurting again. But not just hurting—I'm getting these ... feelings. Emotions that aren't mine." Harry touched his forehead unconsciously. "Anger, mostly. Sometimes satisfaction. Like someone else is feeling these things and I'm somehow experiencing them too."

Percy was very still, his dark eyes fixed on Harry with an intensity that was both reassuring and slightly unnerving. "How long has this been happening?"

“Honestly? Years. But it’s got a lot worse in the last few months.” Harry hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Professor, I think... I think it might be connected to Voldemort somehow."

Percy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "What makes you think that?"

"The emotions feel ... dark. Cruel. And they're always about being angry or frustrated with something, like plans not working out." Harry leaned forward. "You said once that there was more to my scar than most people realise. You said it connected me to things in ways that shouldn't be possible. What did you mean?"

For a long moment, Percy said nothing. Then he rose from his chair and moved around the desk. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward Harry's scar.

Harry nodded, tilting his head back slightly. Percy's hand was warm as it approached his forehead, but the moment his fingers made contact with the lightning bolt scar, the world around Harry exploded into memory.

A young man with dark hair and aristocratic features sat across from someone whose face Harry couldn't see. The youth was perhaps seventeen, handsome in a cold sort of way, with pale skin and intelligent eyes.

“You've been most generous, My Lord,” the young man was saying, his voice smooth and cultured. “This gift means more than you know.”

Harry watched through someone else's eyes as a hand—Jackson’s hand—extended a small, round object. It looked like a bead made of clay, painted deep blue with intricate gold designs.

“This object has the potential to wield immense power,” Jackson’s voice said. "Use it wisely, young hero."

The young man's eyes lit up as he accepted the bead. “I shall treasure it dearly,” he said, and for a moment his smile seemed genuine.

The vision shattered as Percy yanked his hand away from Harry's scar, stumbling backward as if he'd been burned. His face had gone completely white, and his dark eyes held a horror that Harry had never seen before—not even when discussing Voldemort's return.

"Professor?" Harry said tentatively. "What—"

"Leave it with me," Percy said, his voice rough and strained. He moved to the window, gripping the sill with both hands as if he needed the support to remain standing. "The connection, the pain—just ... leave it with me."

"But what did I see? Who was that young man? And what was that bead—"

"Harry." Percy's voice cut through his questions like a blade. When he turned from the window, his expression was carefully controlled, but Harry could see something wild and desperate lurking beneath the surface. "I need you to trust me on this. Don't ask questions I can't answer. Don't push for explanations I can't give. Just ... leave it with me."

Harry stared at his professor, a cold dread settling in his stomach. Jackson had faced down Umbridge without flinching, had spoken about Voldemort like he was merely another problem to be solved, had exuded confidence and control in every situation Harry had witnessed. Whatever he had just seen in that memory—whatever significance that simple bead held—was enough to shake the unflappable Defence teacher to his very core.

"Professor," Harry said quietly, "are you alright?"

Percy's laugh was sharp and humourless. "No, Harry. I don't think I am." He moved back to his desk, but instead of sitting, he gripped the edge as if it were an anchor. "But that's not your problem to solve. The connection between your scar and ... what you're experiencing ... I'll handle it. I promise."

"How can you handle it if you won't tell me what it is?"

"Because some knowledge is dangerous, and some mistakes ..." Jackson’s voice trailed off, his face aging by decades in front of Harry’s eyes. "Some mistakes echo through time in ways you can't imagine."

Harry wanted to argue, wanted to demand answers, but something in Jackson’s expression stopped him. He'd seen that look before—in Dumbledore's eyes when he spoke about Harry's connection to Voldemort, in his parents' faces in the Mirror of Erised. It was the look of someone carrying a burden too heavy to share.

"Just promise me," Jackson said, meeting Harry's eyes, "that if the pain gets worse, if the connection becomes stronger, you'll come to me immediately. Don't try to handle it alone."

"I promise," Harry said, though his mind was churning with questions. "But Professor ... that young man in the vision. He seemed to know you. He called you ‘My Lord’."

Percy's face grew, if possible, even paler. "Harry—"

"It was him, wasn't it? Voldemort. Before he became... what he is now."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. Finally, Percy nodded once, a sharp, painful movement.

"And that bead," Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was important. Sacred, somehow. And you gave it to him."

"Yes." The word was torn from Percy's throat like a confession. "I gave him something precious, and he... he corrupted it. Turned it into something dark and twisted."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. "What did he turn it into?"

Percy was quiet for so long that Harry thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow with self-recrimination.

"A weapon," he said simply. "He turned my gift into a weapon, and now …” His voice trailed off, but the flicker of his eyes to Harry’s scar gave Harry more than enough to go on.

The weight of this revelation settled over Harry like a shroud. His scar, his connection to Voldemort, the reason he could see into the Dark Lord's mind—it was all somehow tied to a moment of kindness Percy had shown to a young Tom Riddle decades ago.

Wordlessly, Harry rose from his chair. As he reached the door, Percy called out to him.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"What you saw tonight... keep it between us. The fewer people who know about my connection to Tom Riddle's past, the better."

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Young Enough Not to Choose It

The weeks that followed were a blur of secret training sessions and mounting tension. The Unbound met religiously in the Room of Requirement, their skills improving rapidly under Jackson’s relentless instruction.

But it was the Quidditch match against Slytherin that really demonstrated how much the atmosphere at Hogwarts had changed.

The Slytherin supporters had organised themselves into a coordinated attack on Ron’s confidence, complete with a banner and choreographed chanting. Harry tried to focus on finding the Snitch, but the crowd’s jeering was making it difficult to concentrate. Ron was having a nightmare in goal, his face growing redder with each save he missed. The jeers from the green-and-silver stands, conducted by Pansy Parkinson as though she were leading an orchestra, weren’t doing him any favours. “Weasley is our King” echoed through the stadium in a drawling, sarcastic chant, and Ron’s ears turned redder with every syllable.

But Harry had eyes only for the Snitch. He flew with grim determination, dodging a Bludger that narrowly missed his ear and keeping an eye on Malfoy, who was circling like a vulture. Then he saw it. The tiny fluttering Golden Snitch was hovering feet from the ground at the Slytherin end of the pitch. He leaned forward, heart pounding, and dived.

The Snitch darted, zipped upward, and Harry followed. Malfoy was on his tail now, but Harry’s Firebolt was faster. He pushed harder, stretched out his arm, and his fingers closed around the cold, fluttering sphere. Malfoy’s fingernails scrabbled the back of Harry’s hand hopelessly — Harry pulled his broom upward, holding the struggling ball in his hand.  The Gryffindor stands exploded. For one glorious moment, the chants stopped, and Harry allowed himself a grin.

Until pain exploded along his back.

A Bludger. Crabbe had launched it after the whistle. It slammed into Harry’s back with the force of a charging hippogriff sending him flying forward off his broom; luckily he was only five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low to catch the Snitch, but he was winded all the same as he landed flat on his back on the frozen pitch.

Angela and the team were outraged, but Harry got up like nothing had happened.

Then Malfoy opened his mouth.

Harry landed to a stream of insults pouring from Malfoy’s smug face. The usual ”poor” this, “blood traitor” that … but then he started in on the Weasleys’ mother. And Harry’s. Filthy little digs that cut far deeper than any Bludger could.

Harry’s fist connected with Malfoy’s stomach before he’d consciously decided to move. Within seconds, George was beside him, and they were grappling with the Slytherin while the crowd roared. Malfoy stumbled back, shocked, clutching his face and shouting. The brawl erupted on the pitch, a tangle of limbs and shouts and outraged gasps from the stands.

Madam Hooch stormed over, blowing her whistle like a banshee, and separated them with sheer force of will. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Harry stood there, chest heaving, adrenaline still buzzing. It had felt good. Not noble, not wise—but good.

He knew Professor McGonagall would give him a bollocking for the ages for it. He had had those before.

Then came the real blow.

Umbridge, pink-clad and gloating, swept onto the scene like a toad in pearls. She didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t care. She produced a scroll and read the decree aloud with relish: “I regret to inform you that you are hereby banned from playing Quidditch at Hogwarts for life.”

Harry felt as though a part of himself had been torn away. Quidditch was his escape, his joy, the one thing at Hogwarts that had always been purely his. Now even that was gone.

Hagrid’s return the next day provided a temporary distraction from the loss of Quidditch. Harry, Ron and Hermione marched immediately down to his hut under the Invisibility Cloak to talk with him. Hagrid opened the door of his hut and Hermione shrieked. Hagrid’s face was so badly beaten that Harry barely recognised him. One eye was swollen shut, his nose was clearly broken, and angry purple bruises covered every visible inch of skin.

“Blimey, Hagrid,” Ron said. “What happened to you?”

Hagrid’s tale was both fascinating and terrible. He and Madame Maxime had travelled deep into the mountains of Eastern Europe, seeking out the giant clans that had retreated there after centuries of persecution by wizards. But it was clear the mission had been largely unsuccessful. Most of the giants had already thrown their lot in with Voldemort, swayed by promises of violence and the chance to reclaim their ancestral lands. The Death Eaters had reached them first, offering everything Dumbledore couldn’t—freedom to terrorise wizards, revenge for centuries of oppression, and a return to the old ways when giants were feared across Europe.

“We did wha’ we meant ter do, we gave ‘em Dumbledore’s message an’ some o’ them heard it an’ I ‘spect some o’ them’ll remember it,” said Hagrid. “Jus’ maybe, them that don’ want ter stay around Golgomath’ll move outta the mountains, an’ there’s gotta be a chance they’ll remember Dumbledore’s friendly to ‘em ... Could be they’ll come ...”

Harry found the whole account deeply troubling. If the giants were joining Voldemort, it meant the other side was gaining powerful allies while Dumbledore’s forces remained small and scattered.

When he mentioned this concern to Jackson during their next Unbound session, the professor’s expression grew thoughtful.

“Giant politics are ... complicated,” Jackson said carefully. “They respect strength above all else, and unfortunately, Voldemort’s message resonates with creatures who’ve been driven to the margins of the world. Fear makes people—all people—do desperate things.”

“You sound like you know something about giants,” Harry observed.

Jackson’s expression was neutral, but Harry caught that familiar flicker of something ancient in his eyes. “I know something about being misjudged based on what you are rather than who you choose to be. Giants aren’t monsters, Harry—they’re just people trying to survive in a world that’s decided they don’t belong.”

Harry found himself wondering, not for the first time, exactly what kinds of experiences had shaped Perseus Jackson’s understanding of the world.

Harry wished he could say the vision came without warning.

He had been having strange, vivid dreams for weeks—flashes of corridors he’d never seen, feelings of anger that weren’t his own, brief glimpses through eyes that weren’t human. The dreams left him exhausted and unsettled, but this one was different. This one felt completely, terrifyingly real.

He was sliding along a polished corridor, his belly pressed against the cold floor. He could feel every tile beneath him, smell the musty air of the underground passage. He was huge—far larger than any normal snake—and he was moving with deadly purpose.

The hunger drove him forward, that and the voice that whispered in his mind, guiding him through the maze of corridors beneath the Ministry of Magic. Find him. Find the guard.

Ahead, he could see a figure in dark robes, standing guard before a door marked with strange symbols that hurt to look at. The man turned, alerted by some sound, and Harry recognised Arthur Weasley’s kind, tired face just before he struck.

The fangs sank deep, pumping venom into the man’s bloodstream. Arthur screamed and fell, his body convulsing as the poison did its work. And Harry—no, the snake—felt a savage satisfaction, a joy in the pain he was causing that made his soul recoil even as his body revelled in it.

Good, whispered the voice. Very good. He will suffer as they all must suffer.

Harry woke up screaming.

“A vision,” Jackson said, when Harry finished describing the attack. They were in Dumbledore’s office, where Jackson had been waiting with the Headmaster as if he’d expected this. Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered purple and gold dressing gown over a snowy white nightshirt. Jackson had his feet on Dumbledore’s desk, Fawkes perched in his lap. His dark eyes, calm and unsurprised, alighted on Harry. He was sure, in that moment, that Jackson knew exactly what he was about to say.

They sat in half-darkness, lit by a mere two of the dozen-or-so lamps scattered around the room. The silver instruments on the standing tables, normally whizzing animatedly, were curiously silent.

“Umm … yeah, I suppose … I mean, I was asleep, and …” A spike of irritation jolted through him; Dumbledore was refusing to meet his eyes. “But it wasn’t an ordinary dream … It was real. I saw it happen.”

The words hung in the air, seeming more and more ridiculous with every second that passed. Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked.

Jackson’s eyes were vacant, almost unfocused. Harry wanted to shout; was it not important enough for him to pay attention?

“How did you see this?” Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry.

“Well … I don’t know,” said Harry angrily. What did it matter? “Inside my head, I suppose—”

“You misunderstand me,” said Dumbledore, still in the same calm tone. “I mean … can you remember—er—where you were positioned as you watched this attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside the victim, or else looking down on the scene from above?”

This was such a curious question that Harry gaped at Dumbledore; it was almost as though he knew …

“I was the snake,” he said. “I saw it all from the snake’s point of view.”

“The boy is right,” said Jackson, eyes focused and boring into Harry’s. “Arthur Weasley is gravely injured. As it stands he won’t be found until morning.”

“It’ll be too late by then!” cried Harry.

“I know.”

Dumbledore ordered the portraits to raise the alarm. They left their frames, leaving only the backdrops behind them.

The silence extended for a seeming eternity.

“Do you get visions like that often, Harry?” Jackson’s voice was the same quiet murmur it had remained all night.

“I …” He cast a glance at Dumbledore, but the man still refused to meet his eyes. “Not often, no, just … occasional …”

Jackson nodded as if he understood, even though Harry had said nothing of note. “I would expect as much, considering …” His eyes flickered upwards.

Harry felt the urge to cover his scar with his hand.

“I’m not mad,” he said aggressively.

“I’m not saying that,” said Jackson. “But there’s more to your scar than most people realise, Harry. Dark magic, yes, but also something else. Something that connects you to things in ways that shouldn’t be possible.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jackson said carefully, “that Tom Riddle may have marked you as his equal, but he also marked you as something more. The magic in your scar ... it resonates with very old power.”

Before Harry could ask what kind of power, the other Weasley children were bustled in by McGonagall, shocked and frightened. Jackson smoothly shifted the conversation to practical arrangements, but Harry caught him watching the scar with an expression of deep concern.

Dumbledore gave a brief explanation to the new arrivals. “You will be taking a Portkey to the Headquarters.” He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. “We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back … I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you—”

There was a flash of flame in the very middle of the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor.

“It is Fawkes’s warning,” said Dumbledore, catching the feather as it fell. “Professor Umbridge must know you’re out of your beds … Percy, would you—?”

“On it,” he said. “Any excuse to wind that old biddy up.”

Jackson was gone, in a far less dramatic swish than usual.

“He says he’ll be delighted,” said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had reappeared in his portrait. “My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests.”

“Come here, then,” Dumbledore said to Harry and the Weasleys. “And quickly, before anyone else joins us.”

Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore’s desk.

“You have all used a Portkey before?” asked Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle. “Good. On the count of three, then … one … two …”

It happened in a fraction of a second: in the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said “three”, Harry looked up at him—they were very close together—and Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Harry’s face.

At once, Harry’s scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again—and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like nothing better than to strike—to bite—to sink his fangs into the man before him—

“… three.”

Dolores Umbridge dressed hastily and exited her office. The Fat Lady had reported suspicious activity—students out of bed, moving through the corridors with purpose. Potter, the portraits said. And the Weasley boy.

Whatever they were up to, she would put a stop to it. And if it implicated Dumbledore in some midnight conspiracy, all the better.

But as she reached for the door handle, the world around her began to change.

The corridor stretched longer than it should have, the walls seeming to breathe and pulse in the torchlight. The door to Dumbledore’s office was no longer directly in front of her—instead, she found herself facing a long gallery lined with portraits of stern-faced Ministry officials.

Minister Fudge stepped out of his frame, his face twisted with disappointment.

“Dolores,” he said, his voice echoing strangely in the transformed space. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Minister?” Umbridge’s voice came out smaller than she intended. “I--I was investigating suspicious activity ...”

“Were you?” Another voice, this one belonging to Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had somehow appeared beside Fudge’s portrait. “Or were you once again overstepping your authority?”

The portraits began to murmur amongst themselves, their voices creating a chorus of disapproval that made Umbridge’s head spin.

“She’s been interfering with Hogwarts for months,” observed a witch Umbridge recognised as the head of the Department of Magical Education. “Creating chaos where there should be order.”

“Disrupting the learning environment,” added another official.

“Making enemies of the staff,” came a third voice.

Umbridge spun around, trying to locate the source of the accusations, but the corridor had become a maze of disapproving faces and pointing fingers. Every Ministry official she’d ever tried to impress was there, and they were all looking at her with disgust.

“I was following orders!” she protested, but her voice seemed to disappear into the growing cacophony of criticism.

“Orders?” Fudge’s portrait laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “We never ordered you to terrorise children, Dolores. We never told you to use Blood Quills on students.”

“That wasn’t ... I didn’t mean ...” Umbridge stumbled backwards, but the corridor had no end, just more portraits, more accusing voices.

“She’s lost control completely,” someone was saying. “Paranoid delusions, seeing conspiracies where none exist.”

“Perhaps it’s time for early retirement,” suggested another voice, this one belonging to the head of the Improper Use of Magic Office.

“Or St Mungo’s,” added a third. “The long-term ward. She’s clearly unstable.”

Umbridge found herself running, fleeing down the endless corridor as the voices grew louder and more condemning. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs gave out, collapsing against a wall that felt strangely solid compared to everything else.

When she finally looked up, she was back at the bottom of the staircase leading to Dumbledore’s office. The portraits were back in their normal frames, sleeping peacefully. The corridor was exactly as it should be, narrow and unremarkable.

But the voices still echoed in her head: Paranoid. Unstable. Lost control.

Umbridge stood on shaking legs, her pink cardigan rumpled and her hair dishevelled. Whatever she thought she’d heard from the portraits, whatever suspicious activity she’d imagined... it couldn’t have been real. The stress was getting to her. Yes, that was it. The pressure of her position, the weight of her responsibilities.

She needed sleep. A good night’s rest, and everything would be clearer in the morning.

Grimmauld Place was, Percy decided, exactly the sort of grim, oppressive ancestral home that made him grateful he’d never bothered with proper real estate. The portraits shrieked, the house-elf head collection was genuinely disturbing (even by his standards), and the entire building seemed determined to remind everyone within its walls that the Black family had been magnificently awful for centuries.

He rather liked it.

“You must be Jackson,” said a man with shoulder-length black hair and aristocratic features, appearing in the entrance hall just as Mrs Black’s portrait launched into another tirade about blood traitors and half-breeds. “Sirius Black. Dumbledore said you’d be joining us for the foreseeable.”

Percy studied the man before him with interest. There was something in Sirius’s eyes—a wildness barely contained, the look of someone who’d stared into the abyss long enough for it to stare back. Percy recognised it because he’d seen it in mirrors during his darker centuries.

“Perseus Jackson,” he replied, extending his hand. “And you’re the infamous escaped convict I’ve heard so much about.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, genuine and surprised. “Most people are a bit more tactful about that particular detail.”

“I’m not most people,” Percy said with a grin. “Besides, anyone who can survive twelve years in Azkaban and still manage to crack jokes has my respect.”

“I like you already,” Sirius declared, leading him toward the kitchen. “Please tell me you’re not going to spend the entire holiday being polite and proper. Molly’s already got that covered, and one more person walking on eggshells around me might actually drive me to madness.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Percy assured him. “I was actually hoping someone here might know where to get a decent drink. Teaching teenagers is thirsty work.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place buzzed with activity. Molly Weasley commanded the space like a general directing troops, her wand conducting a symphony of chopping knives, stirring spoons, and bubbling cauldrons. The long wooden table was crowded with Order members in various states of discussion and argument.

“Ah, Percy!” Dumbledore looked up from a hushed conversation with Professor McGonagall, his eyes twinkling with familiar warmth. “I’m so pleased you could join us.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Al,” Percy replied, producing a bottle of wine that definitely hadn’t existed a moment before. “Brought refreshments.”

“From where?” asked a young woman with violently pink hair who was currently engaged in what appeared to be an intense staring contest with her brussels sprouts.

“A little vineyard I know,” Percy said vaguely, settling into the empty chair beside her. “My cousin runs it. I’d bet good money it’ll be the best you’ve had in while.”

The woman looked up, and Percy felt something odd happen in his chest. She had a heart-shaped face, kind eyes that shifted between brown and green as he watched, and a smile that was equal parts mischief and genuine warmth.

“Wotcher,” she said, extending a hand. “Tonks. You’re the new Defence teacher, right? The one who’s got Umbridge’s knickers in a twist?”

“Just Perseus,” he replied, taking her hand. The moment their skin touched, he felt a jolt that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the way her eyes lit up when she smiled. “And guilty as charged, I’m afraid.”

“Good,” Tonks said firmly. “That woman’s a menace. My partner at the Ministry says she’s been asking questions about you.”

“What sort of questions?”

“The sort that suggest she’s looking for dirt,” Sirius interjected from across the table. “Standard Ministry harassment tactics. They did the same thing to me before I was arrested—started with employment records, moved on to family connections, financial irregularities.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “And did they find anything interesting?”

“Oh, loads,” Sirius said cheerfully. “Trouble is, most of it was perfectly legal. Being a Black means having generations of carefully documented awfulness, but we’ve always been very good at staying just this side of the law.”

“Until you weren’t,” observed Lupin mildly.

“Well, yes, but that was more of a ‘wrong place, wrong time, wrong friend turned out to be a mass murderer’ situation,” Sirius replied. “Entirely different category of legal trouble.”

Percy found himself genuinely liking Sirius Black. There was something refreshingly honest about a man who could joke about twelve years of wrongful imprisonment without bitterness poisoning his humour.

“So,” Tonks said, leaning closer to Percy with conspiratorial interest, “what’s your story then? Dumbledore doesn’t usually recruit teachers personally.”

“I was available,” Percy said with a shrug. “Right qualifications, right timing.”

“And completely mental,” added Sirius. “You’d have to be, to take that job. Every Defence teacher for the past twenty-something years has ended up dead, memory-wiped, or worse.”

“Define worse,” Percy asked, genuinely curious.

“Kissed by Dementors,” supplied Lupin grimly.

“Ah.” Percy nodded as if this was perfectly reasonable dinner conversation. “Yes, that would be worse.”

Later that evening, after the official Order business had concluded and most members had departed or retired to their rooms, Percy found himself in the library with Sirius. The other man was nursing a glass of what appeared to be very old whiskey and staring into the fire with an expression Percy recognised.

“Rough night?” Percy asked, settling into the chair opposite and pouring himself a glass. It was no nectar but the warmth was pleasant against the cold dark of the British winter.

“Rough year,” Sirius replied without looking away from the flames. “Rough decade, if I’m being honest. Sometimes I wonder if Azkaban didn’t drive me properly mad after all, and this is all just an elaborate delusion.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, studying the other man. “Want to know something strange?”

“Always.”

“I’ve lived through more wars than I care to count,” Percy said carefully. “Seen more death, more suffering, more senseless violence than most people could imagine. You know what I’ve learned?”

“What?”

“The people who worry about their sanity are usually the ones who’ve kept it. It’s the ones who are certain they’re fine that you have to watch out for.”

Sirius finally looked at him, really looked, and Percy saw recognition in his eyes. Not of who he was, but of what he was. Someone who understood.

“You’ve got old eyes,” Sirius observed. “Older than your face suggests.”

“So do you.”

“Mine come with a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Sirius said with dark humour. “Twelve years of Dementors will age anyone prematurely. What’s yours?”

Percy smiled enigmatically. “I’ve always been an old soul.”

“Bullshit,” Sirius said cheerfully. “But I respect a man’s right to his secrets. God knows I’ve got enough of my own.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, both staring into the fire. Finally, Sirius spoke again.

“You know what the worst part about Azkaban was?”

“The soul-sucking monsters of despair?”

“Well, yes, obviously. But besides that.” Sirius took another sip of whiskey. “It was the isolation. Not just physical – though that was bad enough – but the way it cuts you off from everything that makes you human. Connection, friendship, trust ... all of it just withers away.”

Percy nodded slowly. He knew something about isolation, about the way immortality could cut you off from genuine connection. About watching friends and lovers age and die while you remained unchanged.

“The thing is,” Sirius continued, “even now that I’m free, I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m still cut off from everything. Like there’s this invisible barrier between me and the rest of the world.”

“Maybe there is,” Percy said quietly. “Maybe that’s just what surviving that kind of experience does to a person. But barriers can be crossed, given time and the right people.”

“Spoken like a man who knows,” Sirius observed.

“Spoken like a man who hopes,” Percy corrected.

Sirius studied him for a long moment, then raised his glass. “To hoping, then.”

“To hoping,” Percy agreed, clinking his glass against Sirius’s.

Christmas at Grimmauld Place should have been a relief, but Harry found no peace there. The day after their arrival, the Weasley family ad Harry, escorted by Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody, took a visit to St Mungo’s hospital. The ward was quiet, save for the rustle of sheets and the low murmur of healer voices behind drawn curtains. Mr Weasley lay at the far end beneath the small, grimy window, looking pale but alert, propped up slightly on a mound of hospital pillows. Smiling weakly at the sudden flood of red-headed visitors, he tried to wave but winced, his side still clearly tender from Nagini’s bite. The visit began in good spirits, everyone eager to hear how he was faring, but despite Mr Weasley’s upbeat tone and insistence that he was on the mend, there was a tightness behind his eyes that didn’t escape Harry’s notice.

As the family gathered around the bed, the conversation turned—first to the comically eccentric treatments he’d endured, and then to the peculiarities of the hospital itself. Fred and George, never ones to waste an opportunity, tried to pry more information on Mr Weasley’s reason for the attack, but Mr and Mrs Weasley remained stubbornly tight-lipped. Harry, standing awkwardly at the edge of the group, couldn’t shake the image of the snake, the way it had struck again and again in his vision. No matter how normal Mr Weasley tried to seem, Harry still saw him writhing in pain on the floor of the Department of Mysteries.

“That’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley crossly after several failed attempts at interrogation. “Mad-Eye and Tonks are outside, Arthur, they want to come and see you. And you lot can wait outside,” she added to her children and Harry. “You can come and say goodbye afterward. Go on ...”

They trooped back into the corridor. Mad-Eye and Tonks went in and closed the door of the ward behind them.

Fred raised his eyebrows. “Fine,” he said coolly, rummaging in his pockets, “be like that. Don’t tell us anything.”

“Looking for these?” said George, holding out what looked like a tangle of flesh-coloured string.

“You read my mind,” said Fred, grinning. “Let’s see if St Mungo’s puts Imperturbable Charms on its ward doors, shall we?”

He and George disentangled the string and separated five Extendable Ears from each other. Fred and George handed them around. Harry hesitated to take one.

“Go on, Harry, take it! You saved Dad’s life, if anyone’s got the right to eavesdrop on him it’s you …”

Grinning in spite of himself, Harry took the end of the string and inserted it into his ear as the twins had done.

 “Okay, go!” Fred whispered. The flesh-coloured strings wriggled like long skinny worms, then snaked under the door. For a few seconds Harry could hear nothing, then he heard Tonks whispering as clearly as though she were standing right beside him.

“… they searched the whole area but they couldn’t find the snake anywhere, it just seems to have vanished after it attacked you, Arthur … But You-Know-Who can’t have expected a snake to get in, can he?”

“I reckon he sent it as a lookout,” growled Moody, “‘cause he’s not had any luck so far, has he? No, I reckon he’s trying to get a clearer picture of what he’s facing and if Arthur hadn’t been there the beast would’ve had much more time to look around. So Potter says he saw it all happen?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded rather uneasy. “You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been waiting for Harry to see something like this ...”

“Yeah, well,” said Moody, “there’s something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that.”

“Speaking of funny,” Tonks said quietly, “what do we make of Jackson turning up right after the attack? He was at Dumbledore’s side before any of us even knew what had happened.”

“How’d he know to come?” Moody’s voice was sharp with suspicion.

“I assume Dumbledore sent for him,” Mrs Weasley.

“Did he?” Moody’s magical eye whirred audibly. “Because Jackson was already moving before Dumbledore even knew Arthur was hurt. Almost like he sensed it happening.”

“You’re being paranoid again,” Tonks dismissed.

“Am I? Because I’ve been thinking about Jackson’s behaviour lately. All that business with Umbridge, the way he speaks about You-Know-Who like he’s not particularly worried ...”

“Maybe he’s just confident,” Tonks said, though her voice was uncertain.

“Or maybe he knows something we don’t,” Moody replied grimly. “I’ve checked every record I can get my hands on. Percseus Jackson doesn’t exist before this year. No birth certificate, no Hogwarts records, no employment history anywhere in magical Britain.”

“Dumbledore vouched for him,” Mrs Weasley said. “Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning,” she continued. “But when I mentioned Jackson, he just got that look he gets when he’s keeping secrets.”

“‘Course he’s worried,” growled Moody. “The boy’s seeing things from inside You-Know-Who’s snake … And now we’ve got a teacher with impossible abilities and no past asking very pointed questions about Harry’s connection to You-Know-Who. Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who’s possessing him—and if Jackson’s been sent to monitor that possession ...”

Harry pulled the Extendable Ear out of his own, his heart hammering very fast and heat rushing up his face. He looked around at the others. They were all staring at him, the strings still trailing from their ears, looking suddenly fearful.

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place felt smaller with the full Order assembled around the long wooden table. Percy sat between Tonks and Sirius, nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold whilst listening to Mad-Eye Moody’s latest intelligence report about Death Eater movements. The meeting had been going on for nearly two hours, and Percy could feel the familiar weight of suspicious glances from several members. Normally, Dumbledore’s presence kept them from being too blatant about their mistrust of him. But he was “unavailable” today, according to McGonagall. Percy wondered what investigations the man was taking, and why he hadn’t informed Percy of them.

“—three confirmed sightings of marked Death Eaters in Diagon Alley,” Moody was saying, his magical eye spinning wildly as it tracked movement around the room. “They’re getting bolder. Testing our responses.”

When Snape reported Voldemort’s growing impatience with Umbridge’s progress, every eye turned toward Percy.

“The Dark Lord expected her to have … eliminated any unauthorised teachers by now,” Snape said, his black eyes flicking meaningfully to Percy.”

“Well,” Percy said mildly, taking a sip of tea, “that’s mildly inconvenient.”

“‘Inconvenient’?” Emmeline Vance leant forward, her voice sharp with tension. “They want you dead, and you call it ‘inconvenient’?”

Percy shrugged. “I’ve had worse threats. Usually from people more competent than Dolores Umbridge.”

The criticism came fast. Accusations about his secrecy, his methods, his very presence putting the Order at risk. Percy listened with growing irritation,

“The issue,” said Moody grimly, both normal and magical eye fixed on Percy, “is that we know nothing about you. No employment records, no past, and now you're making enemies of the Ministry without consulting anyone.”

"What exactly would you like to know?" Percy asked, leaning back in his chair.

"For starters," Vance said sharply. "And why you speak about You-Know-Who like he's a minor inconvenience rather than the most dangerous Dark wizard in history."

Percy looked around the table, taking in the mix of suspicion, fear, and barely contained hostility on several faces. Tonks was frowning deeply. Sirius looked annoyed but not surprised. Lupin appeared troubled but thoughtful. McGonagall’s expression was unreadable.

“You want honesty?” he said finally. “Here’s some honesty. Tom Riddle is dangerous, yes, but he’s not the most dangerous thing I’ve ever faced. Not even close. I’ve fought enemies that would make him wet himself in terror, and I’ve seen horrors that would break most of your minds.”

“That’s impossible,” Diggle whispered.

“Is it?” Percy’s eyes seemed to grow darker, older. “You assume that your little magical world represents the sum total of power and danger in the universe. It doesn’t. There are things out there – ancient things, powerful things – that make your war look like a children’s game.”

“What sort of things?” asked Lupin quietly.

Percy smiled, and for just a moment, several Order members felt something primal and terrifying looking back at them.

“The sort of things that are better left undisturbed,” he said softly. “But Tom Riddle, in his arrogance, is poking at powers he doesn’t understand. Powers that have been sleeping for millennia. If he succeeds in waking them ...”

“You’re talking about the old magic,” McGonagall said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “The magic from before the founding of Hogwarts.”

“Among other things,” Percy agreed.

“That’s just legend,” protested Vance. “Fairy tales and folklore.”

“Is it?” Percy asked mildly. “How certain are you of that?”

The room fell silent. When Percy spoke again, his voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. “I am here because Albus Dumbledore asked me to be here. I am fighting in your war because I believe it’s worth fighting. I am protecting those children because they deserve protection. If that’s not enough for you, then I suggest you take your concerns to Dumbledore directly.”

“We just might,” said Moody grimly.

“Good,” Percy replied. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to address them.”

After the meeting ended and most members had departed, Tonks lingered behind.

“That was interesting,” she said carefully.

“Was it?”

“Either you’re the most accomplished liar I’ve ever met, or there’s a lot more to your story than you’re letting on.”

Percy met her eyes, seeing worry and affection there in equal measure. “Some secrets exist to protect people. Including you.”

Tonks studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. “All right. But Perseus? If your secrets put you in danger, don’t try to handle it alone.”

The warmth in her voice, the genuine care, made something flutter in his chest. “I promise.”

As she prepared to leave, Percy caught her hand gently. “Tonks?”

“Yeah?”

“Just Percy. Not Perseus.”

Her smile could have lit the gloomy house “Night, Percy.”

As the front door closed behind Tonks, Sirius appeared in the drawing room doorway.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “that was bloody awkward.”

“Just a bit,” Percy agreed.

“For what it’s worth,” Sirius continued, settling into the chair Tonks had vacated, “I think they’re idiots. Anyone who’s spent five minutes with you can tell you’re on the right side.”

“Can they?”

“Obviously. You care too much about those kids to be playing games. Besides,” Sirius grinned, “you make Umbridge miserable, which automatically puts you in my good books.”

Percy laughed despite himself. “Your criteria for trustworthiness are admirably simple.”

“I find it’s usually the most reliable method,” Sirius replied.

“You know,” Sirius said, after a short pause, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About ancient powers and sleeping things.”

“Have you?”

“My family’s library had stories. Old ones, from before the Statute of Secrecy. Before Merlin. Before the founding of Hogwarts, even. About gods who walked among mortals, heroes who could shake the earth.” Sirius studied Percy’s face. “Stories about a god of heroes who understood what it meant to lose people you loved.”

Percy was very still. “Just stories.”

“Maybe. But there’s something about you that reminds me of those tales. The way you talk about fighting like you’ve done it for centuries. The way you look at those kids like you’re trying to save them from a fate you know too well.”

“Sirius—”

“I’m not asking for confirmation,” Sirius said. “Just ... if I’m right about what you are, be careful with Tonks. She can take care of herself, but I’ve read those stories well enough to know the threats.”

Tonks seemed to be finding reasons to visit Grimmauld Place over the holidays. Even when no Order meeting was scheduled, she would often turn up to dinner or to grab a drink. “Visiting my favourite cousin, of course,” she’d say with a cheeky grin, nodding at Sirius. But her eyes never left Percy.  One evening, two days before Christmas day, they were sitting close together on the ancient sofa, Percy’s arm around Tonks’s shoulders.

“Tell me about the sea,” she was saying quietly. “You always smell like salt air, even here in London. Even when it hasn’t rained in days.”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, his fingers absently playing with a strand of her golden hair. The question stirred something deep in his chest: a longing for home that he’d been suppressing for months. How could he explain that the sea wasn’t just where he felt most himself, but where his very essence resided? That every wave that crashed on every shore in the world was connected to his a part of him so deep he didn’t know who he would be without it?

“The sea is ... freedom,” he said finally, choosing his words carefully. “It’s home. It’s where I feel most like myself.”

“What’s that like?” Tonks asked, and Percy heard genuine curiosity in her voice, not the probing suspicion he’d grown accustomed to from others. “Feeling like yourself?”

Percy looked down at her, taking in the way the firelight played across her features, the way her hair had settled into that warm gold that seemed to be her natural colour when she was truly relaxed. The urge to tell her everything—about Olympus, about his domains, about the millennia he’d lived—was almost overwhelming.

“Dangerous,” he said softly, and meant it. The real him could ignire volcanoes with his temper, could call storms that would devastate entire coastlines. The real him had ended wars and toppled kingdoms. “The real me is... not always safe to be around.”

“I’m an Auror,” Tonks reminded him with a smile that made something flutter in his chest—something he had felt only a handful of times since An—since she had died in his arms all those centuries ago. “I think I can handle dangerous.”

“Can you?” Percy’s voice was barely above a whisper. He thought of his fellow Olympians, how they loved mortals for a brief, burning time before inevitably destroying them. How often he had done the same. “Even if dangerous means storms that could level buildings? Earthquakes that could swallow streets?”

The words were more truth than metaphor, and Percy watched her face carefully for any sign of fear or doubt. Instead, Tonks reached up and touched his face gently, her thumb tracing across his cheekbone.

“Try me.”

“—so there I was, hair bright orange, standing in front of the entire Auror training class,” Tonks was saying, her current purple hair shifting to the orange she was describing. “Kingsley took one look at me and said, ‘Tonks, I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of camouflage.’“

Percy laughed—a rich, genuine sound that transformed his entire face. For the first time since arriving at Grimmauld Place, he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. There was something about Nymphadora Tonks that put him at ease in a way he hadn’t experienced in decades.

“At least you weren’t trying to blend in with the ocean,” he said, allowing himself a small smile at the memory. “I once spent three hours underwater thinking I was being stealthy, only to discover I was glowing like a beacon to anyone with the Sight.”

“The Sight?” Tonks asked, leaning forward with interest.

Percy’s expression became more guarded. He’d said too much. Old habits from a time when Clear Sight was more common knowledge. “Some people can see through illusions. See things as they really are.”

“Sounds useful,” Tonks mused. “I could use that in my line of work. Half the time I’m chasing dark wizards who’ve disguised themselves as lamp posts.”

If only you knew, Percy thought, watching the way her eyes looked at his lips with ill-disguised hunger. If only I could tell you what I really am. But he’d learned long ago that mortals – even extraordinary ones like Tonks – rarely reacted well to the truth about gods walking among them

They were sitting in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, the fire crackling softly in the grate. Most of the Order had dispersed after the evening’s meeting, leaving Percy alone with Tonks and a bottle of wine that was doing absolutely nothing to dull his awareness of her.

She was curled up in the oversized armchair, her orange hair a warm copper colour in the firelight, absently twirling her wand between her fingers. Percy watched the casual display of magic with fascination. She was unconsciously changing the colour of the sparks that emerged from the tip, creating tiny fireworks that faded into nothing. Beautiful, unpredictable, and completely unaware of her own power. Rather like everything else about her.

He’d positioned himself on the sofa close enough that he could smell her perfume when she moved, something floral and warm that made his heart somersault. Three thousand years of existence, and a mortal witch with multicoloured hair was undoing him with nothing more than her presence.

“You know,” Percy said, breaking the quiet, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Have you now?” Tonks looked up from his to his eyes. The subtle movement made the firelight dance across her collarbones in a way that Percy found entirely too distracting. “Should I be worried? Because the last time someone started a conversation like that, I ended up with bright orange hair for a month.”

“Not unless you’re particularly attached to family naming conventions,” Percy replied with a grin. “I was wondering about your name. Nymphadora.”

Tonks groaned dramatically, slumping further into the armchair in a way that made her shirt ride up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at her waist. “Oh, brilliant. Here I thought you were different from all the other blokes who want to discuss my ridiculous name. What’s next, are you going to tell me it’s ‘exotic’?”

“Actually,” Percy said, genuine interest colour his voice, “I was going to tell you it’s probably the most appropriate name anyone’s ever given to anyone in the history of naming people.”

“Right,” Tonks said flatly, though she was studying his face with obvious curiosity. “Because clearly my mother looked at tiny baby me and thought, ‘This child will grow up to have shocking pink hair and an inability to walk through doorways without injuring herself. Better give her a name that sounds like a Victorian romance heroine with consumption.’“

Percy laughed. Gods, he loved her humour—sharp and self-deprecating and utterly without pretension. “It means ‘gift of the nymphs.’ From the Greek. Nympha: nymph, divine spirit of nature. Doron: gift.”

“Well, that’s eerily accurate,” Tonks admitted, shifting her weight closer to him. “Though I doubt the ancient Greeks had to deal with accidentally turning their nose into a duck bill during important Auror meetings.”

“I’m sure they had their own challenges. Ancient Greek beauty standards were quite demanding.” Percy’s gaze lingered on her face. “Though I suspect you would have met them admirably.”

A flush rose up her neck that had nothing to do with the glowing fire next to them. “Oh, brilliant. So I’m living up to mythological expectations by being a walking disaster with variable hair colour. My ancestors would be so proud.”

Percy leaned forward slightly, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Close enough to catch her sharp intake of breath. “Actually, nymphs were rather notorious for being impossible to pin down. They belonged to no one, answered to no master except their own nature. They were joy and wildness and the absolute refusal to be contained by anyone else’s expectations.”

“I don’t know,” said Tonks mischievously, raising her wine glass to her lips. “I have myself quite amenable to being pinned down.”

Percy chuckled. “You cheeky like minx,” he said, poking her nose. She switched her nose into a pig snout and snorted at him, making him cackle drunkenly.

“You,” said Tonks, topping up their glasses, “sound like you knew these nymphs personally.”

“I’ve always been fond of ancient history,” replied Percy demurely.

“Your description does sound familiar. Though you’re making it sound far more romantic than ‘refuses to follow basic Auror protocol and once accidentally turned her hair the same colour as a wanted criminal’s during his arrest.’"

“The ancient Greeks probably would have found that absolutely hilarious. They appreciated irony.” Percy pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. If he kept it there a half-second longer than necessary to complete the action, well, he didn’t get any complaints. “They also appreciated beauty that refused to be tamed.”

“Is there a medical term for being obsessed with one’s own mythological namesake?” Tonks asked mischievously. “Nymph-o-mania, perhaps?”

Percy’s eyes darkened with something that definitely wasn’t academic interest. “Nymph-o-mania? I believe the ancient Greeks had several treatments for that condition.”

“Did they?” Tonks’s voice was deliberately innocent. “How very ... thorough of them.”

“The Greeks were nothing if not comprehensive in their ... research.”

The casual authority with which Percy said this made Tonks’s head tilt thoughtfully. “You really do sound like you were there.”

“The old stories said nymphs had true names and calling names,” Percy deflected smoothly. “The name they were born with, and the name that reflected who they actually were.”

“And what would my calling name be then? ‘Disaster-prone’? ‘Chronically clumsy’? ‘Violates furniture through existence alone’?”

“I don’t know what they’d call you,” Percy admitted. “But you are a little nymph to me. That seems to capture it quite well.”

Tonks stared at him. “That’s ... remarkably simple coming from someone who just gave me a lecture on ancient Greek etymology.”

“Sometimes simple works. Besides, it’s what you are, isn’t it? A shape-changing spirit who refuses to be categorised, fights for what’s right despite the danger, and brings chaos wherever she goes.”

“I’m not little, though,” she said, almost accusatorily.

“Really?” Before Tonks could respond, Percy reached out and, with effortless strength, lifted her from her seat and settled her onto his lap as if she weighed nothing at all. Percy heard her breath hitch in her throat. “See?” he murmured against her ear, his arms encircling her waist. “Positively tiny.”

“Show off,” Tonks managed, though her voice was slightly breathless. Percy was acutely aware of her weight settled against him, how perfectly she fit in his arms, the way her body relaxed into his as if she belonged there.

“You make chaos sound like a good thing,” she said, settling more comfortably against him in a way that Percy’s restraint slip another notch.

“Chaos is vastly underrated. Order is overrated. Trust me, I’ve met both.”

“Have you now?” Tonks raised an eyebrow. “Speaking from personal experience, are we?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had extensive dealings with both concepts over the years. Chaos is generally more fun.” His eyes glinted with equal levels of mischief as hers. “More unpredictable. More ... exciting.”

The way he said ‘exciting’ made Tonks’s pulse quicken.

“Right,” she said slowly. “So you want to call me Little Nymph because I’m a mythological chaos agent?”

“I want to call you Little Nymph,” Percy said, his voice dropping to something that was almost a purr, “because it’s who you are. Someone who changes to meet whatever the situation requires, who refuses to let anyone put her in a box, who fights the good fight with a smile on her face and absolutely no regard for her own safety.”

“That last bit makes me sound reckless.”

“Reckless,” Percy agreed, fingers stroking the side of her face, “but brave. The kind of brave that comes from having nothing to lose.”

Something in his tone made her study his face more carefully. “You sound like you know something about that.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, feeling that familiar, heavy weight settle in his chest. “I’ve known heroes, Little Nymph. Real ones. The kind who throw themselves into impossible battles because someone has to. The kind who sacrifice everything for people they’ve never met.” His eyes met hers. “The kind who die too young because they care too much.”

“You’re talking like you’ve watched it happen,” Tonks said softly.

“Haven’t we all? In this war?” But even as he deflected, Percy thought of heroes who’d died centuries before Voldemort was even born. He didn’t think Tonks was fooled for a moment.

“And what about you then? What’s your calling name, Perseus? ‘Mysteriously knowledgeable about ancient civilisations’? ‘Suspiciously good at everything’? ‘Definitely not what he appears to be’?”

Percy’s expression became carefully neutral, though his eyes remained hot. “Perseus means ‘to destroy.’ Not particularly cheerful dinner conversation.”

“Oh, come off it,” she said, leaning forward until they were close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheeks. Her breath smelled like Dionysus’s finest wine. Percy’s hands gripped her hips tighter. “I did my research after I met you, you know. The God of Heroes, son of Poseidon, who led the demigods against the Titans and saved Olympus itself. Your name is rather famous, actually, once you know where to look.”

Percy went very still. “What did you find?”

“More than I expected. The ancient texts are quite detailed about your exploits – battling Ares as a child, saving the goddess Artemis from Mount Orthrys, retrieving Zeus’s master bolt, navigating the Labyrinth, leading the battle at Olympus during Second Titanomachy. I read somewhere that you caused an eruption resulting in the Late Bronze Age Collapse of Ancient Greece.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, as if discussing any historical figure. “The God of Heroes – or  the God in Chains, because everyone knows you never wanted immortality in the first place.”

Percy’s heart stopped. “Tonks—”

“The one hero who saved Olympus and was punished for it with eternal life, watching every generation of heroes you train grow old and die.” She reached up and touched his face gently. “Rather puts your teaching methods in perspective, doesn’t it? You’re not just preparing them for war; you’re trying to keep them alive long enough to have actual lives.”

For a moment, Percy was tempted to deny it, to deflect with humour or misdirection. But looking into her eyes – intelligent, accepting, without fear – he found he couldn’t lie to her anymore.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Though I imagine the texts make it sound more noble than it feels.”

“The God in Chains,” she said softly. “That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Because the chains aren’t just the ancient laws; they’re watching everyone you care about die while you remain immortal.”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing patterns on her hipbone. “I was twelve when I first learned I was Poseidon’s son. I think, anyway. We didn’t really keep track of birthdays back then. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, when Zeus forced godhood on me. The texts probably make it sound like a reward—the hero elevated to divine status for saving Olympus.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“It was a prison,” Percy said, his voice bitter. “Zeus was terrified of my power, afraid that a son of Poseidon who could command the loyalty of heroes might threaten his rule. So he made me immortal, gave me divine domains, and bound me with ancient laws that prevent me from acting directly in most mortal affairs.”

“How long ago?”

“Three thousand years, give or take a few decades.” Percy watched her face carefully for signs of fear or revulsion. “I was forced to watch my best friend, the love of my mortal life, age and die while I remained sixteen forever. She was ... she was brilliant. Daughter of Athena, strategist, warrior. We’d fought side by side through impossible quests, saved the world together. And then I had to watch her grow old and die while I stayed exactly as I was.”

“That’s why you said you have a history of getting people you care about killed,” she said softly.

“Every generation of heroes I train, every young person I teach to fight … they die, Tonks. They die young and brave and far from home, and I’m left behind to train the next batch. For three millennia.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’m the God of Heroes, but sometimes I think I’m really the God of Lost Causes.”

“And you think I’m going to die too,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I think,” Percy said carefully, “that getting involved with me is dangerous for mortals. My track record rather speaks for itself.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve just been waiting three thousand years for someone who’s too stubborn to die on you.” She smiled. “I’m an Auror, Percy. Death’s been trying to catch me for years. I’m quite good at dodging.”

“All heroes think they’re immortal,” Percy said quietly. “Right up until they aren’t.”

Tonks leaned her head into the crook of his neck. “Did Ancient Greeks have middle names?”

Surprised by the sudden change in topic, Percy said, “Not generally, no. Small enough population that people didn’t really need them. What’s yours?”

Tonks snorted with laughter. “You’re gonna love this. It’s ‘Andromeda’. After my mother.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “Your mother named you ‘Nymphadora Andromeda’? Gift of the nymphs, daughter of the sea?”

“Rather poetic for a woman who once tried to cure my clumsiness with a Coordination Charm that left me walking backwards for a week.” Tonks studied his face. “Is that significant? I mean, Perseus and Andromeda ... but you’re not that Perseus, are you?”

“No,” Percy said, something like wonder in his voice. “That Perseus was a different hero entirely, from a different age. Ancient naming wasn’t like modern conventions—we didn’t have family names or middle names, just our given name and our father’s name. I choose Jackson when I have to pretend to be modern because of my mother’s father – his name roughly translated to ‘Jack’. Otherwise I’d have to be ‘Perseus Poseidonson’.”

“Doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Tonks agreed. “So, Perseus, son of Poseidon. Perseus, son of Zeus. Same name, completely different people.”

“Fortunately,” Percy confirmed.

“So it’s just coincidence then?”

“The most impossible coincidence in three thousand years,” Percy replied, his eyes dark with something that might have been wonder. “Or fate having a rather twisted sense of humour.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning and promise and the kind of tension that made Percy very aware of how she was sitting in his lap, how his thumb was still tracing patterns on her skin, how her lips were slightly parted.

“Well,” she said finally, “when you put it like that, I suppose I can live with being called Little Nymph.”

“Good,” Percy said, his voice rough. “Because I quite like it.”

“Do you, now?” she said. There was something provocative in her tone that Percy found almost addictive.

“Very much,” Percy replied, and let her see exactly how beautiful he found her in his eyes.

They were close enough now that he could feel her breath on his face, could see the way her pupils had dilated, could sense the barely restrained tension in her body that matched his own.

“Percy,” she whispered.

“Little Nymph,” he replied, and leant closer.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made them spring apart, both breathing harder than they should have been. Percy cursed Sirius’s timing as he appeared in the doorway, taking in their flushed faces and Tonks’s suspicious closeness with obvious amusement.

“Don’t mind me,” Sirius said cheerfully. “Just came to check that you two weren’t burning the house down. Though from the looks of things, you might be getting close.”

“Get stuffed, Black,” said Percy, throwing a cushion at him.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Sirius, dodging the cushion with a laugh. “Try not to set anything on fire. Well, anything important, anyway.”

As his footsteps faded down the hallway, Percy and Tonks looked at each other and started laughing.

“Your cousin has terrible timing,” Percy observed.

“My cousin has been locked up in this house for too long,” she replied. “He’s getting his entertainment wherever he can find it.”

“And what about you?” Percy asked, his hand against her cheek. “Where do you find your entertainment?”

She met his eyes, and the heat was back, stronger than before.

“I’m beginning to think,” she said softly, “that I might have found it.”

Percy felt something warm and dangerous unfurl in his chest. After years of loss and longing, he’d found something precious and worth protecting. The irony that she was named after the mortal woman his mythological counterpart had loved wasn’t lost on him.

Some truths were safer left unspoken. But some feelings, Percy was beginning to realise, were impossible to contain.

For now, though, this was enough. Her warmth, her laughter, the way she looked at him like he was just Percy instead of an ancient god carrying the weight of millennia.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Wise Enough to Win the World

The days following the visit to St Mungo’s passed in a haze of guilt and paranoia for Harry. He found himself avoiding crowded spaces, sitting alone during meals, and declining invitations to join the others in the drawing room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the attack again.

What disturbed him most wasn’t the violence itself, but how much he’d enjoyed it.

The memory of sinking fangs into Mr Weasley’s flesh, of feeling the man’s pain and terror, sent a sick thrill through him that made his stomach turn. Was this what possession felt like? This gradual erosion of his own thoughts and feelings, replaced by something darker and more violent?

“You’re brooding again,” came Tonks’s voice from the doorway of the library where Harry had taken refuge.

Harry looked up to find her leaning against the doorframe, her hair a subdued brown that matched her concerned expression. Behind her, Jackson appeared, carrying three cups of tea on an ancient tray.

“Thought you might need this,” Jackson said, settling into the chair across from Harry and passing him one of the cups. “You look like you haven’t slept properly in days.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said automatically, though he knew his appearance suggested otherwise. The dark circles under his eyes and the way his hands shook slightly as he reached for the tea rather gave him away.

“No, you’re not,” Tonks said gently, settling onto the arm of Jackson’s chair with easy familiarity. “You’ve been avoiding everyone since we got back from St Mungo’s. Even Ron and Hermione are worried.”

Harry stared into his tea, watching the steam rise. How could he explain that he was afraid of what he might do to them? That every time Voldemort felt particularly angry or violent, Harry could feel it echoing in his own chest like a second heartbeat?

“It’s about the vision, isn’t it?” Jackson asked quietly. “What you experienced during the attack.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “How did you—”

“I’ve seen that look before,” Jackson said. “Worn it myself, a few times. The difference is, you’re fifteen and what you experienced wasn’t even your own actions.”

“But I enjoyed it,” Harry burst out, the words torn from him before he could stop them. “When the snake bit Mr Weasley, when he was screaming and bleeding, I felt ... satisfied. Like it was what he deserved. What if that wasn’t just a vision? What if I’m being possessed? What if I hurt someone?”

Jackson and Tonks exchanged a meaningful look that Harry didn’t quite catch.

“Harry,” Jackson said carefully, “possession is a very specific kind of magic. What you’re describing sounds more like a connection – a forced sharing of thoughts and emotions. Still dangerous, but not the same thing.”

“How do you know?” Harry asked desperately.

“Because I’ve dealt with both,” Jackson replied. “If you want more proof, you can speak to the lovely Miss Weasley. She informs me she was the victim of possession once upon a time.”

Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. “I forgot,” he said. “But … what if it gets worse? What if next time I don’t just see what he’s doing, but actually do something myself?”

Jackson was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Harry with an intensity that made the boy feel as though he was being evaluated by something far older and more powerful than his young-looking professor.

“There are ways to protect your mind,” Jackson said finally. “Occlumency, for one. Professor Snape is skilled in the art, and I have some experience with it myself. We can teach you.”

“You know Occlumency?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Among other things.” Jackson’s smile was enigmatic. “We’ll start with the basics: clearing your mind, building mental barriers. In Defence class, we’ll cover possession and mental influence in more detail. Knowledge is often the best protection.”

“But what if that’s not enough?”

Jackson reached across and placed his hand on Harry’s forehead, just above his scar.  Harry tensed, waiting for another vision like the last time Jackson has touched his scar, but none came. The moment their skin made contact, Harry felt something shift inside his mind; like a warm, protective presence settling between his thoughts and something else that had been lurking at the edges of his consciousness.

“There,” Jackson said quietly, removing his hand. “That should help.”

Harry blinked, feeling suddenly clearer than he had in days. The constant background hum of anger and violence that had been plaguing him was muted, as though someone had turned off a car alarm on the next street.

“What did you do?”

“Think of it as a shield,” Jackson said. “It won’t block the connection entirely – that’s beyond my abilities – but it should dampen Voldemort’s influence on your emotions and thoughts.”

“How?” Harry pressed. “That wasn’t like any magic I’ve ever seen.”

Jackson’s expression became carefully neutral. “Some techniques are older than what you learn in school, Harry. The important thing is that you should find it easier to distinguish between your own thoughts and any outside influence.”

Tonks was watching Jackson with a mixture of admiration and curiosity that made Harry wonder, not for the first time, exactly what his professor was capable of.

“Right then,” Jackson said, standing and offering Harry his hand. “Shall we rejoin the others? I believe Mrs Weasley was planning to make her famous shepherd’s pie tonight.”

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was warm and filled with the scent of Mrs Weasley’s cooking. Percy sat at the long wooden table with Tonks curled against his side, her head resting on his shoulder as she laughed at something Sirius had said. Her hair had shifted to a warm copper colour that caught the firelight, and Percy found himself absently running his fingers through it.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Sirius observed with amusement.

“Sorry,” Percy said, not sounding particularly sorry. “You were saying something about the time you and James hexed Snape’s underwear to sing opera?”

“That was twenty minutes ago,” Sirius said dryly. “I’ve moved on to complaining about my mother’s portrait.”

“Ah.” Percy glanced up at the kitchen ceiling, where Mrs Black’s shrieks could be heard echoing from the entrance hall. “Have you considered simply removing the curtains?”

“She’s permanently stuck to the wall,” Sirius explained. “Tried everything – cutting charms, vanishing spells, even considered just taking down the entire wall.”

“I could take a look at it,” Percy offered. “I have some experience with ... stubborn magical problems.”

“You’d do that?” Sirius asked, looking genuinely grateful.

“Of course.” Percy smiled. “It’s the least I can do for letting me stay here.”

“Don’t be daft,” Tonks said, lifting her head to look at him. “You’re not ‘staying here’ like some charity case. You’re part of this now.”

From across the table, Remus Lupin glanced up from his cup of tea, studying Percy with quiet interest. “Sirius mentioned you’ve had experience with difficult enchantments. May I ask what sort?”

Percy’s expression became carefully neutral. “Various sorts. Ancient protective wards, mostly. Binding spells that have been ... enhanced over time.”

“Enhanced?” Remus’s eyebrow raised with scholarly curiosity. “Do you mean they’ve grown stronger through age, or that someone deliberately layered additional magic onto them?”

“Both, in some cases.” Percy found himself appreciating the professor’s analytical approach. “Old magic has a tendency to deepen its roots, especially when it’s tied to strong emotions. Add a few centuries of family resentment, and you’ve got something that resists conventional removal techniques.”

Remus leaned forward slightly, his academic interest clearly piqued. “That’s fascinating. I’ve encountered similar phenomena in my research on historical curse-breaking. There’s a theory that emotional resonance actually strengthens certain types of binding magic over time.”

“More than a theory,” Percy said, warming to the subject despite himself. “Anger, in particular, feeds protective enchantments. The angrier someone gets about being kept out, the stronger the magic becomes.”

“Like Mother Dearest’s portrait,” Sirius interjected. “The more we try to silence her, the louder she gets.”

“Exactly.” Percy nodded at Remus. “You’d need to approach it from the emotional angle rather than the magical one. Convince the magic that it’s no longer needed.”

Remus’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Like treating the cause rather than the symptoms. I’ve seen similar approaches work with curse scars that resist traditional healing.”

“You work with curse damage?” Percy asked, genuine interest colouring his voice.

“Among other things.” Remus’s smile was rueful. “When you’ve spent as many years as I have dealing with ... unfortunate magical conditions, you learn to think creatively about solutions.”

“That’s a valuable perspective,” Percy said. “Most people only see the surface of a problem.”

“Most people haven’t had to live with magic that doesn’t behave the way it should,” Remus replied, and there was something in his tone that suggested he understood more about feeling different than he was letting on.

Tonks squeezed Percy’s hand. “See? You’ve got Remus thinking now. That’s always dangerous.”

“I prefer ‘academically stimulating,’” Remus corrected with dry humour. “Though I must admit, Perseus, your approach to magical theory is refreshingly practical. Most theoretical discussions I have tend to get bogged down in … abstract principles.”

“Experience has a way of cutting through theoretical nonsense,” Percy observed. “When you’ve actually had to solve the problem rather than just write papers about it, you learn which theories hold water.”

“Quite.” Remus chuckled. “I imagine you’d find some of our Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum rather ... inadequate.”

“I’ve seen the Ministry-approved textbooks,” Percy said diplomatically. “They’re – well – thorough in their theoretical coverage, at least.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “That’s the politest way I’ve ever heard someone call something completely useless.”

“Well,” Remus said mildly, “at least Perseus hasn’t resorted to having philosophical debates with the furniture yet.”

“I am not going mad,” Sirius protested. “I’m merely ... enthusiastically discussing interior decoration with an attentive listener.”

“You had a full conversation with the umbrella stand yesterday,” Tonks pointed out.

“It started it.”

“Started what? Your descent into madness?” Remus quipped, earning him a mock glare from Sirius.

Percy chuckled, tightening his arm around Tonks. These moments of normalcy, of belonging, were becoming precious to him. He’d spent so many centuries being worshipped or feared, but rarely simply accepted.

“You know,” Remus said thoughtfully, “if you’re serious about taking a look at the portrait, I’d be happy to assist. I’ve been researching family-based binding enchantments for years. Between your practical experience and my theoretical background, we might actually make some progress.”

“That’s generous of you,” Percy said, surprised by the offer.

“Not generous at all,” Remus replied with a slight smile. “Purely selfish, really. It’s not often I get to work with someone who approaches magical problems from such an ... unconventional angle. I suspect I could learn quite a lot.”

Something warm settled in Percy’s chest at the quiet acceptance in the professor’s voice. No suspicion, no demands for explanations—just professional respect and genuine curiosity.

“I’d like that,” Percy said simply.

“Excellent,” Remus said, raising his teacup in a small toast. “To unconventional solutions and stubborn magical problems.”

“To finding people who understand that different doesn’t mean dangerous,” Percy replied, raising his own cup.

The clink of porcelain seemed to seal something between them—not quite friendship yet, but the foundation for one.

The return to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays brought with it a new sense of urgency. News of Mr Weasley’s attack had spread through the school, though the official story bore little resemblance to what had actually happened. More concerning was the increasing presence of Ministry officials on the grounds and the way Umbridge seemed to be consolidating her power.

Jackson’s first Defence lesson back focused on mental protection, as promised. The fifth-year Gryffindors sat in attentive silence as he explained the basics of Occlumency and the various forms of mental intrusion they might encounter. Several students kept glancing nervously at the door, but Jackson had casually flicked his wand at it upon entering—Harry noticed the faint shimmer of privacy wards settling over the frame.

“The mind,” Jackson said, pacing in front of the blackboard where he’d written the words ‘MENTAL DEFENCE: THEORY AND PRACTICE’, “is not naturally equipped to defend against magical intrusion. Most people’s thoughts are essentially unguarded—an open book to anyone with the skill to read them.” Jackson’s eyes met Harry’s. “But what if I told you that the traditional method of building mental walls is completely wrong?”

Hermione’s hand shot up. “How can we tell if someone is trying to read our minds, sir?”

“Excellent question, Miss Granger. Who can tell me the warning signs of mental intrusion?”

Several hands went up, and Jackson was pleased to see that his students had clearly been reading the assigned material.

“Sudden emotional changes,” offered Neville. “Feeling angry or sad for no reason.”

“Very good. Mr Potter?”

“Invasive thoughts that don’t feel like your own,” Harry said quietly. “Or dreams that seem too real.”

Jackson nodded approvingly, though Harry could tell the way Harry’s hand had drifted unconsciously to his scar, which had been aching dully all morning. “Exactly. These can be signs of everything from basic Legilimency to more serious forms of mental influence.

“Legilimency is often described as mind-reading, but the mind isn’t that simple. Legilimency is a form of ‘pathetic’ magic. That doesn’t mean weak. It comes from the Greek word pathos, meaning emotion. Legilimency feeds on emotion. Emotion is linked to memories, which is why a more advanced Legilimens will be able to see your memories. An expert Legilimens could control those emotions, but it’s very difficult to reach that level. Occlumency works by calming you down and shutting down the emotions that Legilimency works with.”

“Professor,” Harry asked, thinking of his lessons with snape, “isn’t the traditional method to build mental walls and barriers?”

Jackson’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Ah yes, the lovely method of forcing your mind into rigid patterns until it cracks under pressure. Tell me, Potter, how effective are walls against water?”

“Um … I mean, fairly well? Muggles put walls around rivers all the time.”

“Sure,” Percy agreed. “And what happens to those walls during a flood?”

“If the wall isn’t built high enough then it flows over the top,” said Harry, beginning to understand.

“Exactly. The mind is far more like water than stone. Fluid, adaptable, capable of flowing around obstacles. Today we’ll learn to be water rather than walls.”

Jackson had the students stand up and moved all the desks to the side, leaving some of the chairs peppered around the centre of the room. “Everyone, take a seat. We’re going to do a basic Occlumency exercise, which will allow you to resist rudimentary or long-distance Mind Magic. And before anyone asks, yes, this will actually be useful for your OWLs as well. Amazing what a calm mind can accomplish.”

He gestured for the students to spread out across the room. “Find a comfortable position. Sitting is fine, standing if you prefer, even lying down if that helps you focus. The goal is to be relaxed but alert.”

Harry settled into a cross-legged position on the floor, noting that Ron had chosen a beanbag Jackson had conjured while Hermione sat with perfect posture on a classroom chair. Around the room, his classmates were arranging themselves with varying degrees of scepticism. Seamus looked particularly doubtful.

“Allow your back to be straight but not rigid,” Jackson’s voice had taken on a different quality—calmer, more measured. “Feel your feet on the ground, or if you’re sitting, feel your body supported by the floor or chair. Let your hands rest naturally.”

Harry adjusted his position, surprised by how much tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders without realising it. His scar gave a sharp twinge, and he winced.

“You may close your eyes if that feels comfortable, or keep them open with a soft, unfocused gaze. There’s no right or wrong way to do this—only what works for you in this moment.”

Harry let his eyes drift closed, immediately becoming more aware of the sounds around him—Ron shifting restlessly in his chair, distant voices from the corridor, and underneath it all, the gentle patter of January rain against the windows.

“Take several long, slow breaths,” Jackson continued, his voice seeming to come from both everywhere and nowhere at once. “Breathe in fully, feeling your lungs expand, and exhale slowly, letting everything go.”

“Professor,” Ron whispered, sounding uncomfortable, “this feels a bit mental, doesn’t it?”

“Mr Weasley,” Jackson replied gently, without breaking the meditative tone, “the mind chatter you’re experiencing right now—that restlessness, that urge to fidget—that’s exactly what makes you vulnerable to mental intrusion. Just notice it, and let it pass.”

Harry found himself following the instructions almost automatically. Each breath seemed to settle him deeper into himself, the constant chatter in his mind beginning to quiet. More remarkably, the persistent ache in his scar was starting to fade.

“With each outbreath, begin to let go of the noises around you. If sounds distract you, simply notice that you’ve been distracted and gently bring your attention back to your breathing.”

From across the room came a soft snore. Jackson’s voice carried a note of amusement: “And if you fall asleep, Mr Finnigan, that’s perfectly natural too. Your mind is finally relaxing.”

This was nothing like the Occlumency lessons with Snape. There was no sense of invasion, no feeling of being violated or exposed. Instead, Harry felt as though he was discovering parts of himself he’d never noticed before.

“Now, slowly bring your attention down to your feet. Simply observe whatever sensations you find there—warmth, coolness, pressure from your shoes or socks, contact with the floor.”

Harry focused on his feet, surprised by the simple sensation of his toes in his trainers. When had he last actually paid attention to such basic things?

“You might imagine sending your breath down to your feet,” Jackson’s voice continued, “as if the air travels from your nose to your lungs, through your abdomen, all the way down to your toes, and then back up again.”

Harry tried to follow the suggestion and was amazed to find that he could almost feel his breath travelling through his body. More importantly, his scar had stopped aching entirely for the first time in weeks. Across the room, he sensed Jackson’s attention briefly focus on him with what felt like satisfaction.

“When you’re ready, allow your attention to move upward—your legs, your core, noticing any tension or tightness without trying to change it.”

Harry slowly shifted his focus upward, discovering tension in his shoulders and neck that he’d been unconsciously carrying. But as he breathed and simply observed these sensations, they began to soften naturally.

“If your mind begins to wander—and it will, that’s perfectly normal—simply notice this without judgment and gently bring your attention back. Think of your thoughts and emotions as clouds. They pass over you, but they do not control you. Notice them, and let them pass overhead.”

Harry’s mind had indeed wandered—to Voldemort, to the strange dreams, to wondering if he was losing his mind. But instead of the usual panic these thoughts brought, he found he could simply acknowledge them and return to focusing on his breathing. The thoughts felt distant, unimportant, like echoes from far away.

“Finally, bring your awareness to your entire body as a whole. Feel the gentle rhythm of your breath as it moves through you. This awareness you’re cultivating—this sense of being fully present in your own body and mind—this is the foundation of all mental defence.”

Harry felt remarkably calm, more present than he could remember being in months. His breathing had become natural and deep, and that constant background noise of anger and fear that had plagued him seemed to have simply ... disappeared.

Jackson’s voice became more normal, less hypnotic. “When you’re ready, open your eyes slowly.”

Harry blinked as the classroom came back into focus, surprised to find that everything seemed clearer, more vivid. Around him, his classmates were stirring with expressions ranging from amazement to confusion.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, running a hand through his hair. “My head feels proper empty for once. In a good way, I mean.”

“More awake,” added Hermione, sounding slightly stunned. “I feel more awake than I have in weeks. This is... this actually worked.”

“Really?” said Parvati. “I feel like I could have the best sleep of my life right now.”

Neville straightened in his chair, looking calmer and more confident than usual. “It’s like... all the noise in my head just went quiet. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?”

“Excellent work, all of you,” Jackson said with genuine warmth. “What you’ve just experienced is what your mind feels like when it’s not constantly defending itself, not constantly in a state of high alert. This is your natural state of awareness.”

“But how does this help us defend against Mind Magic?” asked Seamus, who was now very much awake and looking interested.

“Excellent question, Mr Finnigan. Try this: everyone think of something that normally makes you anxious or upset. Don’t dwell on it, just bring it to mind briefly.”

Harry thought of Voldemort’s red eyes, and was amazed to find that while the image was still unpleasant, it didn’t trigger the usual surge of panic and rage. It was just a thought, just a memory—he could observe it without being overwhelmed by it. More importantly, his scar remained completely painless.

“Notice how differently you relate to that thought now compared to how you might have an hour ago. When your mind is calm and centred, difficult thoughts and emotions don’t have the same power to destabilise you. And a stable mind is much harder for an outside force to manipulate or penetrate.”

“This is brilliant,” said Dean enthusiastically. “I feel like I could actually concentrate on my homework for once.”

Jackson laughed. “That’s an excellent side effect. Now, let’s test this practically.” He drew his wand with a casual gesture. “I’m going to cast a very mild Confundus Charm—just enough to make you forget what you had for breakfast. Those of you maintaining that calm awareness should find it slides right off.”

The spell washed over the room like a gentle breeze. Harry felt it touch his mind and simply ... pass through, like water flowing around a stone. Around him, most of his classmates looked equally unaffected, though a few blinked in confusion.

“Outstanding,” Jackson said, looking genuinely impressed. “If you do these exercises for a few weeks, you’ll find that this kind of resistance will take far less effort to maintain. What you’ve learned today is a tool you can use anytime—before exams, when you’re feeling overwhelmed, whenever you need to find a moment of peace. Practice this regularly, and you’ll find that your natural mental defences become stronger without you having to force anything.”

Jackson collected a stack of parchment from his desk and began handing them out. “Here’s a written version of the exercise we just did. It’ll only take about ten minutes. For those of you interested in Mind Magic, or even just prone to stress, doing this once a day is an excellent foundation.”

As the lesson ended and students began filing out, many still looking peaceful and slightly dazed, Harry lingered behind. For the first time in months, the constant background whisper of Voldemort’s emotions was completely silent.

“Professor,” he said quietly, “my scar ... I couldn’t feel anything from ... from him during the exercise.”

Jackson’s looked smug. “That, Harry, is exactly what we were hoping for. A mind at peace is a mind that belongs entirely to itself.”

“Will this actually protect me from ... from him?”

“From Voldemort?” Jackson considered this carefully. “Harry, the connection between you and Tom Riddle is complex—more complex than any of us truly understand. But yes, this kind of mental awareness and stability will make you much less vulnerable to outside influence of any kind. The calmer and more centred you are, the more clearly you can distinguish between your own thoughts and feelings and anything that might be coming from elsewhere.”

“Professor? Can I ask you something about what you did over the holidays? The shield you put up?”

Jackson gestured for Harry to take a seat. “What would you like to know?”

“How did you know it would work? I mean, how did you know what kind of protection I needed?”

Jackson was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Your scar contains more than just something of Voldemort’s magic, Harry. There’s something else there. Something that resonates with very old magic. I was able to use that resonance to create a barrier.”

“What kind of something else?”

“That’s ... complicated,” Jackson said. “Let’s focus on your Occlumency training for now. Understanding can come later, when you’re better equipped to handle it.”

Harry felt something like hope bloom in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t losing himself after all.

In the interests of sticking it to Umbridge, Percy just had to make a few comments about the Death Eaters escaping.

“So, Dolly, heard the Ministry had some bad publicity this week.”

Umbridge sniffed haughtily. “The criminals will be rounded up and back in custody shortly,” she said, as if by heart. “The Ministry has their best Hit Wizards and Witches on the lookout.”

“I would certainly expect so,” said Percy with mock sincerity. “This is much worse than just Black escaping, and we all remember how dreadful that was for the Minister’s opinion polling.”

“It was less than ideal; however, the Minister is confident he retains the support of the people.”

“No doubt. How many maximum-security prisoners remain in Azkaban now, Dolly?”

“That is classified,” she almost growled. Percy was impressed; he’d never managed to make her lose her temper so quickly before.

“Obviously,” he feigned agreement. “But I imagine it’s depleted them severely. Almost all maximum-security prisoners are former Death Eaters, are they not? I seem to recall there are twenty maximum security places, and seventeen were occupied. That leaves only six remaining now, correct?”

“I am not at liberty to comment on individual—”

“The Dementors must be furious,” Percy continued, unimpeded, “losing such an important food source. I imagine we’ll be seeing them back on patrol, yes?”

Umbridge faltered. “Well—the deployment of Dementors requires a lot of resources—”

“Oh, of course,” Percy smirked, folding his copy of the Daily Prophet. “But nothing is more important than security, is it? I’m sure we will all rest easy in our beds, knowing the Ministry has complete control over the situation. There have, of course, never been any instances of the Dementors acting out of Ministry control.”

“The Ministry has the complete loyalty of the Dementors, who will continue to guard Azkaban and the prisoners that remain, and will guard the current escapees once they are returned to custody.”

“Good, good, I’d hate to have to teach all my kids the Patronus charm. The sheer practicality of it may overwhelm their delicate minds.” Seeing Umbridge open her mouth to respond, he soldiered on, “But at least they are safe.” He smiled patronisingly. “Let’s just hope the escaped Death Eaters don’t attack Hogwarts like Sirius Black did, yes?”

He rose smugly from his seat, heading towards his classroom for another Unbound meeting.

The Room of Requirement had transformed itself yet again, this time into what appeared to be an advanced classroom. The familiar practice mats remained, but they were now arranged around a large central table covered with what looked like architectural plans and historical documents. Floating above the table, a three-dimensional model of Hogwarts castle rotated slowly, its towers and corridors picked out in shimmering detail.

“Fascinating,” Hermione breathed as the forty-odd members of the Unbound filed in. “Is that a complete structural analysis of the castle?”

“It’s beautiful,” Luna added, watching turrets shift and reorganise themselves. “Like a very elaborate dollhouse.”

Jackson stood beside the table, dressed in his usual teaching robes but carrying himself with an air of academic excitement that seemed entirely natural. Several thick volumes lay open beside the castle model, their pages covered with diagrams and historical accounts.

“Please, gather round,” Jackson called out cheerfully. “Today we’re going to embark on what I like to think of as an advanced case study in defensive architecture and historical tactical analysis.”

The students arranged themselves around the table, their curiosity clearly piqued. Harry noticed that the room’s new layout naturally encouraged mixing between houses—there wasn’t space for the usual clustering.

“Now then,” Jackson began, his tone taking on the familiar cadence of an engaging lecture, “who can tell me why Hogwarts was built in its current location?”

Several hands shot up immediately.

“Miss Granger?”

“Strategic positioning, Professor. It’s on high ground overlooking the lake, with natural barriers on multiple sides, and the Forbidden Forest provides both protection and resources.”

“Excellent! Ten points to Gryffindor. And Mr Zabini, what does that suggest about the founders’ priorities?”

Zabini looked thoughtful. “That they were as concerned with defence as they were with education?”

“Precisely. The founders understood that knowledge is only valuable if those who possess it can survive to use it.” Jackson gestured to the model, which zoomed in to show the castle’s fortifications in greater detail. “This leads us to today’s exercise: a comprehensive analysis of Hogwarts’ defensive capabilities from a historical perspective.”

“Like a research project?” asked Padma hopefully.

“Exactly like a research project,” Jackson confirmed with an encouraging smile. “But rather more hands-on than most. I want you to work in small research teams to evaluate different aspects of the castle’s defences, both historical and theoretical.”

The word ‘teams’ had barely left his mouth before Jackson was moving around the table, seemingly at random but with clear purpose.

“Right, let’s see ... effective research requires diverse perspectives and complementary skills...” He gestured to different students as he spoke. “Mr Pucey, you’ve got the look of someone who appreciates strategy. I’d like you leading Alpha Team on historical siege tactics—how past attacks succeeded or failed against fortified positions.”

Pucey straightened, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Understood, Professor.”

“You’ll need Miss Granger’s research abilities,” Jackson continued, gesturing to Hermione, who was practically vibrating with academic excitement. “Mr Corner for theoretical analysis—I’ve noticed you have a talent for seeing patterns others miss, Michael. Miss Johnson, your Quidditch captaincy gives you tactical thinking under pressure. And Mr Urquhart...” Jackson’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I suspect your family’s dinner conversations include more military history than most people realise.”

Pucey’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he inclined his head in acceptance. Hermione’s face lit up and she practically bounced on her toes. Michael Corner straightened, adjusting his Ravenclaw tie with what might have been pride. Angelina grinned, clearly pleased. Francis Urquhart blinked twice, his carefully neutral expression cracked into what might have been surprise. “My grandfather does have... opinions about defensive architecture, sir.”

“Miss Bones,” Jackson continued, “you’ve got natural organisational instincts. Beta Team—evacuation procedures and civilian protection. The unglamorous but absolutely vital work.”

Susan’s chin lifted and her shoulder’s squared.

“You’ll have Ron Weasley,” Jackson continued with a knowing look, “because anyone who’s watched their parents navigate raising a family of seven kids understands logistics. Miss Chang, your prefect experience means you know how to move groups of people efficiently. Mr Finch-Fletchley, you’re methodical enough to spot the details others miss. And Mr Davies...” Jackson paused, his expression becoming slightly mischeivous. “I hear is … well-regarded in the field of international diplomacy.”

Half the room cackled at the memory of Davies’ short-lived romance with Fleur Delacour last year. Ron flushed pink but grinned widely. Cho nodded once, sharply, her expression becoming more focused. Justin’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise before settling into determination. Roger Davies ran a hand through his hair and looked around at his new teammates with interest, a faint flush on his cheeks at the reminder of Fleur.

“Mr Carmichael, Gamma Team gets intelligence gathering and early warning systems throughout history.

Carmichael’s eyes positively gleamed. “Historical precedents for intelligence gathering, Professor?”

“Among other things,” said Jackson evasively. “You’Miss Lovegood for creative thinking – she sees connections others miss entirely. Mr Macmillan for organisation and persistence. Miss Spinnet because Quidditch players develop excellent observational skills. And Miss Greengrass ...” Jackson studied Daphne thoughtfully. “Pure-blood families maintain communication networks most people don’t even know exist

Luna tilted her head, her face uncharacteristically centred. Ernie puffed out his chest slightly. Alicia’s eyebrows rose and she exchanged a quick glance with Katie Bell. Greengrass’s expression remained carefully neutral, but her fingers drummed lightly against the table in thought.

“And Mr Longbottom … rapid response requires someone who stays calm under pressure and thinks clearly when everything goes wrong. Delta Team is yours.”

Neville’s face cycled through surprise, doubt, then something approaching determination. “Professor, I—”

Jackson carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “You’ll have Miss Weasley, because she thinks fast and acts faster. Mr Goldstein for analytical thinking under pressure. Miss Abbott, you’re more tactically aware than you give yourself credit for. And Mr Zabini, because you understand that sometimes the best strategy is the one your opponent doesn’t expect.”

Ginny’s grin turned positively feral. Anthony pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded thoughtfully. Hannah’s eyes widened and she bit her lower lip, but didn’t look away. Zabini raised one eyebrow and smirked.

“Professor,” Dean said, “what about the rest of us?”

“Ah yes, excellent question, Mr Thomas. The remaining members will serve as research support and coordination across teams. Messrs Fred George Weasley, your creative problem-solving will be invaluable for identifying unconventional defensive possibilities—you’ll rotate between teams as needed. Miss Patil, your knowledge of Divination might help with predictive analysis. Miss Brown, your social awareness will be crucial for understanding communication patterns. Mr Boot, your theoretical expertise will support whichever team needs additional research depth.”

Fred and George exchanged identical glances, raised eyebrows and barely suppressed grins. Parvati looked surprised, then pleased. Lavender preened slightly. Terry Boot nodded seriously.

“Mr Thomas and Miss Davies, you’ll work with me on overall documentation and analysis synthesis. Miss Bell, your flying experience gives you a unique perspective on castle vulnerabilities from above. Mr Creevey, your photography skills will be essential for documenting architectural features. Mr Smith, your questioning nature will help identify weak points in our theories.”

Dean straightened up, clearly pleased to be working directly with Jackson. Tracy Davies looked around the room with new interest. Katie Bell stretched her arms above her head as if preparing for Quidditch practice. Colin practically vibrated with excitement. Zacharias Smith’s perpetual scowl softened into something approaching surprise.

“These research teams will function semi-independently,” Jackson explained, “but I’ll expect regular coordination between groups to ensure your findings complement rather than overlap. Mr Potter, I’d like you to serve as project coordinator—you’ll be responsible for synthesis and ensuring all teams stay on track.”

Harry felt a familiar flutter of responsibility, but framed as academic coordination rather than military command, it seemed manageable. “What exactly are we trying to prove with this research?”

“Excellent question,” Jackson said approvingly. “Your overall thesis should examine whether Hogwarts’ historical defensive design remains relevant in the modern magical era. Are the founders’ strategic decisions still valid? What vulnerabilities have emerged over time? How might theoretical attackers exploit or defend against the castle’s current configuration?”

“That sounds like a fascinating historical analysis,” said Terry Boot eagerly. “Are we going to present our findings?”

“Eventually, yes. But first, I want each team to spend the next few weeks conducting thorough research. You’ll examine historical precedents, analyse architectural features, and develop theoretical models.” Jackson’s enthusiasm seemed entirely genuine. “Think of it as an advanced independent study project.”

“Will we get to examine the actual castle?” asked Ernie Macmillan. “For primary source research?”

“Naturally. Though you’ll need to be discreet about it—we don’t want to alarm other students or staff with talk of ‘defensive analysis.’” Jackson’s smile was conspiratorial. “Frame any questions as historical curiosity or architectural interest.”

Over the next hour, Jackson walked each team through their research objectives with the dedication of a professor supervising advanced students. Alpha Team received detailed historical accounts of medieval siege warfare and strategic analysis techniques. Beta Team got comprehensive materials on evacuation procedures and protection of non-combatants during conflicts. Gamma Team was provided with texts on intelligence gathering and early warning systems throughout history. Delta Team received materials on rapid tactical response and emergency protocols.

“This is brilliant,” Hermione said as Alpha Team examined detailed plans of the castle’s defensive features. “Look at how the moving staircases could disrupt attacking forces...”

“Or how the architectural chokepoints force attackers into predictable patterns,” added Michael Corner thoughtfully.

“From a Quidditch perspective,” Angelina observed, “the tower positions provide excellent oversight of approach routes.”

Urquhart nodded slowly. “My grandfather always said that pure-blood families chose their manor locations for defensive advantages. Hogwarts follows similar principles but on a much larger scale.”

In another corner, Beta Team was deep in discussion about evacuation routes and safe zones.

“The Great Hall could shelter the entire school if necessary,” Ron was saying, “but only if you could secure the entrances.”

“The house common rooms are naturally defensible,” Cho added practically. “Small entrances, password protection, easily monitored approach routes.”

“Each house system creates natural subgroups for organisation,” Justin observed. “Makes headcounts and coordination much easier.”

“Though you’d need clear chains of authority to prevent confusion,” Roger Davies pointed out.

Eddie’s Gamma Team had spread maps across their section of the table and were tracing possible approaches to the castle.

“The lake provides excellent early warning,” Luna said dreamily. “The Giant Squid would certainly notice unusual underwater activity.”

“And the Forbidden Forest has its own natural alarm system,” Ernie added practically. “Nothing moves in there without the centaurs knowing about it.”

“The portrait network could serve as a communication system,” Alicia noted. “They’re already positioned throughout the castle.”

“Traditional families have used portrait networks for centuries,” Daphne confirmed. “They’re more secure than most people realise.”

Meanwhile, Delta Team was examining the model castle with obvious tactical interest.

“Multiple exit points from most areas,” Anthony observed. “Good for rapid redeployment.”

“The house-elf passages provide alternative routes,” Ginny added thoughtfully. “Though I suppose that would require cooperation from the house-elves.”

“The key would be speed of response,” Hannah said, her voice growing more confident as she engaged with the tactical thinking. “If you could identify threats quickly enough...”

“Coordination becomes everything,” Zabini concluded. “Individual capability means nothing without proper organisation.”

Fred and George, meanwhile, were moving between groups with obvious glee.

“You know,” Fred said to Alpha Team, “the trick passages we’ve found could be excellent for flanking manoeuvres.”

“Or for getting defenders into unexpected positions,” George added to Delta Team.

Harry moved between the teams, ostensibly coordinating their research but actually observing how naturally they were adapting to their assigned roles. Without being told they were doing anything other than academic research, they were developing strategic thinking. Harry had a funny feeling that was exactly what Jackson had intended.

“Fascinating work, all of you,” Jackson said as the session drew to a close. “I want each team to continue this research independently over the next term. Document your findings, develop your theories, and prepare to present preliminary analysis next session. Team leaders, you’re in charge of developing a suitable schedule for researching each aspect your team has highlighted as relevant. If you have any … diplomatic concerns, resolve them as best you can between yourselves. Your team leader should be your first port of call for concerns. Team leaders, remember—you’re not just giving orders. You’re facilitating discussion and building consensus.”

“Professor,” Harry said, “should we establish regular meetings for coordination between teams?”

“Excellent initiative, Mr Potter. Yes, I think brief coordination meetings would be valuable for ensuring your research doesn’t overlap unnecessarily.”

“What about those of us supporting multiple teams?” asked Dean.

“Rotate your focus based on where your skills are most needed,” Jackson replied. “Mr Potter will help coordinate those assignments.”

Harry watched as the groups dispersed to different corners of the room. The mixing of houses was working better than he’d expected—Hermione was already deep in tactical discussion with Blaise Zabini, whilst Daphne Greengrass appeared to be offering genuinely helpful suggestions to Susan Bones. Even Hannah Abbott seemed to be gaining confidence as Ginny and Anthony Goldstein encouraged her contributions to Delta Unit’s planning.

“It’s working,” Harry said quietly to Jackson, who was observing the groups with satisfaction.

“Of course it’s working,” Jackson replied. “Put people in a room with a common goal and sensible leadership, and house prejudices become irrelevant very quickly. The Sorting Hat knew what it was talking about in its song this year.”

After the groups had presented their initial assessments, Jackson called them back together.

“Excellent work, all of you,” he said. “I can see the potential in this structure already. Potter, what are your thoughts on coordination between the units?”

Harry took a deep breath, feeling all eyes turn to him. “I think ... I think we need regular communication between unit leaders, and maybe rotating assignments so everyone understands how the other units operate. And we should probably establish clear chains of command for different types of scenarios.”

Adam Pucey nodded approvingly. “Good thinking. We don’t want confusion about who’s in charge during an emergency.”

“What about training?” Neville asked, looking more confident now that he was thinking tactically. “Should units train together or separately?”

“Both,” Percy said. “Units will train separately to develop their specialisations, but we’ll have joint exercises to practice coordination.”

“This is brilliant,” said Ernie Macmillan, looking around at the mixed groups with obvious pleasure. “Finally, a chance to work with people from other houses on equal terms.”

“Yeah,” agreed Dean Thomas. “No more of this ‘Gryffindors are all stupid, Ravenclaws are nerds’ nonsense when we’re all trying to stay alive.”

Zabini smirked. “Speak for yourself, Thomas. Some of us quite enjoy our evil reputations.”

“Only until someone hexes you in the back because they think you deserve it,” Ginny pointed out tartly.

“Fair point,” Zabini conceded with good humour.

As the session drew to a close, Jackson gathered them in a final circle.

“Unit leaders will meet with their groups individually over the next week to begin developing your tactical capabilities,” he instructed. “Harry, I want you observing each unit’s planning session so you understand their strengths and limitations. Questions?”

Luna raised her hand. “Professor, should we have code names? For security purposes?”

Jackson looked amused. “If you like, Miss Lovegood. Though I suspect your real names are secure enough in here.”

“Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta,” Hermione mused. “They’re already sort of code names.”

“Greek letters,” Jackson said with a slight smile.

As the students began to file out, chattering excitedly about their new assignments, Jackson caught Harry’s arm. “A word?”

Harry waited until the others had filed out, chattering enthusiastically about their assignments.

“This is clever, Professor,” Harry said quietly. “They don’t even realise what they’re really doing.”

Jackson’s expression was carefully neutral. “I’m not sure what you mean, Harry. We’re conducting a historical research project on defensive architecture.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly. “Historical research.”

“Exactly. Though I will say, the best historical research often involves understanding how past lessons might apply to contemporary situations.” Jackson’s smile was perfectly innocent. “After all, those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

“And if our ‘historical research’ happens to prepare us for more contemporary applications?”

“Well,” Jackson said with academic cheerfulness, “thorough research often has unexpected practical benefits. But that’s just … a happy coincidence.”

“A very happy coincidence,” Harry agreed. “Professor, are you sure about this? Making me the overall coordinator?”

“Absolutely certain,” Jackson replied without hesitation. “Harry, leadership isn’t about being the most qualified person in the room. It’s about being the person others trust to make hard decisions when everything goes wrong. And everything will go wrong, eventually.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

Jackson’s smile was grim but genuine. “It’s not meant to be reassuring. It’s meant to be honest. You’re going to have to make choices that will determine whether your friends live or die. That’s the burden of command, and it never gets easier.”

Harry thought about the weight of that responsibility, about the trust his fellow students were placing in him. “What if I make the wrong choice?”

“Then you learn from it and make better choices next time,” Jackson said simply. “But Harry—the worst choice is no choice at all. Hesitation gets people killed.”

“And the best choice?”

Jackson was quiet for a long moment, his expression distant. “The best choice is usually the one that saves the most people, even if it costs you personally.” He focused on Harry again. “But that’s a lesson I hope you never have to learn firsthand.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Fool Enough to Lose It

The first sign that something had shifted in the castle came during a routine Transfiguration lesson on a grey February morning. During Professor McGonagall’s demonstration on conjuring teacups, Susan Bones’s wand movement caught her eye. Sharp, economical, with a subtle defensive twist that had nothing to do with creating delicate China.

“Miss Bones,” McGonagall said carefully, “where did you learn that particular wand grip?”

Bones flushed. “Oh, um ... I’ve been practising, Professor. Just ... improvement, y’know?”

But McGonagall’s sharp eyes had already moved on, cataloguing the way several students now sat with their backs to walls, how they instinctively scanned doorways when entering a room, how their casual conversation had begun to include terms like ‘flanking positions’ and ‘tactical advantage.’

She wasn’t the only one to notice.

“They’re different,” Professor Sprout murmured during a staff meeting the following week. “More focused, certainly, but also ... harder. Yesterday I had to break up what started as a friendly disagreement between two fourth-years about Herbology techniques. Within seconds, they were sizing each other up like duellists.”

“I’ve observed similar behaviour,” Flitwick added, his usually cheerful demeanour subdued. “Several of my students have been asking about the practical applications of various charms in ‘combat scenarios.’ When I asked why they needed to know, they said it was for ‘general preparedness.’“

Percy, who had been grading essays at the far end of the table, looked up with mild interest. “Is that problematic?”

The question hung in the air like a Dungbomb.

“Perseus,” McGonagall said slowly, “these are children. They should be worried about Quidditch matches and examination scores, not military tactics.”

“They should be worried about staying alive,” Percy replied matter-of-factly, returning to his marking. “Everything else is rather secondary when you’re being hunted by Death Eaters.”

“But they’re not being hunted by Death Eaters,” Sprout protested. “They’re at Hogwarts. They’re safe here.”

Percy’s quill paused over a particularly poor essay on curse detection. When he looked up, there was something ancient and cold in his eyes that made several professors shift uncomfortably.

“Are they? Because last I checked, this castle has been infiltrated by Dark wizards five times in the past five years. A basilisk roamed the corridors for months. Dementors attacked students during a Quidditch match. And now we have a Ministry plant sitting in our staff meetings, monitoring everything we do.”

He gestured vaguely in at the seat Umbridge would normally have occupied. She had been conspicuously absent from recent staff meetings – often turning up hours or days late, raging about “deliberate interference” with her notification system – but her influence permeated the meeting, nonetheless.

“The children are adapting to reality,” Percy continued. “I’d say that shows remarkable intelligence on their part.”

“Or remarkable damage,” McGonagall said sharply. “Neville Longbottom asked me yesterday if the windows in my classroom could be used as escape routes. He’s fifteen years old, Perseus. He shouldn’t know to evaluate every room for tactical advantages.”

Genuine confusion flickered across Percy’s features. “Why not? That sort of situational awareness could save his life.”

“Because he’s a child!”

“And? Age doesn’t make you less dead when someone tries to kill you.”

Several professors exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Perseus,” Albus said gently, his blue eyes studying Percy with careful intensity, “I think what our colleagues are trying to express is concern about the psychological impact of this training. Children who are constantly prepared for battle may lose something essential: their ability simply to be young.”

Percy’s expression flickered with something Albus recognised: old pain, quickly suppressed. “Better they lose their innocence than their lives.”

“But at what cost?” Flitwick asked, voice unusually grave. “Miss Chang came to my office in tears yesterday because she’d started unconsciously cataloguing which of her dormmates would be liabilities in a fight. These children are beginning to see each other as potential threats or assets rather than friends.”

“Lavender Brown asked me if certain plants could be weaponised,” Sprout added quietly. “When I asked why she wanted to know, she said you had taught them that everything could be a weapon if you were creative enough.”

Percy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Survival requires difficult choices. They need to understand—”

“They need to understand childhood,” McGonagall interrupted. “They need to trust their friends, not evaluate their combat potential. They need to sleep through the night without checking escape routes.”

“If they can sleep through the night, maybe they’re not taking the threat seriously enough,” Percy said, and something in his tone made Albus lean forward with sharp attention.

The headmaster had seen this before – the absolute certainty of beings who operated on scales beyond human comprehension. Percy spoke of childhood innocence as a luxury they couldn’t afford, but Albus wondered if the god of heroes simply no longer remembered what it meant to be mortal and vulnerable.

“Perhaps,” Albus said carefully, “but trauma is not the same as preparation. A warrior who cannot rest, cannot trust, cannot find joy … such a warrior has already lost the most important battle.”

For a moment, Percy’s carefully constructed facade slipped entirely. Albus saw something vast and terrible in his eyes, something that had witnessed empires fall and heroes die young.

“I’ve buried more young heroes than you can imagine,” he said quietly. “Brave, noble, innocent children who died because they weren’t prepared for the realities of war. I will not watch it happen again.”

“And we’ve seen students become so hardened by premature exposure to violence that they forgot what they were fighting to protect,” McGonagall replied firmly. “There must be balance, Perseus.”

Albus watched this exchange with growing unease. He had invited Percy to Hogwarts knowing full well what the ancient god was capable of – both his protective instincts and his capacity for breathtaking violence. But seeing Percy’s methods applied to children, watching students transform into miniature soldiers under his tutelage, Albus found himself questioning whether he had chosen the lesser of two evils or simply exchanged one form of damage for another.

Dolores Umbridge would teach these children nothing useful, would leave them defenceless against the darkness that was surely coming. But Percy was teaching them to see the world as a battlefield, to evaluate every person and situation through the lens of conflict. Was a living child-soldier truly better than a dead innocent?

Percy waited outside the Three Broomsticks, watching couples stroll through the village with linked arms and nervous smiles. Valentine’s Day in Hogsmeade struck him as rather charming: all that hopeful energy crackling in the air like the prelude to a storm.

“Wotcher, Percy.”

He turned to find Tonks approaching, her hair its usual vibrant bubblegum pink that somehow managed to look perfectly natural on her. She looked tired, he noticed. There were faint shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there in January.

“Working too hard?” he asked, offering his arm as they made their way toward a quieter pub Hagrid had told him about on the outskirts of the village.

“Always,” she replied with a rueful smile. “Mad-Eye’s got us running surveillance on suspected Death Eater sympathisers. Half the time we’re just watching people go about their normal lives, but we can’t afford to miss anything.”

They settled into a corner booth at the Hog’s Head, where Aberforth’s perpetual scowl ensured they’d be left alone. Percy ordered firewhisky; Tonks asked for gillywater.

“Since when do you drink gillywater?” Percy asked with amusement. “Last time we were out, you matched me drink for drink.”

Tonks shrugged, stirring her drink absently. “Been feeling a bit off lately. Think I might be coming down with something. Better to stick with something that won’t make my stomach worse.”

Percy accepted this explanation, though he made a mental note to keep an eye on her health. Aurors pushed themselves too hard, and Tonks was more reckless than most.

“How are things at the Ministry?” he asked. “Any progress convincing people that Tom’s actually back?”

“What progress?” Tonks said bitterly. “Fudge is still insisting it’s all lies and propaganda. We’re not allowed to investigate anything that might suggest You-Know-Who has returned. Officially, we’re just tracking down ‘criminal elements’ and ‘disturbers of the peace.’“

“But unofficially?”

“Unofficially, some of us are doing what we can. Following leads that Fudge won’t let us pursue properly, keeping an eye on people we know were Death Eaters even if we can’t prove it.” She took a sip of her drink. “It’s frustrating, working with one hand tied behind your back.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, absently tracing patterns on the wooden table with his finger. Where his touch lingered, the wood seemed to darken slightly, as if moisture had seeped into the grain.

“Tom’s impatient,” he said finally. “He’s spent fourteen years as less than human. He won’t want to wait much longer to announce his return properly. And with the Ministry still denying his existence, he has the element of surprise.”

“You talk about him like you know him personally.”

“I’ve made it my business to understand him.” Percy’s voice carried that careful neutrality he used when discussing his past with Tom Riddle. “Know your enemy, and all that.”

“Right,” Tonks said, though she was studying his face with the keen attention she usually reserved for suspects under interrogation. “And how exactly does a god of heroes go about understanding the darkest wizard in history?”

“The same way anyone does,” Percy replied. “Research. Observation. Pattern recognition.” He took a sip of his firewhisky. “Dark wizards follow predictable patterns, Little Nymph. Tom Riddle is no different.”

Tonks looked unconvinced but didn’t press the matter. “The Auror Office has been getting reports about unusual activity “There’s something else,” Tonks said eventually, clearly trying to steer the conversation to safer ground. “Strange reports coming through the office. Things that don’t quite make sense.”

“Such as?”

“Azkaban, mainly. The prison guards are reporting... irregularities.” She frowned, choosing her words carefully. “Prisoners going unnaturally quiet. Not the usual Dementor-induced despair—something else entirely. Like they’re being hollowed out from the inside.”

Percy’s hand stilled against his drink. “Hollowed out?”

“That’s what the guards said. And there’s more.” Tonks shifted to look at him. “Maintenance crews have been finding passages that weren’t there before. Ancient stonework that doesn’t match the rest of the fortress. The magical signatures are completely unknown—older than anything in our records.”

“How much older?”

“They have no idea. Some of the workers refuse to go near those sections now. They say it feels like something is... waiting down there.”

“Perhaps,” Percy said carefully, “some things are better left undisturbed.”

“You sound like you know something about it.”

“I know that old magic tends to have purposes. And when those purposes are corrupted...” He trailed off, his eyes taking on that distant quality she was beginning to recognise. “Well. Let’s hope the Ministry’s ignorance serves as protection, for once.”

“There’s been quiet talk at the Ministry about bringing in outside consultants if things get worse. People with specialised knowledge, unusual skills. The kind of people who operate outside normal oversight.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’re scared enough to consider hiring beings like you,” Tonks said bluntly. “Officially, of course, they’d never admit to believing in gods. But unofficially ... well, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “That’s remarkably progressive for the Ministry.”

“That’s how terrified they are, even if they won’t admit Voldemort’s back yet. They’re preparing contingencies for threats they don’t understand against enemies they won’t acknowledge.”

“And what do you think of that?”

“I think,” Tonks said carefully, “that if they’re going to hire supernatural help, they could do worse than a god who actually cares about protecting innocent people.”

Percy studied her face. “Are you suggesting I should consider working with the Ministry officially?”

“I’m suggesting that you might want to think about what happens when this war escalates beyond what normal wizards can handle. Because it will, won’t it? Voldemort’s going to push things past the point where conventional methods work.”

“Probably,” Percy agreed. “Dark wizards like him always do. They can’t help but overreach.”

“Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending you’re just an unusually powerful wizard. Maybe it’s time to let the right people know what they’re really dealing with.”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, considering the implications. “That’s a dangerous path, Nymphadora. Once mortals know gods exist, once they start depending on divine intervention ...”

“What? You’ll spoil them?” Tonks asked with a slight smile. “Make them lazy about solving their own problems?”

“I’ll give them expectations I can’t always meet. And when gods fail mortals, the consequences are usually catastrophic.”

“And when gods succeed?”

Percy met her eyes. “When gods succeed, mortals remember why they used to build temples.”

Tonks was quiet for a moment, staring into her drink with an expression Percy couldn’t quite read.

“Just ... be careful,” Tonks said. “I know you’re powerful, but you’re not invincible. And the Ministry has resources you might not expect.”

“Are you worried about me, Little Nymph?”

“Always.” The admission was quiet, almost reluctant. “Even gods can make mistakes. And some of us have grown rather fond of having you around.”

Percy reached across the table to take her hand properly. “And some of us have grown rather fond of certain mortals, despite all the complications that entails.”

Tonks was quiet for a moment, staring into her drink with an expression Percy couldn’t quite read.

“I’ve been thinking about the future lately,” she said finally. “About what kind of world we’re fighting to preserve.”

“Dangerous territory for both gods and mortals in wartime.”

“Maybe. But it’s also the only thing that makes the fighting worthwhile.” She looked up at him. “What happens after the war, Percy? When You-Know-Who is defeated and the world goes back to normal?”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, considering how to answer. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve spent so long focused on the immediate threats that I haven’t thought much about ... after.”

“Will you stay? At Hogwarts, I mean. Keep teaching.”

“I …” Percy’s mouth went dry. “No,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t be allowed to. The Ancient Laws ... they don’t permit gods to settle permanently in mortal institutions. It’s … exceptional, that I’m even allowed here for the time being.”

Tonks frowned. “What Ancient Laws?”

Percy ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Rules older than civilization, Little Nymph. Restrictions placed on divine beings to prevent us from becoming too ... involved in mortal affairs. I can intervene in times of crisis, can teach and guide when the need is great, but I’m bound by forces many times older than any god or Titan.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Tonks said flatly. “You’re helping people. You’re protecting children. Why would anyone want to stop that?”

“Because gods who stay too long in the mortal world tend to forget their limitations,” Percy explained. “We start to think we know better than mortals about how their lives should be lived. We become tyrants, even when we mean to be protectors.”

“And you think you’d become a tyrant?”

Percy’s smile was rueful.  “A tyrant? No, I hope not. But it’s in a god’s nature to be … extreme. We epitomise ideals and values in their entirety. All the good and all the bad. Together, we balance the world, but individually we create chaos. If one god gets too involved in the affairs of a particular group of mortals … it doesn’t end well.”

Tonks was quiet for a moment, processing this. “So after the war, you’ll just ... leave? Go back to wherever gods go when they’re not meddling in mortal affairs?”

“I’ll have to.” Percy’s voice carried a weight of resignation that spoke to centuries of enforced solitude. “The Laws aren’t suggestions, Little Nymph. They’re binding. Even now, I can feel the pull to move on, to find the next crisis that needs divine intervention.”

“How long do you have?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how long this crisis lasts, how much the situation truly requires divine intervention.” Percy met her eyes. “But not forever. Never forever.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, the weight of temporal limitations settling between them. Outside, the Valentine’s Day crowds had thinned as afternoon gave way to evening.

“Nymphadora,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Are you alright? You seem... different today.”

She managed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just tired. And worried about everything that’s happening. Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing enough, if we’re prepared for what’s coming.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Percy said, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. “That’s all anyone can do.”

“Is it enough, though?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “What if we fail? What if everything we’re fighting for just ... falls apart?”

Percy squeezed her hand gently. “Then we rebuild. That’s what people do—they endure, they adapt, they find ways to keep going. It’s one of the things I find most remarkable about mortals.”

They finished their drinks—or rather, Percy finished his while Tonks barely touched hers—and walked slowly back through the village. The Valentine’s Day crowds had thinned as afternoon gave way to evening, leaving the streets quieter and more intimate.

As they approached the Apparition point, Percy found himself reluctant to let the evening end. There was something about Tonks today—a vulnerability beneath her usual confidence, a sense that she needed comfort he wasn’t sure how to provide.

“Nymph,” he said, catching her hand before she could Disapparate.

“What?”

“Come back to Hogwarts with me.” The invitation was simple, but the look in his eyes made his meaning clear. “Stay the night. Please.”

Tonks searched his face, and something in her expression softened. “Are you sure? Won’t Dumbledore mind having unauthorised visitors?”

“I’m quite sure Albus has more pressing concerns than my social life,” Percy said with a slight smile. “Besides, the castle’s warding will keep you safer than London would tonight.”

“Is that the only reason you’re asking?”

Percy stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “You know it isn’t.”

Tonks leaned into his touch, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Alright. Yes.”

They Apparated together to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, where Percy took her hand and led her through passages he knew would be empty at this hour. The castle felt different in the evening—older, more mysterious, full of shadows and whispered secrets.

“Your rooms are in the dungeons?” Tonks asked as they descended a familiar staircase.

“Close to the lake,” Percy explained. “I like being near the water.”

As they reached his door, Percy paused, suddenly uncertain. There was still something fragile about Tonks today, something that made him want to protect rather than pursue.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

In response, Tonks stood on her toes and kissed him, soft and sure and full of things neither of them were ready to say aloud.

“I’m sure,” she whispered against his lips. “I’m tired of being careful about everything. Just for tonight, I want to stop worrying about the future and focus on right now.”

Percy opened the door and drew her inside, where the firelight cast everything in warm, golden tones. Outside, the lake lapped gently against the castle walls, a steady rhythm that seemed to promise that some things, at least, would endure

Meanwhile, Harry was dealing with problems of his own. Rita Skeeter’s article in The Quibbler had finally been published, and the response was everything he’d hoped for and feared.

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

Letters poured into Hogwarts – some supportive, some sceptical, a few threatening enough that McGonagall quietly increased security. But the article had accomplished its primary goal: people were talking, and doubt about the Ministry’s official story was spreading.

Umbridge’s reaction was predictably volcanic, resulting in a week’s worth of detention and a Hogsmeade ban for Harry and flurry of new Educational Decrees that banned The Quibbler and any “inflammatory materials” from school grounds.

But Umbridge’s troubles were just beginning.

The first incident happened on a Tuesday evening. She had been patrolling the corridors when she heard voices coming from an unused classroom: exactly the sort of illegal practical magic her decrees had specifically forbidden.

Heart racing with anticipation, she eased the door open.

The classroom was empty. Not just empty; pristine, with dust motes dancing in moonlight and the stale air of a room unused for weeks.

But she had heard voices. Multiple voices. She was certain of it.

Frustrated, she made her way back toward her office. That’s when she heard Professor Jackson’s voice drifting from his office: “Excellent work tonight, everyone. Same time next week?”

She hurried toward the sound, peering through his keyhole to see him alone at his desk, grading papers by wandlight. But she had just heard him speaking to a group. She was absolutely certain of it.

The incidents escalated rapidly.

Strange things began happening around Umbridge. Things that started small and grew progressively more disturbing. Shadows moved when they shouldn’t, always just at the edge of her vision. Reflections in mirrors and windows began to lag behind her movements, sometimes seeming to watch her with eyes that held different expressions from her own.

The first time she noticed her reflection blinking independently, she convinced herself it was fatigue. When her mirror-self appeared to mouth words she wasn’t speaking, she avoided mirrors for the rest of the day.

Her office became a place of subtle wrongness. Files would be slightly out of order when she returned from meals. Text in her Educational Decrees seemed to crawl across the parchment when she wasn’t looking directly. The portrait she’d chosen – a middle-aged wizard in a bowler hat  -- began to change gradually, his painted face growing more disapproving each day.

“Always knew you’d never amount to much,” the portrait whispered one morning in a voice uncannily similar to her father’s.

Umbridge spun around, but the painted figure smiled benignly, as he always had.

Letters appeared on her desk praising her work, but when she tried to show them to colleagues, the parchment would be blank. Worse, sometimes the letters would be visible to witnesses, but the text would be wrong—confessions of incompetence written in her own hand, admissions of fraud and corruption she’d never penned.

Time itself seemed to work differently around her. She would arrive at scheduled meetings only to be told she was hours early or days late. Her pocket watch showed times that no other clock in the castle confirmed.

The worst part was that no one else seemed to notice. When she tried to point out the moving shadows or impossible reflections, colleagues looked at her with concern, then at each other with meaningful glances.

“Perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey,” Professor McGonagall suggested after Umbridge interrupted a staff meeting to demand someone explain why the portrait behind Dumbledore’s chair kept making obscene gestures.

Everyone else saw only Armando Dippet sleeping peacefully in his frame.

One evening, Umbridge received what appeared to be urgent orders to arrest Professor Jackson for sedition, complete with Ministry seals and proper authorisation codes. She rushed to his office with a team of Aurors she’d summoned from London.

The office was empty.

Her “official orders” were revealed to be blank parchment covered in children’s drawings—crude sketches of pink toads being devoured by sea monsters.

“I’m sorry you were troubled, Professor Umbridge,” one of the Aurors said politely as they prepared to leave. “Perhaps in future you might verify urgent communications through proper channels.”

When she tried to explain that the orders had been real, that the parchment had been different moments before, they exchanged those same worried glances she’d grown to recognise from every adult in the castle.

She cornered him the next day. “I know you’re behind this,” she hissed, her usual saccharine demeanour completely abandoned. Her hair was dishevelled, her pink cardigan stained, and her eyes held the wild look of someone who no longer trusted her own perceptions. “These illusions, these tricks—it’s some sort of ancient magic, isn’t it? Something dark and unnatural.”

Percy’s expression remained pleasantly neutral. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Dolores. Are you feeling quite alright? You seem rather ... disturbed.”

“This isn’t over, Jackson,” she snarled, but her voice cracked on the words. “I’ll find proof of what you are, you filthy Half-Breed, and when I do, you’ll wish you’d never set foot in this school.”

“I look forward to seeing what evidence you manage to collect,” Percy replied mildly. “Do let me know if you need any assistance with your investigation.”

As Umbridge stumbled away, Percy watched her go with the patient satisfaction of someone observing a particularly complex project nearing completion.

The Unbound had been training for nearly two hours when Jackson made them all halt.

“Everyone stop,” he barked. “There’s something outside.”

Everyone paused immediately. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Then, unmistakably, the click-click-click of high heels on cobblestones from just down the corridor.

“That’s Umbridge,” Ron whispered, his face going pale as he lowered his wand.

The distinctive click-click-click grew louder, accompanied by what sounded like several sets of footsteps. Harry’s heart sank as he recognised the heavy boots that could only belong to members of Umbridge’s newly-formed Inquisitorial Squad.

“She’s got students with her,” Hermione hissed. “If she catches us—”

“Everyone stay calm,” Harry said, though his own voice was tight with panic. “We just need to—”

The footsteps stopped directly outside their door.

“I can hear voices,” came Umbridge’s sickeningly sweet voice, muffled but unmistakable. “Multiple students. They’re in there.”

“Should we break the door down, Professor?” That was definitely Draco Malfoy’s drawl.

Harry looked around desperately at the forty-odd students frozen in various defensive positions throughout the room. There was nowhere to hide, no way to explain away the advanced magical equipment scattered around them, no excuse that would satisfy Umbridge’s vindictive curiosity.

Then Jackson stepped forward.

“Everyone remain exactly where you are,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an odd resonance that seemed to settle into their bones. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t even breathe loudly.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask what good that would do, but something in Percy’s expression stopped him. The professor’s eyes had taken on that strange, ancient quality Harry had noticed before, and the air around him seemed to shimmer like heat waves rising from summer pavement.

Jackson closed his eyes and snapped his fingers. The shimmer intensified, then seemed to flow outward from him like invisible water, washing over the room and everyone in it.

Harry blinked, disoriented. The Room of Requirement had vanished. In its place was a dusty, clearly abandoned classroom with cobwebs draping the corners and a few broken desks scattered about. The practice mats, training dummies, and magical equipment had all disappeared. Even the students around him had vanished—Harry found himself standing alone in the empty space, with no sign that anyone else had ever been there.

The door burst open.

Umbridge strode in, flanked by Draco Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and several other members of the Inquisitorial Squad. Her eyes were bright with triumph as she surveyed the room, clearly expecting to find irrefutable evidence of the illegal training sessions she’d been hunting for weeks.

Her face fell as she took in the obviously deserted classroom.

“There’s no one here, Professor,” Malfoy said, looking genuinely confused as he peered around the dusty space.

“There has to be!” Umbridge shrieked, her usual composure cracking. “I heard voices! Multiple voices! They were practicing spells!”

“Me too,” said Milicent Bullstrode. “But …”

Umbridge rushed to the centre of the room, turning in frantic circles. Harry pressed himself against the wall, though some part of his mind wondered why he was bothering—if she couldn’t see the room as it really was, she probably couldn’t see him either.

“Perhaps you were mistaken, Professor,” suggested Pansy Parkinson from the doorway. “It does seem rather... empty.”

“I was not mistaken!” Umbridge’s voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch. “There were students here! I heard them! I heard Jackson’s voice giving instructions!”

“Professor Jackson?” Malfoy perked up with interest. “But he’s in his office, Professor. I saw him there not five minutes ago when I passed in the corridor.”

Harry frowned. That was impossible—Jackson was here with them. Wasn’t he? Harry looked around the empty room, suddenly uncertain. Where was Jackson? Where was everyone else?

“That’s impossible,” Umbridge snarled. “He was here, with students, conducting illegal training—”

“Perhaps we should check his office,” Crabbe suggested helpfully. “If he’s there, then maybe you were hearing something else?”

Umbridge’s face cycled through several unbecoming shades of red and purple. She stood in the centre of the room, spinning slowly as she tried to make sense of what was happening to her carefully laid trap.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’ll go to his office. And when I prove he wasn’t there, you’ll all help me tear this room apart until we find evidence of what’s been happening here.”

The Inquisitorial Squad filed out after her, shooting confused glances back at the apparently empty room. The sound of their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving behind a silence so complete that Harry could hear his own heartbeat.

Harry waited, pressed against the wall of the dusty classroom, wondering what he should do next. Had the others escaped somehow? Had they been here at all? His memories of the training session felt strangely hazy, as if he were trying to recall a half-remembered dream.

Then the air shimmered again, and reality reasserted itself.

Harry blinked as the Room of Requirement snapped back into existence around him. The practice mats reappeared beneath his feet, training dummies materialised along the walls. Forty-odd students stood exactly where they had been before, looking dazed and confused.

“Bloody hell,” someone whispered from the back of the group.

Several students were staring around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Lavender Brown had gone so pale that Parvati was holding her arm to keep her upright.

Jackson stood in the centre of the room, running a hand through his hair. Harry noticed that his hands were trembling slightly, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that suggested whatever he’d done had required considerable effort.

“What just happened?” Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Concealment charm,” Jackson said, his voice carefully neutral. “Very old technique. The Ministry doesn’t teach them anymore—too complicated for most practical applications.”

Neville stepped forward, his face flushed with excitement. “Professor, that was incredible. Could you teach us? This kind of magic—if we could learn to do what you just did—”

“No.” Jackson’s response was immediate and firm. “What I used tonight requires years of specialised study and particular... aptitudes that can’t be easily taught. It’s not practical magic for students.”

“But if it’s so advanced, how do you know it?” Hermione pressed. “These techniques you’re describing—they sound like they come from magical traditions that died out centuries ago.”

Jackson was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried a careful weight.

“I’ve had the opportunity to study under some very unconventional teachers,” he said finally. “People who preserved knowledge that the mainstream magical world has forgotten. Sometimes the old ways are more effective than the new ones.”

“But how did Malfoy see you in your office when you were here with us?” Hermione asked.

Jackson’s movement stilled for just a moment. “Conflicting reports during stressful situations aren’t uncommon. People see what they expect to see.”

As the students began to move towards the door of Room of Requirement, their earlier excitement about the training session replaced by puzzled curiosity, Jackson called out to them.

“I trust I don’t need to remind anyone that what happened here tonight stays between us. The techniques I used ... some people might misunderstand their purpose.”

The warning was delivered gently, but there was an underlying edge that made several students nod quickly.

“Right then,” Jackson continued, his usual easy demeanour returning. “I’ll let you all know when our next meeting is. And excellent work tonight, all of you. Your combat work is improving well; good progress with your projects. Now head to bed.”

As the group dispersed, Harry found himself walking back toward Gryffindor Tower with Ron and Hermione, all three of them unusually quiet.

“That was mental,” Ron said finally as they climbed the stairs, but his voice sounded odd.

“It was impossible,” Hermione corrected. “I’ve never read about magic that works like that. The way reality just ... changed around us.”

“I couldn’t see any of you,” Harry said, still trying to make sense of what he’d experienced. “It was like you’d all just disappeared. Even the room was completely different.”

“Same here,” Hermione agreed. “Empty classroom, broken desks, cobwebs everywhere.”

Ron stopped walking so abruptly that Harry nearly collided with him.

“What?” Harry asked.

Ron was staring at them with a deeply troubled expression. “You both saw an empty room?”

“Yes,” Hermione said slowly. “Didn’t you?”

“No,” Ron said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I saw everything exactly as it was. All of us standing there, all the training equipment, everything normal. I just watched Umbridge and her crew look right through us like we weren’t there.”

Harry and Hermione stared at him.

“That’s impossible,” Hermione said. “If we all experienced the same spell—”

“We didn’t experience the same spell,” Ron interrupted. “Harry, Hermione—you saw what Umbridge saw. But I saw what was actually happening.”

The stairs towards Gryffindor Tower linked together in front of them but the three of them didn’t move. Instead, they huddled in the corridor, voices low.

“This is really bothering me,” Hermione said. “If Ron could see through Jackson’s spell when we couldn’t, that suggests something about the nature of the magic itself.”

“And how did he manage to convince Malfoy that he’d seen Percy in his office?” Harry asked. “That’s not just concealment—that’s creating false memories or somehow being in two places at once. But he didn’t cast anything I could see. He didn’t even have his wand on him.”

Before either of them could speculate further, footsteps echoed from the stairwell below. Daphne Greengrass appeared, followed by Blaise Zabini, both still wearing the determined expressions that had become common among the Unbound members.

“Potter, Weasley, Granger,” Greengrass nodded to them. “Quite an extraordinary evening. Though I must admit, what Jackson accomplished was rather … disconcerting.”

“You could say that,” Hermione replied carefully.

“I’ve never experienced anything like it,” Zabini added. “One moment we were all there, the next I was standing alone in what looked like an abandoned classroom.”

“Wait,” Ron said sharply. “You saw an empty room too?”

“Of course,” Greengrass said, looking puzzled. “Didn’t we all?”

Ron and Harry exchanged glances.

“What did you see, Weasley?” Zabini asked, his voice suddenly very interested.

“I saw all of us standing there the whole time,” Ron said slowly. “I watched Umbridge look right through everyone as if we weren’t there, but I could see everything exactly as it really was.”

Greengrass and Zabini went very still.

“Ah,” Greengrass said softly. “That’s ... interesting.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Well,” Zabini said carefully, glancing at Greengrass before continuing, “there are certain individuals who possess what the very old families call Clear Sight. It’s an ancient term for a very specific gift.”

“Clear Sight?” Ron repeated.

“It’s exceptionally rare,” Greengrass explained. “People who have it can see through certain types of ... well, let’s call it misdirection. Not normal magical illusions—those work on everyone. But older forms of deception. More … primal … techniques.”

“My great-great-grandmother had it,” Zabini added. “Family stories say she could see through the tricks of creatures that fed on confusion and misdirection. She was nearly admitted to St Mungo’s because she kept seeing ancient creatures no-one else could. At least, until what was apparently a harmless kneazle killed my great-great grandfather in front of fifty witnesses. We took her a bit more seriously after that.”

“You’re talking about creatures that predate normal magical theory,” Hermione said, her analytical mind working. “Beings that use fundamentally different types of magic.”

“Perhaps,” Zabini said diplomatically. “All I know is that if Jackson used the kind of ... techniques ... that Clear Sight can penetrate, then what he did tonight wasn’t our kind of magic at all.”

“But that means,” Hermione said slowly, “that what Jackson did was something much older and more powerful than he’s admitting.”

“And he made the rest of us see what Umbridge was seeing instead of what was actually there,” Harry added grimly.

“There’s something else,” Greengrass said quietly, glancing around to make sure they weren’t overheard. “The old stories about Clear Sight ... they say it evolved as a defence against beings of immense power. Entities that could reshape reality around them, make mortals see whatever served their purposes.”

“What kind of entities?” Harry asked, though he suspected he didn’t want to know the answer.

“The kind that exist in legends,” Zabini replied carefully. “Beings from the time before wizards organised themselves into the world we know today. The kind our families have stories about but rarely speak of directly.”

As Greengrass and Zabini continued toward the Slytherin dungeons, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were left alone with their troubling thoughts.

“So,” Harry said finally, “we’re training with someone who can rewrite reality in our minds using magic that predates wizarding itself, and we have no idea what he actually is.”

“At least one of us can see through his tricks,” Hermione said, looking at Ron with something approaching relief. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Ron said grimly. “Question is, what do we do with that knowledge? And what else has he been doing that I could see but didn’t realise was different from what you two were experiencing?”

None of them had an answer for that.

Luna sat down at breakfast with them the next day. “Professor Jackson has been having quite a lot of fun with Professor Umbridge lately, hasn’t he?” she said conversationally.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, though he suspected he didn’t want to know the answer.

“Well,” Luna said thoughtfully, “she keeps hearing things that aren’t there and seeing people in two places at once. Either Hogwarts has become infested with very mischievous spirits, or someone is playing rather elaborate tricks on her.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed with the sharp focus she brought to particularly complex problems. “You’re right,” she said, as if in revelation. “It’s all Jackson.”

At their sceptical looks, she sat up straighter. “Think about it,” she continued, her voice taking on an analytical edge. “All those strange incidents Umbridge keeps reporting, the way she’s been acting increasingly erratic—Jackson is doing something to her. Something that goes far beyond normal magic.”

“Good,” said Neville firmly, surprising everyone with his vehemence. “She deserves whatever she gets. You’ve all seen what those quills do to people. You’ve seen how she’s trying to leave us defenceless. If Jackson can stop her, then I hope he drives her completely round the bend.”

“Neville!” Hermione looked shocked at the vindictive tone in his voice.

“What?” Neville’s jaw was set with uncharacteristic stubbornness. “She’s been torturing students, Hermione. She’s working for the Ministry that’s trying to pretend You-Know-Who isn’t back. Jackson is the only teacher who’s actually preparing us for what’s coming. If he has to break a few rules—or break Umbridge—to keep us safe, then that’s what needs to happen.”

“But the level of power he’s demonstrating,” Hermione said slowly, “the casual way he manipulates reality itself—that’s not wizard magic. That’s something else entirely.”

“What are you saying?” Harry asked, though he suspected he knew.

“I’m saying that Jackson is either the most powerful wizard who’s ever lived, or he’s not a wizard at all,” Hermione replied bluntly. “And either possibility should probably worry us more than it does.”

“Why should it worry us?” Neville demanded. “He’s on our side. He’s protecting us. He’s teaching us how to survive.”

“Is he protecting us, or is he just using us?” Hermione asked quietly. “Because someone with that kind of power, someone who can systematically destroy another person’s sanity—what happens when he decides we’re not useful anymore? What happens when his definition of ‘protection’ stops aligning with our wellbeing?”

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. “My father says the old gods were like that. Protective of those they favoured, but absolutely ruthless to their enemies. They didn’t really understand human morality the way we do.”

“Old gods?” Ginny scoffed. “Luna, that’s—”

“Is it though?” Harry interrupted, thinking of Jackson’s impossible age, his casual mentions of fighting in wars that ended decades ago, the way reality seemed to bend around him. “Is it really that ridiculous?”

Their part of the table fell silent as the implications of Harry’s question settled over them.

“Even if he is some sort of ... ancient being,” Neville said stubbornly, “he’s still fighting for us. He’s still the only one who cares enough to teach us properly. I trust him.”

“That’s exactly what worries me,” Hermione said softly. “The way you trust him. The way we all do. What if that trust isn’t entirely … natural?”

Neville’s face flushed with anger. “That’s ridiculous! Jackson isn’t controlling our minds—he’s just a good teacher! The first one who’s ever believed in me, who’s ever made me feel like I could actually be brave!”

“And that’s wonderful, Neville,” Hermione said gently. “But don’t you think it’s convenient that the one teacher who makes you feel special also happens to be the one who’s teaching you to fight like a soldier?”

“Because he’s right!” Neville snapped, his voice carrying an edge that made several students step back. “About the war, about what’s coming, about what we need to become to survive it! If you can’t see that, then maybe you’re not as clever as everyone thinks you are!”

The harsh words hung in the air. Hermione looked genuinely hurt, while Harry and Ron exchanged worried glances. They had never seen Neville speak to anyone like that, especially not Hermione.

As if summoned by their conversation, Jackson himself strolled up the walkway between the tables. His usual easy demeanour seemed strained, and there was something predatory in the way he moved that made several students step back instinctively. He stopped next to them, looking at each of the group in turn.

“I hope you’re all enjoying your morning,” he said, his voice carrying its familiar warmth despite the calculating look in his eyes. “I’m afraid I have some news that may affect our future training sessions.”

“What kind of news?” Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew.

“The kind that suggests our dear High Inquisitor is running out of patience with subtle approaches,” Jackson replied, and there was genuine satisfaction in his tone when he spoke of Umbridge’s desperation. “I believe she’s planning to escalate her efforts to ... remove certain obstacles to her authority.”

“Good,” Neville said immediately. “Let her try. You’ll handle her just like you’ve been handling her.”

Jackson’s smile was sharp enough to cut glass. Harry caught a flicker of something pleased and predatory in his expression before it was smoothed away.

“Perhaps,” Jackson said mildly. “But it’s possible that my methods may no longer be sufficient. Which means we need to be prepared for the possibility that these training sessions may need to continue without … official faculty supervision.”

Harry felt the weight of Jackson’s earlier words settling on his shoulders again, but now they carried a different meaning. Was Jackson preparing them for leadership, or was he simply ensuring that his weapons would continue functioning after he was gone?

“We’ll be ready,” Neville said with absolute conviction. “Whatever happens, we’ll follow your training. We’ll make you proud.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jackson replied, and something in his tone made it sound more like a certainty than a hope.

He started walking towards the High Table, then paused, looking back at them with an expression that seemed ancient and calculating.

“Remember,” he said quietly, “loyalty is the greatest virtue a hero can possess. But it must be earned through strength, through protection, through results. Never give your loyalty to someone who hasn’t proven they deserve it.”

As Jackson walked away, the members of the Unbound exchanged worried glances—all except Neville, who looked inspired rather than concerned.

“See?” Neville said to the group, his voice filled with something approaching reverence. “He’s teaching us to think for ourselves, to be strong. That’s not manipulation. That’s what a real teacher does.”

But Harry found himself wondering if Jackson’s words about earning loyalty were meant as advice for them, or as a reminder of what he had already accomplished.

He wasn’t sure which possibility frightened him more.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: A Violent Coup of the Heart

Harry could hear raised voices coming from what sounded like the Entrance Hall. The usual dinner chatter in the Great Hall had died to whispers as students strained to listen to the commotion beyond the doors.

“What’s going on?” Ron muttered, craning his neck toward the sound.

Hermione was already standing. “That’s Jackson’s voice,” she said, her face pale.

The voices grew louder. Umbridge’s sickeningly sweet tones cutting through what sounded like official proclamations. Harry pushed back from the Gryffindor table just as the Great Hall doors burst open.

Students began flooding toward the entrance hall, abandoning their dinners to see what was happening. Harry fought through the crowd, Ron and Hermione close behind, until they reached the packed entrance hall.

The onlookers had formed a great ring around the confrontation, some looking shocked, others frightened. McGonagall stood directly opposite Harry on the other side of the hall, her lips pressed into the thinnest line Harry had ever seen, her hands clenched at her sides.

Jackson stood in the centre of the entrance hall, perfectly composed despite being facing two Aurors and Umbridge’s triumphant smile. Somehow, he radiated a calm that somehow made the scene more unnerving, as if staring down three Ministry officials was a usual part of his evening routine. His teaching robes were immaculate, his dark hair perfectly in place, and when he spoke, his voice carried easily across the chaotic hall.

“And you have evidence of this misconduct, I presume?” Jackson was saying, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather rather than his own dismissal.

“Multiple violations of Ministry policy,” Umbridge replied, consulting her clipboard with obvious relish. “Unauthorised curriculum, insubordination, and creating a dangerous learning environment.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. This was really happening. They were really taking Jackson away.

“Ah,” Jackson said, nodding as if this made perfect sense. “So teaching children to defend themselves is now considered misconduct. How wonderfully progressive of the Ministry.”

“Don’t be flippant with me!” Umbridge snapped, her composure cracking slightly. Her voice rose to a near-shriek that made several students wince. “You’ve been filling these children’s heads with dangerous ideas, encouraging them to question legitimate authority—”

“I’ve been teaching them to think,” Jackson interrupted. “I realise that might be concerning for some people.”

A few students snickered at this, though they quickly fell silent under Umbridge’s basilisk glare.

“Furthermore,” Umbridge continued, her voice taking on a triumphant note, “you are to pack your belongings and vacate the premises immediately. Your quarters will be needed for your replacement.”

“My replacement?” Jackson raised an eyebrow with apparent interest. “How efficient of you. And who might that be?”

“That is none of your concern,” Umbridge replied curtly. “You will leave Hogwarts at once.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a slight misunderstanding,” came a familiar voice. The oak front doors had swung open. Students beside them scuttled out of the way as Dumbledore appeared in the entrance. What he had been doing out in the grounds Harry could not imagine, but there was something impressive about the sight of him framed in the doorway against an oddly misty night. Leaving the doors wide behind him, he strode forward through the circle of onlookers from the entrance to the Great Hall.

“While Professor Umbridge has the authority to dismiss teaching staff,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, “only the Headmaster may banish someone from the castle grounds entirely.”

Umbridge whirled around, her face flushing an unattractive shade of magenta that clashed horribly with her pink cardigan. “Dumbledore! You cannot interfere with a Ministry directive—”

“I’m not interfering,” Dumbledore said serenely. “Merely clarifying the extent of your authority. Perseus is welcome to remain at Hogwarts as my guest for as long as he chooses.”

Harry felt a surge of relief, echoed by the expressions on many student faces around him. But Umbridge’s smile only grew wider and more predatory.

“And what,” she said in a whisper that nevertheless carried all around the Great Hall, “are you going to do with him once I appoint a new Defence teacher who needs his lodgings?”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “You see, I have already found us a new Defence teacher, and she is happy with the proffered lodgings.”

“You’ve found—?” said Umbridge shrilly. “You’ve found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Twenty-two—”

“—the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if – and only if – the headmaster is unable to find one,” said Dumbledore smoothly. “And I am happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded. May I introduce you?”

A young woman with violently pink hair stepped through the Entrance Hall doors, her deep blue Auror robes pristine and her bearing professional. Harry’s breath caught as he recognised Tonks, though she looked far more official than he’d ever seen her.

“Nymphadora Tonks,” she said crisply, striding forward to extend her hand to a speechless Umbridge. “I’ll be taking over Defence Against the Dark Arts as of this morning. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

The silence in the Great Hall was deafening. Umbridge’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, whilst several students exchanged amazed glances.

“But you’re an Auror!” Umbridge finally managed. “You can’t simply abandon your post—”

“I’ve been granted a temporary reassignment,” Tonks replied smoothly, her usual cheerful demeanour replaced by professional composure. “The Ministry was quite keen on having an experienced Dark wizard catcher teaching the students, given the … concerns … about previous Defence teachers.”

Harry felt something warm expand in his chest as he watched Tonks face down Umbridge with fearless determination. The way she positioned herself slightly between Jackson and the Ministry officials wasn’t lost on him either.

“This is highly irregular!” one of the Aurors protested, looking between Tonks and Umbridge uncertainly.

“The paperwork is all in order,” Dumbledore said mildly, producing a scroll from his robes. “Ms Tonks’s qualifications are impeccable, and the Ministry has previously expressed great confidence in Auror training programmes.”

The trap was beautifully laid. To object to Tonks’s appointment would be to publicly admit that the Ministry’s own Aurors weren’t qualified to teach defence magic.

“Fine,” Umbridge said through gritted teeth, her face now resembling an overripe tomato. “But Jackson still leaves the castle immediately.”

“Actually,” Jackson said, “I think I’ll stay a while longer. After all, someone needs to help Ms Tonks settle into her new position.”

The rage that flashed across Umbridge’s face was almost worth everything that had led to this moment. Almost.

Percy found himself alone in his former office that evening, packing the few personal belongings he’d accumulated during his brief tenure as Defence teacher. The irony wasn’t lost on him: he’d been dismissed from a job he’d never really wanted, yet somehow the loss stung more than he’d expected.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Come in.”

It was Tonks. She’d changed out of her official Auror robes into casual clothes, hair still the bright bubblegum pink Percy had come to adore, but something about her posture seemed differen. More careful, more guarded.

“Wotcher,” she said quietly, though her usual cheerful greeting lacked its normal enthusiasm. “Thought you might want some company.”

Percy set down the book he’d been holding – a treatise on ancient protective charms that had somehow found its way into Hogwarts’ collection. “I appreciate the gesture, but shouldn’t you be preparing for your first Defence lesson tomorrow? Or celebrating your promotion?”

Tonks moved to the window, gazing out at the darkening grounds. “It’s not exactly a promotion. More like a … sideways step.”

“From Auror to teacher? I’d say it’s more of a backwards tumble down several flights of stairs.” Percy studied her profile in the fading light. “Why did you really take this position, Little Nymph? You had a career, a future with the Ministry. Why throw it away for Hogwarts?”

She was quiet for a long moment, her hands resting on the windowsill. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have been an Auror much longer anyway.”

“Why not? You’re one of the most talented witches I’ve ever met. Surely the Ministry wouldn’t be stupid enough to—”

“I’d have been required to take leave in a few months,” she interrupted, still not looking at him. “Extended leave. The kind that comes with … certain conditions.”

Jackson felt something cold settle in his stomach. “What kind of conditions?”

Tonks turned from the window, and Jackson saw something in her eyes that made his breath catch: uncertainty, fear, and underneath it all, a fierce protectiveness that seemed to radiate from her very core.

Her mouth opened and closed without a sign. He hand subconsciously moved to her midriff.

All the puzzle pieces clicked into place in Percy’s brain. He sank into the nearest chair, his mind reeling. “How long?”

“Not long,” said Tonks, her voice steady despite the way her hands trembled slightly. “About two months along. I found out a couple weeks ago.”

Jackson’s thoughts raced, calculating dates, remembering stolen moments at Grimmauld Place during the holidays. The warmth of her laugh, the way her hair caught the firelight, the nights he spent holding her in his arms and never wanting to let her go.

“Mine?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Yours,” she confirmed, finally meeting his eyes.

Percy stared at her, feeling the weight of millennia pressing down on his shoulders. He thought of all the mortal lovers he’d had over the centuries, all the hearts he’d broken when his divine nature inevitably drove them apart or led to their deaths. He thought of the children he’d sired—some who’d lived normal mortal lives never knowing their father’s true nature, others who’d inherited just enough of his power to make their lives complicated or dangerous.

Jackson rose from his chair and moved toward her, but stopped when she took a step back. The gesture cut deeper than any blade.

“Little Nymph—”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “You’re thinking about all the reasons this is impossible, all the ways it could go wrong. You’re thinking about your … circumstances … and how they complicate everything.”

“You know what this means,” he said quietly. “A demigod child… the Ancient Laws…”

“I know exactly what it means,” Tonks said, finally meeting his eyes. “I knew the risks when I chose to be with you. When you told me you were a god, you were very clear about the restrictions you face.”

Percy stared at her, remembering that night at Grimmauld Place when he’d finally told her the truth. About that night after Valentine’s Day, when he’d explained the Ancient Laws that governed divine interaction with the mortal world. How she’d asked if the laws meant he would have to leave. How his silence had been answer enough.

“The Ancient Laws don’t exactly encourage divine parenthood,” he said finally. “Too much involvement in mortal affairs, too much potential for … complications.”

“And yet here we are,” Tonks said, moving closer. “You told me the laws were the reason you’d kept your distance from mortals for so long. That getting too close, forming lasting attachments, having children—all of it risked drawing unwanted attention from your father and the other Olympians.”

“It does.” Percy’s voice was heavy with the weight of millennia of careful isolation. “Demigods are particularly problematic. They blur the lines between mortal and immortal worlds in ways that make the gods … uncomfortable.”

“Will you have to leave?” The question was asked quietly, but Percy heard the fear beneath it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The laws are … complex. Having a demigod child doesn’t automatically trigger intervention, but it increases scrutiny. If my father decides I’m becoming too involved in mortal affairs …”

“Then we deal with that when it happens,” Tonks said firmly. “Percy, when you told me what you were, you also told me that the Ancient Laws were the reason you’d never allowed yourself to truly care for mortals. That getting too close always ended in you having to leave to protect them from divine politics.”

“That hasn’t changed,” Percy said, though his voice carried less certainty than before.

“Hasn’t it?” Tonks settled into the chair across from him. “You’ve been teaching at a mortal school for months. You’re training mortal children for war. That sounds like someone who’s already chosen involvement over isolation.”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, considering her words. “This situation with Tom is different. He’s … a mess of my own making. My responsibility. The Ancient Laws allow for … corrective measures when a god’s past actions threaten the natural order.”

“And when the war is over? When You-Know-Who is defeated? Will the laws still allow you to stay involved?”

“I don’t know,” Percy admitted. “Especially now. A demigod child … adds complications. I can’t interfere in their life directly. I can’t stay with you through the late nights. I can’t teach them to swim. Can’t pick them up from school. I would be only an observer from the sidelines, however much I wanted to be involved.

“The Ancient Laws regarding divine children aren’t suggestions, Nymph,” he said, his voice hollow. “They’re absolute. Unbreakable. Part of what makes me what I am. And there are oaths older than the Laws themselves; oaths that even gods cannot break without paying a terrible price.”

“I remember what you told me,” she said, moving closer. “That gods are forbidden from directly interfering in the affairs of mortals.”

“There are some laws we are permitted to … bend, I suppose,” Percy said, standing abruptly and moving to the window. “But consequences are hard to impose on gods. If I break rules around my demigod children too blatantly – overstep just a bit …”

“The god ceases to exist,” Tonks finished quietly. “You told me. The laws aren’t external rules—they’re part of your fundamental nature. Breaking them would unmake you.”

Percy choked out a laugh. “More than that. There have been times I would happily hand over my immortality to save my child. No, the universe would … reorder itself, I suppose. Any consequences I should have had would be passed over.”

“To the demigod you helped?”

Percy nodded wordlessly. “It’s the worst bit,” he whispered. “The heaviest chain that binds me.”

“So when our child is born,” Tonks continued, her voice carefully controlled, “you won’t be able to directly help them. You can’t protect them from danger, can’t teach them to use their powers, can’t even acknowledge them as your child if doing so would interfere with their path.”

“I can love them,” Percy said, his voice breaking slightly. “I can watch over them from a distance. But if they’re in danger, if they need help, if they’re struggling with their heritage …” He turned back to face Tonks, letting her see the anguish in his eyes. “I’ll have to stand by and let them face it alone.”

Tonks was quiet for a long moment, processing the full implications. “What about me? The laws don’t prevent you from being with me, do they?”

“No,” Percy said. “My relationship with you is separate from any restrictions regarding our child. But Tonks …” He moved back to her, taking her hands in his. “Watching our child grow up knowing I can never truly be their father – never guide them, never protect them when they need it most – it will destroy me in ways that have nothing to do with divine law.”

Tonks pulled her hands free and cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Listen to me, Percy. The child I’m carrying … they’re going to be extraordinary. They’ll have your strength, your courage, your unwavering sense of justice. And they’ll have a mother who understands exactly what divine heritage means.”

“But they won’t have a father who can actually be there for them.”

“They’ll have a father who loves them enough to exist in agony rather than abandon them entirely,” Tonks said firmly. “Do you think our child would rather have no divine parent at all, or one who watches over them even when he can’t intervene directly?”

Percy closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “It won’t be enough. When they’re facing monsters, when they’re struggling with powers they don’t understand, when they need guidance that only someone with mythological experience can provide …”

“Then I’ll find other ways to help them,” Tonks said. “Other demigods who can mentor them, other sources of guidance and support. The Ancient Laws prevent you from interfering directly, but they don’t prevent our child from finding help elsewhere.”

“And if they hate me for my absence? If they grow up believing I abandoned them?”

“Then I’ll make sure they understand the truth,” Tonks said simply. “That their father is bound by laws he cannot break, but that he loves them desperately. That every day you can’t help them directly is a day of suffering for you.”

Percy opened his eyes, looking into her face—brave, determined, willing to raise a demigod child essentially alone because she understood the impossible position he was in.

“I should leave,” he said quietly. “Before the child is born. It would be easier for all of us if I simply disappeared, if they grew up thinking I was just another absent parent who didn’t care.”

“Is that what you want?” Tonks asked.

“No,” Percy admitted. “I want to be there for every moment. I want to teach them about their heritage, protect them from dangers they’re not ready to face, guide them through the challenges of being a Half-Blood. I want to be the father I never had.”

“Then stay,” she said simply. “Stay and love us from whatever distance the laws require. Watch our child grow into the hero they’re meant to be, and know that your love – even from afar – makes them stronger.”

Percy stared at her, amazed by her strength. “You’re talking about raising a potentially powerful demigod largely on your own, knowing that the one person who could help you navigate their divine heritage is forbidden from doing so.”

“I’m talking about giving our child the gift of being loved by both parents, even if one of those parents has to love them from the shadows,” Tonks corrected. “Percy, you told me you were the God of Heroes. Heroes aren’t made by having everything handed to them; they’re forged by facing impossible challenges and finding the strength to overcome them.”

“This isn’t what I wanted for our child.”

“But it’s what they’ll have,” Tonks said gently. “And maybe that’s exactly what will make them extraordinary. A child who grows up knowing they’re loved by a god who would risk everything just to stay close to them, even when he can’t help directly.”

Percy pulled her closer, feeling the weight of the Ancient Laws settle around him like chains—unbreakable, unchangeable, but no longer quite as cold as they’d once seemed.

“I can’t promise this will be easy,” he said quietly. “Watching our child face dangers I could prevent, struggling with powers I could help them understand, making mistakes I could guide them away from …”

“Nothing about loving a god was ever going to be easy,” Tonks said, echoing words she’d spoken before. “But our child will know they come from love, even if that love has to remain largely unspoken.”

Percy held her close, feeling the familiar ache of ancient restriction warring with something newer and more powerful: the desperate hope that love might be enough, even when constrained by laws older than civilisation itself.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered against her hair. “For whatever time we have, in whatever way the laws allow. I’ll stay.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Tonks said, and Percy heard the truth of it in her voice.

Standing there in his empty office, holding the woman carrying his child, Percy felt the Ancient Laws that bound him transform from sources of resentment into challenges he was finally ready to face—not for duty or divine mandate, but for the family he was choosing to love from whatever distance fate required.

Minister Cornelius Fudge’s office had always struck Dolores as unnecessarily bland. The walls were a plain, inoffensive, deep green, lined with portraits of previous Ministers, all of whom seemed to regard visitors with varying degrees of disapproval. Fudge himself sat behind an enormous mahogany desk that, despite costing more than most wizards earned in a year, failed to draw any attention whatsoever.

“This has gone far enough, Cornelius,” Dolores said without preamble, settling herself into the chair across from his desk with the air of someone who belonged there. “Jackson isn’t just undermining Ministry authority—he’s the real power behind everything that’s happening at Hogwarts.”

Fudge’s face creased with worry. “Dolores, while I appreciate your concerns about educational standards, what you’re suggesting sounds rather … extreme.”

“What I’m suggesting,” Dolores said crisply, “is that we stop pretending Dumbledore is the one calling the shots. Think about it, Cornelius. For months we’ve been trying to prove that Dumbledore is losing control of Hogwarts, that he’s become a liability. But what if we’ve been looking at this backwards?”

“What do you mean?”

Dolores leaned forward, her small eyes glittering with malicious intelligence. “What if Dumbledore isn’t the puppet master? What if he’s the puppet?”

Fudge’s frown deepened and then disappeared altogether, his jowls relaxing his thin mouth into a soft ‘o’ shape.

“Think about it, Cornelius” Dolores said fervently, “We’ve been trying to prove that Dumbledore is unfit to run Hogwarts. That he’s lost control, that he’s a threat to proper magical society. And what happens? A mysterious teacher appears out of nowhere – a teacher Dumbledore personally vouched for – and suddenly the school has a Defence instructor capable of extraordinary magic, to whom the Headmaster is completely loyal.”

Fudge frowned, clearly struggling to follow her logic. “I understand why Dumbledore would want some expert in combat,” he said, “but just because the man is qualified doesn’t mean we’ve been chasing the wrong would-be usurper for the last six months.”

“Qualified?” Dolores’s laugh was sharp and humourless. “Cornelius, I’ve watched Jackson work. He can manipulate reality itself, bend the very air to his will. He’s made me see things that weren’t there, experience memories that never happened. No wizard should possess that kind of power.”

“You’re suggesting he’s using Dark magic?”

“I’m suggesting he’s not entirely human,” Dolores said bluntly. “And I’m suggesting that Dumbledore knew exactly what he was bringing into that school. This isn’t about education, Cornelius. This is about building a private army.”

Fudge set down his quill, his face pale. “That’s a very serious accusation, Dolores.”

“One backed by evidence. Jackson’s students aren’t just learning Defence Against the Dark Arts. They’re learning combat magic. Real combat magic. And they’re learning it from someone whose very presence defies natural law.” Umbridge’s voice took on an urgent tone. “He’s the real power behind Dumbledore’s throne, Cornelius. The weapon the old man has been waiting to deploy.”

“But the Aurors dismissed him. He’s no longer teaching—”

“He’s still in the castle!” Umbridge snapped. “Still influencing students, still working with that Auror woman Dumbledore somehow managed to install. We’ve achieved nothing except proving that conventional authority means nothing to these people.”

“What are you proposing?”

“That we face the truth,” Dolores said bluntly. “Dumbledore isn’t the real threat. He’s too old, too visible, too constrained by his reputation. Jackson is the one with the power to actually challenge the Ministry. He’s the one turning those children into soldiers. And Dumbledore is just clever enough to let everyone think he’s still in charge while the true weapon operates in the shadows.”

Fudge was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming nervously on the desk. “You really believe Jackson is controlling Dumbledore?”

“I believe Jackson is everything Dumbledore wishes he could be: powerful enough to reshape the magical world according to his vision, young enough to see it through, and ruthless enough to do whatever it takes.” Dolores smiled, showing every one of her sharp teeth. “Dumbledore may give the orders, but Jackson is the one with the ability to carry them out. And believe me, he only carries them out if he likes them. That makes him infinitely more dangerous than a doddering old headmaster who’s been hoodwinked by a teenager.”

“If you’re right about this …” Fudge’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Then we need to remove Jackson before he decides the Ministry itself is an obstacle to whatever Dumbledore has planned,” Dolores finished. “A Ministry warrant, official charges, proper containment where his abilities can be neutralised. We bring him in before he realises just how much power he actually wields.”

“And if we’re wrong?”

“Then we’ve arrested one man,” Dolores replied. “But if we’re right and we do nothing, Jackson could bring down the entire Ministry from within. Choose your risk, Cornelius.”

Fudge stared at her for a moment that could have held a hundred years, then asked quietly “What charges?”

“Leave that to me,” Umbridge said with satisfaction. “I’m sure we can find something that fits.”

“Dolores, if you’re wrong about this … if Jackson is simply an unconventional but legitimate teacher … this could destroy both our careers.”

“And if I’m right,” Dolores countered, “and we do nothing, it could destroy the entire Ministry. Like I said. Choose your risk, Cornelius.”

Fudge stared at her for another long moment, then slowly reached for a fresh piece of parchment.

Dolores Umbridge had always prided herself on thorough surveillance of Hogwarts staff. It was part of her duty as High Inquisitor to ensure that teachers maintained proper standards both in their professional and personal conduct. Which was why she found herself lingering outside the Hospital Wing on a Tuesday afternoon, having followed the new Defence teacher there under the pretence of a routine inspection.

The door was slightly ajar, and Umbridge could hear voices from within: Madam Pomfrey’s crisp, professional tone and Professor Tonks’s more casual inflection.

“—quite certain of the date?” Pomfrey was asking.

“About two months along,” came Tonks’s reply. “I had it confirmed by a Healer at St. Mungo’s in February, but I wanted a second opinion before I… well, before I told anyone official.”

Umbridge pressed closer to the gap in the door, her pulse quickening with interest.

“And the father?” Pomfrey’s voice carried a note of professional concern. “Is he aware?”

“He knows.” There was something warm and sad in Tonks’s voice. “We’ve discussed it. The situation is … complicated.”

“Complicated how? Is he married? Unavailable?”

“Nothing like that.” Tonks sighed. “It’s more that his circumstances make it difficult for him to be involved in the way he’d like to be.”

“I see.” Pomfrey’s tone suggested she’d heard similar stories before. “Well, regardless of the father’s situation, you’ll need to consider your own position here. Pregnancy and active teaching don’t always mix well, especially in Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“I know. I’m hoping to continue through the school year, at least until the baby’s born.”

“That should be manageable, provided there are no complications.” The sound of rustling papers suggested Pomfrey was making notes. “I’ll want to see you monthly for check-ups. And Professor Tonks … if you need someone to talk to about the father’s situation, my door is always open.”

“Thank you, Poppy. That means a lot.”

Umbridge heard footsteps approaching the door and quickly retreated down the corridor, her mind racing with possibilities. Professor Tonks was pregnant. From the conversation, it seemed the father was someone whose “circumstances” made involvement difficult.

Waging war against the Ministry would certainly make fatherhood difficult.

By the time Umbridge reached her office, a plan was already forming. She’d suspected there was something between Jackson and the new Defence teacher—the way they looked at each other during staff meetings, the casual touches when they thought no one was watching. If her suspicions were correct, she’d just discovered the perfect leverage.

A pregnant witch protecting not just herself, but her unborn child.

This was going to be easier than she’d thought.

Percy strode into Umbridge’s office without ceremony and threw himself down on his chair. She was sitting behind a new desk – his desk, he noted, and found the cheap power play got under his skin more than he expected – her hands folded primly in front of her, wearing an expression of supreme satisfaction.

“Dolores,” he said mildly, dropping the hideously-scented missive on the floor. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your summons?”

“I think you know why you’re here,” she replied, her voice sickeningly sweet. “We need to discuss your … situation.”

“My situation seems perfectly agreeable to me. I have comfortable lodgings, excellent company, and the freedom to spend my time as I choose. What more could a man want?”

Umbridge’s smile was razor-sharp. “The safety of the students you claim to care so much about.”

Something in her tone made Percy go very still. “Explain.”

“Oh, it’s quite simple really.” Umbridge opened a folder that had been sitting on the desk and began reading from it as if reciting a shopping list. “Neville Longbottom: detention every evening this week for ‘attitude problems.’ Hermione Granger: banned from the library for ‘disrupting other students.’ The Weasley twins: suspended from all classes pending a disciplinary hearing.”

Percy’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

“And these are just the beginning,” Umbridge continued pleasantly. “You see, as High Inquisitor, I have considerable discretion in matters of student discipline. Detention schedules, academic probation, even recommendations for expulsion—all within my purview. I have the ear of the Minister. If I want to restore, shall we say, a particular brand of punishment, it will be introduced within a week.”

“Get to the point, Dolores.”

“The point is that your continued presence at this school puts these children at risk.” Umbridge set down the parchment and looked at him directly. “Every day you remain here, every moment you spend influencing students and undermining proper authority, you make their lives more difficult. More dangerous.”

Percy was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes fixed on her face. “You’re threatening children.”

“I’m protecting the integrity of magical education,” Umbridge corrected. “These students need to learn respect for proper authority, proper methods, proper thinking. Your presence prevents that learning from taking place.”

“And I assume your proposal would be that I were to … remove myself from the situation?”

“Then these unfortunate disciplinary issues would resolve themselves quite naturally. Students would return to their proper place in the educational hierarchy. Order would be restored.” Umbridge’s smile grew wider. “Everyone would be much happier.”

Percy leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since entering the room, he smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“You know, Dolores, I have to admire your audacity. Most people who threaten me have the basic intelligence to be afraid while they’re doing it.”

“I’m not threatening you,” Umbridge said. “I’m simply explaining the consequences of your choices.”

“No, you’re threatening children to manipulate me into compliance. There’s a difference.” Percy leaned forward, hissing, “That difference matters quite a lot to someone in my position.”

“Your position?” Umbridge’s eyes narrowed. “If I were you, Perseus, I would be less concerned about your position and more about a certain witch’s position.”

“I worry about the position of every witch and wizard in this castle under your supervision,” Percy sneered.

“Oh, you misunderstand, Perseus.” Umbridge’s eyes glittered. Percy didn’t like her knowing expression one iota. “I had a specific witch in mind. Our newest staff member,” Umbridge continued, her voice taking on a particularly vicious note. “Such a dedicated teacher, so committed to her students. It would be terrible if her position here became … untenable.”

Percy began to push himself up and then froze, half risen from his seat. “What are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing specific. Just that pregnant witches can be so vulnerable, especially when their employment status becomes uncertain.” Umbridge’s smile grew wider. “The stress of unemployment, the difficulty of finding new positions when one is expecting … it can be quite overwhelming.”

Percy sank back down into his seat. The water in the air outside began to freeze on the windowpanes despite the early March sunshine.

“You know,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.

“I make it my business to know about the personal lives of Hogwarts staff,” Umbridge replied primly. “Especially when those personal lives might affect their professional judgment. Two months along, I believe? Such an exciting time, though fraught with complications.”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Dolores,” he growled. The wind outside picked up and the trees in the Forbidden Forest began to wave like reeds.

“Oh, I’m simply expressing concern for a colleague’s wellbeing,” Umbridge said with false innocence. “After all, pregnant witches face such unique challenges. The magical strain of teaching can be quite demanding. And if there were to be any … incidents … in the classroom, any dangerous situations that required Ministry intervention …”

Lightning crashed outside the windows, close enough to make Umbridge jump. The storm clouds overhead had turned an ominous green-black, and rain was beginning to lash against the glass with increasing fury.

“You see, Perseus,” Umbridge continued, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the howling gale outside, “the thing about pregnant witches is that they’re not just responsible for themselves anymore. Every decision they make, every risk they take, affects their unborn child. It makes them so much more … cautious about the situations they put themselves in.”

Percy rose from his chair with fluid grace, and for a moment something ancient and terrible flickered behind his eyes.

“Are you threatening my child?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Each strike of lightning outside was accompanied by thunder that shook the very foundations. The wind outside had reached gale force, and even through the thick stone walls, they could hear shutters banging and debris being hurled about.

“I’m simply pointing out the realities of the situation,” Umbridge replied. She maintained an iron grip on her wand, watching the office’s swinging lanterns with apprehension. Despite her obvious fear, her voice remained steady. “Professor Tonks is in a delicate condition. It would be unfortunate if the stress of your continued presence here – the conflict, the uncertainty, the potential for violence – were to affect her health. Or the baby’s.”

For several heartbeats, the only sounds were the apocalyptic fury of the storm Percy had summoned and the increasingly violent groaning of the castle’s ancient timbers under the assault. Hail began to pummel the windows; somewhere in the distance, an alarm bell was ringing as the castle’s protective wards strained against the supernatural weather.

Percy stood frozen in the eye of the tempest he’d created, every instinct screaming at him to unleash the full fury of the storm on the woman who dared threaten his unborn child. But even through his rage, he recognised the trap Umbridge had laid.

Slowly, with visible effort, the winds began to die down. The lightning became less frequent. The hail softened to ordinary rain.

“You’re cleverer than I gave you credit for,” Percy said finally, his voice hollow with defeat.

“I do try to be thorough.”

“Using a pregnant woman and her unborn child as weapons.” Percy’s laugh was bitter. “Even by your standards, Dolores, that’s impressively vile.”

“I prefer to think of it as comprehensive risk management,” Umbridge replied. “You see, the beauty of this situation is that any aggressive action on your part – any violence, any dramatic displays of power – could traumatise poor Professor Tonks enough to endanger the pregnancy. The stress alone …”

She let the implication hang in the air.

“And of course,” she continued, “if you were to be removed from Hogwarts, relocated to somewhere from which we could be sure you would be unable to interfere, it would eliminate the source of that stress entirely. Professor Tonks could focus on her health and her pregnancy without worrying about the consequences of your … volatile nature.”

Percy sank back into his chair, the fight going out of him as he realised just how thoroughly he’d been outmanoeuvred.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly.

“Simple cooperation. You leave Hogwarts voluntarily. You submit to Ministry detention in Azkaban. You cause no further disruption to the proper order of magical education.” Umbridge’s tone was sickeningly reasonable. “In return, Professor Tonks keeps her position, her health remains uncompromised, and your child is born into a stable, secure environment.”

“And the students? Your threats against them?”

“Oh, those will resolve themselves naturally once you’re gone. No need for any unpleasant disciplinary measures when the source of disruption has been removed.”

Percy was quiet for a very long time, staring at his hands while the weight of impossible choices settled over him. Finally, he looked up.

“If I agree to this … if I cooperate fully with your demands … you’ll leave Tonks alone? No retaliation, no harassment, no attempts to force her out of her position?”

“Provided she maintains appropriate professional standards and causes no further disruption, I see no reason why Professor Tonks shouldn’t complete her teaching year in peace.”

“And my child?”

“Will be born to a mother with stable employment and no undue stress,” Umbridge said smoothly. “Really, Perseus, when you think about it, this arrangement benefits everyone.”

Percy closed his eyes, feeling the familiar weight of duty and sacrifice that had defined his existence for millennia. When he opened them again, Umbridge saw resignation there—and something that might have been hatred. But even as resignation crept in, something else stirred in the back of his mind: Tonks’s words about the strange reports from Azkaban. Ancient passages appearing where none had been before. Prisoners being drained in ways that had nothing to do with Dementors. Magic older than wizarding records. Whatever was happening in that fortress, it wasn’t natural. And if it was connected to the kind of ancient power he suspected … well, perhaps his imprisonment wouldn’t be the complete defeat Umbridge imagined.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “But if we’re making bargains, Dolores, let’s do it properly.”

Umbridge’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Percy rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, and the air in the room seemed to thicken. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that made the very stones of the castle seem to listen.

“I will submit to Ministry custody and remain imprisoned in Azkaban without resistance or escape,” he said, each word making the air seem thicker, stifling. “In exchange, you will ensure that Professor Tonks retains her position and suffers no harassment, retaliation, or attempt to force her resignation. You will take no punitive action against the students of Hogwarts beyond normal disciplinary measures. You will not implement any form of corporal punishment or torture devices in this school.”

“That’s quite reasonable—” Umbridge began, but Percy held up a hand.

“We’re not finished. Do you swear this oath, Dolores Umbridge, on the River Styx?”

Something vast and ancient seemed to press against the walls of the small office, as if the very foundations of reality were paying attention.

“What are you—” Umbridge started, but her voice died as she saw Percy’s expression.

“The River Styx,” Percy repeated, his voice carrying harmonics that no human throat should produce. “The most binding oath in existence. Swear by it, and the consequences of breaking your word will be … unpleasant. Refuse, and our deal is off.”

Umbridge stared at him, her small eyes reflecting a fear she didn’t fully understand. “That’s just mythology—”

“Is it?” Percy smiled. “If it is, you should have no issue swearing on it, then.”

The silence stretched between them. Finally, Umbridge spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I swear on the River Styx that I will uphold my end of our bargain.”

A thunderclap resonated through Hogwarts.

Percy nodded solemnly. “And I swear on the Styx that I will remain in Azkaban and cause no further disruption to your authority, so long as you honour your oath.”

The moment the words left his lips, the oppressive presence in the room lifted, though both Percy and Umbridge looked as though they’d aged years in the space of minutes.

“There,” Percy said, as if nothing had happened. “Now we have a proper understanding.”

“Yes,” she said, though her voice wasn’t quite as steady as before. “I think we do.”

“Good,” Percy said.

As he walked toward the door, Umbridge called after him.

“Perseus? For what it’s worth, I do think you’re making the right choice.”

Percy paused at the threshold without turning around.

“No, Dolores. I’m making the only choice you’ve left me. There’s a difference. And I’ll remember that difference for a very long time.”

The door closed behind him with a finality that made Umbridge shiver despite her triumph. She had won. But looking around the empty classroom, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d also made an enemy who would neither forget nor forgive what she’d forced him to do.

Harry was nearing the end of his Transfiguration class when the first rumble of thunder shook the castle. Professor McGonagall paused mid-sentence, her wand still pointed at the desk she’d been demonstrating on, and glanced toward the windows with a frown.

“That’s odd,” she murmured. “The weather was perfectly clear this morning.”

The thunder came again, closer this time, and several students looked up nervously from their attempts to transfigure their mice into snuffboxes. Harry felt something twist uneasily in his stomach—a familiar sensation that had nothing to do with the approaching storm.

“Professor,” Hermione said, her voice tight with concern, “that doesn’t sound like normal weather.”

As if summoned by her words, the wind picked up with sudden, violent intensity. The classroom windows rattled in their frames, and outside, Harry could see the trees on the grounds bending at impossible angles as debris was hurled through the air.

“Everyone stay calm,” McGonagall said sharply, but Harry could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “This is simply—”

Lightning crashed so close to the castle that the flash lit up the entire classroom, followed immediately by thunder that made several students cry out in alarm. The magical storm that followed was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced: hail the size of Quaffles hammered the windows while winds that seemed to come from all directions simultaneously rattled every door and shutter in the castle.

“That’s not natural,” Ron whispered, his face pale. “No storm moves that fast.”

Harry’s scar gave a sharp twinge, but not the familiar burn of Voldemort’s presence. This was different; like an echo of something powerful and angry, but not necessarily evil. His mind immediately went to the only person at Hogwarts capable of such displays of power.

“Jackson,” he breathed.

“What?” Hermione leaned closer, having to raise her voice over the howling wind.

“It’s Jackson,” Harry said more loudly. “I’m sure of it. He’s the only one who could—”

As suddenly as it had begun, the storm started to fade. The winds died down, the hail stopped, and the lightning became less frequent. Within minutes, patches of blue sky were visible through the dissipating clouds, as if the supernatural weather had simply been switched off.

The classroom fell silent except for the normal pitter-patter of regular English spring rain against the windows.

“Class dismissed,” McGonagall said crisply, though her voice carried a note of concern that Harry had rarely heard from her. “Please proceed directly to your dormitories until further notice.”

The students filed out in subdued whispers, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione lingered near the back of the group.

“That was Jackson, wasn’t it?” Hermione asked quietly once they were in the corridor.

“Had to be,” Ron replied, glancing around nervously. “No one else at Hogwarts can do magic like that. Remember what happened during his lessons when he got angry? The weather always went mental.”

“But why?” Harry wondered aloud. “What could have made him that furious?”

They made their way toward Gryffindor Tower, passing clusters of students and teachers who were all talking in hushed, worried tones about the impossible storm. As they climbed the marble staircase, they encountered Professor Tonks coming down, her face pale and her usual vibrant hair a dull brown.

“Professor Tonks,” Hermione called out. “Are you alright? That storm—”

“I’m fine,” Tonks said quickly, but Harry noticed her wringing her hands. “Just … concerned about Per—Professor Jackson. Has anyone seen him since the storm ended?”

The trio exchanged glances. There was something in Tonks’s voice—worry that went beyond professional concern for a colleague.

“No, Professor,” Harry said. “But we think … we think the storm might have been his doing.”

Tonks’s expression tightened. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Ron said hesitantly, “it’s just that Professor Jackson’s always had a bit of a … dramatic reaction when he’s really angry. And that storm appeared out of nowhere, right in the middle of a clear day.”

“He’s done smaller versions during lessons,” Hermione added. “When students weren’t taking dangerous spells seriously, or when he was talking about Dark Arts. The classroom would get cold, or windy, or—”

“That was different,” Tonks interrupted, though her voice was strained. “Those were just … emotional responses. What happened today …” She trailed off, looking troubled.

“Professor,” Harry said carefully, “is Professor Jackson in some sort of trouble? With the Ministry, I mean?”

Tonks looked at him sharply, then seemed to deflate slightly. “I can’t discuss Ministry business with students, Harry. But …” She hesitated, glancing around to make sure they weren’t overheard. “If you see Professor Jackson, please tell him that some of us understand he’s trying to do the right thing. Even when it’s difficult.”

She continued down the stairs, leaving the trio staring after her.

“There’s definitely something going on,” Hermione said once Tonks was out of earshot. “Did you see how worried she looked?”

“You don’t think she’s ill, do you?” Ron asked with concern.

“I don’t think it’s illness,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “But there’s something. And whatever it is, it’s connected to Professor Jackson and that storm.”

Harry nodded, remembering the way the magical energy had felt during the tempest—not malevolent like Voldemort’s magic, but ancient and powerful and absolutely furious. Like the wrath of something far older and more dangerous than any wizard.

“We need to find out what’s happening,” he said quietly. “Because if Professor Jackson was angry enough to call down a storm like that, something very bad is about to happen.”

“Or already has,” Hermione added grimly.

The confrontation, when it finally arrived, was as theatrical as everything else Umbridge did.

Jackson was in the Great Hall during the dinner hour, seated at the staff table between McGonagall and Tonks, when the doors burst open to admit a squad of six Aurors led by Minister Fudge himself. Umbridge practically glowed with vindictive satisfaction as she followed them in.

But Harry didn’t notice any of them.

His attention was fixed; held hostage by the dark, hooded figure gliding behind the group that made the temperature in the hall plummet and sent students scrambling backward from the tables.

A Dementor.

The hall fell into terrified silence, hundreds of students turning to stare as frost began to form on the windows and the floating candles flickered ominously. The creature’s presence sucked warmth and hope from the air, leaving behind only the cold touch of despair.

Jackson glanced up from his shepherd’s pie with what appeared to be mild annoyance, cut another piece, and continued eating as if soul-sucking demons of despair regularly interrupted his dinner.

“Perseus Jackson,” Fudge’s voice carried across the suddenly quiet hall, “by order of the Ministry of Magic, you are under arrest for violations of the International Statute of Secrecy, suspected use of Unforgivable Curses, and operating under false pretences within the magical community.”

Jackson chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and reached for his goblet. The Dementor drifted closer to the staff table, its rattling breath audible even from the back of the hall, but Jackson didn’t even glance in its direction.

“My, what a comprehensive list,” he said after taking a sip. “I’m impressed by the creativity, if not the accuracy. Though I have to ask, was the Dementor really necessary? Seems a bit excessive for a dinner invitation.”

“The creature is here to ensure your compliance,” Umbridge said with relish.

“You will come with us immediately,” one of the Aurors – a stern-faced witch Harry didn’t recognise – stepped forward with magical restraints in her hands, though she gave the Dementor a wide berth.

Jackson cut another piece of shepherd’s pie and examined it critically. “Will I?” he asked, taking the bite. “How fascinating. Though I should mention, interrupting a man’s dinner is considered frightfully rude in most civilised societies.”

Fudge’s face began to turn an alarming shade of purple. “This is not a social call, Jackson! You are under arrest!”

“Yes, so you said,” Jackson replied pleasantly, reaching for a dinner roll. “And I heard you quite clearly the first time. However, as you can see, I’m currently engaged in the very important business of eating. Surely the Ministry’s urgent need for my company can wait another … oh, ten minutes or so?”

The lead Auror looked uncertainly between Jackson and Fudge. “Sir?”

“He’s mocking us!” Umbridge hissed, her face flushed with rage. “Arrest him this instant!”

Jackson buttered his roll with deliberate care. “Mocking? Heavens, no. I’m simply demonstrating basic table manners. My mother always taught me to finish what’s on my plate.” He took a bite and chewed slowly. “Of course, that was rather a long time ago. Perhaps table manners have changed.”

“Enough of this!” The stern-faced Auror strode forward, magical shackles ready. “You’re coming with us now!”

Jackson proffered one of his wrists willingly without rising. The moment the magical restraints touched his wrists, they shattered like glass against stone.

“Oh dear,” said Jackson in faux sympathy. “I do hope the Ministry keeps receipts. It would be a shame to waste taxpayer Galleons on such faulty equipment.”

“Enough of this,” hissed Umbridge. “You!” she said, pointing at the Dementor. “Apprehend him!”

The Dementor let out a low, rattling hiss and glided even closer. Students throughout the hall were now openly sobbing as waves of despair washed over them, and several had fainted entirely. Even the Aurors looked deeply uncomfortable in the creature’s presence.

Jackson turned his attention to the hooded figure floating beside the staff table.

He began to talk to it.

“What language is that?” Harry hissed at Hermione.

Hermione could only shake her head, pulling her cloak more tightly around her. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

The Dementor went absolutely still. Its rattling breath ceased, and for a moment the overwhelming sense of despair in the hall lessened slightly.

It replied.

There was no mistaking, despite the gruffness and rattle of its voice, that it was the same language Jackson had spoken before.

Jackson smiled, eating while the Dementor spoke and continuing the conversation as if it were the most pleasant dinner companion he could ask for. Eventually, after several more beats of back-and-forth conversation, Percy waved at the door.

The Dementor bowed. Unmistakably, in English: I shall pass on your regards, Stormwright.

“Thank you,” said Jackson.

Without further discussion, the Dementor glided past the Minister and out the hall.

Jackson returned to his pie. “Sorry about that, Minister,” he said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “You were saying?”

Fudge’s face had gone from purple to nearly white. “What sort of magic—how are you—”

“No magic,” Jackson replied, finally setting down his fork with obvious satisfaction. “Simply bonding over a mutual acquaintance. But since you’ve been so patient while I finished my dinner, I suppose I can spare you a few moments of my time.”

He rose from his chair with fluid grace, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin like a gentleman finishing a pleasant meal.

“However,” Jackson continued, his voice carrying easily to every corner of the Great Hall, “I find myself in something of a moral quandary.”

“What sort of quandary?” Umbridge demanded, though she’d taken several steps back and was gripping her wand with white knuckles.

Jackson’s expression grew thoughtful as he folded his napkin precisely and placed it beside his empty plate. “Well, you see, I could simply leave. Walk out of this castle, disappear into the wider world, and never trouble any of you again. It would be the sensible thing to do. The shepherd’s pie was excellent, by the way. My compliments to the house-elves.”

“Then why don’t you?” Fudge asked, though he looked as though he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Because,” Jackson said softly, his voice somehow carrying to every corner of the silent hall, “there are children in this castle who depend on the protection I can provide. And I find that my conscience – much like my appetite – won’t allow me to simply walk away from my responsibilities.”

He looked directly at Umbridge, and she actually flinched.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Jackson continued, his tone remaining conversational despite the weight of his words. “I will come with you willingly. On my terms. I will allow myself to be taken to Azkaban, though I suspect you’ll find holding me there more challenging than you anticipate.”

“You’re surrendering?” the lead Auror asked, sounding confused.

“I’m accepting responsibility,” Jackson corrected, straightening his robes. “There’s a difference. Rather like the difference between dining and merely consuming food—both accomplish the same basic function, but one demonstrates a certain … refinement.”

He turned to face the students, his expression growing serious. “And I want everyone in this hall to understand something very clearly: if any student – any single student – is harmed, threatened, or put in danger as a result of my absence, I will return. And when I do…”

The temperature in the Great Hall dropped noticeably. Several of the floating candles flickered, and Professor McGonagall’s goblet cracked down the middle.

“Well,” Jackson said, his usual pleasant demeanour returning, “let’s just say it would be inadvisable. Now then, shall we go? I believe I’ve kept you waiting quite long enough.”

He walked towards the Ministry officials with the easy grace of someone taking a casual evening stroll. When he reached Fudge, he stopped and smiled.

“Minister,” he said politely, “I do hope you won’t mind if I skip dessert. I’m told the treacle tart is particularly good tonight, but duty calls.”

As the group moved towards the exit, Jackson’s voice carried back across the silent hall:

“Oh, and Dolores? Do try not to do anything too creative whilst I’m away. I’d hate to have to cut my vacation short over something as trivial as student welfare.”

The Great Hall doors closed behind them with a sound like a funeral bell.

In the stunned silence that followed, Harry found himself thinking that somehow, despite being led away by six Aurors and the Minister himself, Perseus Jackson had managed to turn his arrest into the most civilised act of defiance anyone had ever witnessed.

The empty plate at his place setting seemed to mock them all.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: All That Wise Men Wished to Immortalise

Percy had been in Azkaban for three days when he stopped pretending to be a prisoner.

The Aurors had made several attempts to confine him to a cell, each more elaborate than the last. The first had involved standard magical restraints, which had lasted approximately thirty seconds before Percy grew bored and snapped them like dry twigs. The second attempt included anti-magic wards that were supposed to suppress supernatural abilities. Percy had responded by summoning a minor hurricane that left an entire wing of the prison uninhabitable.

By the third day, the prison staff had reached an unspoken agreement: Percy could wander wherever he pleased, provided he didn’t actually leave the island. It was less stressful for everyone involved.

Which was how Percy found himself standing in the deepest, oldest part of Azkaban’s foundations, staring at something that made the ichor in his veins run cold.

The door was carved from black stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Ancient Greek letters were etched around its frame, spelling out words that hadn’t been spoken aloud for millennia. But it wasn’t the age of the inscription that made Percy’s stomach twist with dread—it was the way the stone pulsed, like a heart beating in the darkness.

“That’s not supposed to be here,” he murmured, running his fingers along the carved letters. The stone was warm to the touch, and he could feel something vast and hungry stirring on the other side.

“No,” came a voice from behind him, “it’s not.”

Percy spun around to find a young man emerging from the shadows—though ‘young’ was perhaps misleading. His dark hair fell against the rims of his Aviator sunglasses despite the low light levels. His clothes seemed to suck in the already-limited light of the Azkaban basement.

“Nico,” said Percy. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same question of you,” said the god. “Imagine my surprise when Asterid finds me in the Underworld to inform me my best mate has been arrested without a fight—and by mortals, no less.”

“Ah.” Percy’s smile was fond. “How is dear Asterid? Still collecting interesting memories, I assume?”

“She was rather concerned at the idea of a god being caged like a common criminal.” Nico paused, his voice growing warmer. “She seemed genuinely upset about it, actually.”

“She came to find you because she was worried about me?”

“She said the ‘Stormwright who speaks the old tongue’ had been captured by mortals using ‘iron and ignorance,’ and that his friend – i.e. yours truly – should know immediately.” Nico’s tone was fond despite himself. “She was ready to start draining Ministry officials until I convinced her that probably wasn’t the best rescue strategy.”

“You managed to talk down an angry Dementor?”

“I told her you probably had a plan that mere death spirits couldn’t possibly understand, and that another god is probably better place to handle investigating the situation.” Nico shrugged. “She found that perfectly reasonable.”

Percy laughed. “Clever. Yes, appealing to cosmic hierarchy would work on Asterid. ‘Leave the god to his incomprehensible scheming.’”

“Was I wrong?” Nico asked pointedly.

Percy’s laughter faded as he glanced toward the sealed door behind them. “No, you weren’t wrong. Though I’m not sure even I understand the full scope of what I’ve gotten myself into.”

“She wanted me to tell you that any friend of the ‘death-speaker’ was under her protection, should you need it.” Nico’s voice carried a note of affection. “I think she’s adopted you by extension.”

“Through you?” Percy looked touched. “That’s … actually rather sweet. In a deeply unsettling way.”

“She also said to remind you that ‘friendship debts run deeper than mortal law,’” Nico continued. “I think that was her way of offering to help break you out if necessary.”

“Tell her I appreciate the offer, but this situation requires more finesse than a Dementor assault on the Ministry. Though I have to admit, this situation has complications I didn’t anticipate when I made my deal.”

“What kind of complications?” Nico asked, moving closer to examine the strange door Percy had been studying.

“The kind that involve ancient Greek architecture appearing in British wizard prisons,” Percy said grimly. “That door wasn’t here yesterday, Nico. Or if it was, it was hidden by magic powerful enough to fool even me.”

Nico reached out toward the carved stone, then thought better of it. “What do you think it leads to?”

“Nothing good.” Percy traced one of the Greek letters with his finger, frowning at the warmth beneath his touch. “The inscription says, ‘Where heroes’ paths converge in darkness.’ That’s not exactly encouraging.”

“Could be worse,” Nico observed.

Percy stepped back from the door, his expression troubled. “The question is whether someone put it here deliberately, or whether it’s responding to my presence.”

“Or whether something’s trying to get out,” Nico added darkly.

Percy stepped back from the door, his expression troubled. “It’s not just the door, Nico. There have been … incidents.”

“What kind of incidents?”

“Three prisoners have died in the past month. All in ways that don’t match standard magical forensics.” Percy’s voice grew grim. “Desiccated corpses, drained of life force, found in cells that should have been empty.”

Nico went very still. “Life force drainage?”

“The kind that leaves bodies looking like they’ve been mummified for centuries, when the deaths occurred within days.” Percy met his friend’s eyes. “Sound familiar?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Nico’s expression darkened. “That’s an old form of predation. Very old. The kind of thing that usually stays in the deepest, darkest places where even monsters fear to tread.”

“And yet here we are, in a wizard prison built on a rock in the North Sea.”

“Azkaban’s foundations are older than the prison itself,” Nico said thoughtfully. “The wizards built their jail on top of something that was already here.”

“Something that’s been sleeping?”

“Until now.” Nico studied the pulsing door with growing concern. “The question is what woke it up.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, considering the timeline. “I arrived three days ago. The door appeared yesterday. But the deaths started before I got here.”

“So it’s not your presence that triggered this.”

“Not directly.” Percy frowned. “But there have been other changes recently. The Dementors have been … restless. More aggressive than usual. And some of the older prisoners have been talking about dreams—visions of ancient places and voices speaking languages they don’t recognise.”

“Dreams or memories?”

“That’s what worries me.” Percy’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What if something down here has been influencing people for longer than we realise? What if it’s been feeding slowly, carefully, for years?”

Nico examined the carved letters more closely. “These symbols … they’re not just Greek. Some of them are older. Pre-Olympian.”

“Titan era?”

“Possibly.” Nico’s voice carried a note of awe and fear. “Primordial, even. Either way, this door is connected to powers that predate the gods.”

“Wonderful.” Percy rubbed his temples. “So we have an ancient entity of unknown origin feeding on prisoners, influencing dreams, and manifesting doorways carved with primordial symbols. And I’m bound by ancient oaths to remain in this prison until my agreement with Umbridge is fulfilled.”

“About that agreement,” said Nico carefully. “Are you certain it was wise to bind yourself with mortal law when there are clearly supernatural forces at work here?”

“I have people to protect,” Percy replied firmly. “Whatever’s happening here, whatever’s waking up, I couldn’t risk it being used against people I care about.”

“And now you’re trapped here while something primordial stirs beneath your feet.”

“I’m not trapped,” Percy corrected. “I’m strategically positioned. If something ancient and powerful is about to break free, better that someone with my experience is here to contain it.”

Nico looked at his friend with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. “You’re planning to fight whatever comes through that door, aren’t you?”

“I’m planning to protect innocent people from forces they can’t understand or defend against,” Percy replied. “Same as always.”

“Even if it destroys you?”

Percy’s smile was sharp and dangerous. “I’ve been fighting impossible odds for three thousand years. A few primordial runes aren’t going to stop me now.”

“You say that, but there are fates worse than death for us,” Nico muttered. “Imprisonment, binding, eternal torment … Tartarus is not a place I think either of us fancy returning to.”

“True.” Percy shuddered at the memory and turned back to study the door, which seemed to pulse more urgently in response to their conversation. “But the alternative is letting whatever’s behind there choose the time and place for our confrontation, while innocent mortals get caught in the crossfire.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Percy said, his eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless determination that had got him into trouble for millennia, “that sometimes the best defence is a good offence.”

“You want to open it.”

“I want to understand what we’re dealing with before it chooses the time and place for our confrontation.” Percy’s voice carried the authority of someone who’d commanded armies and fought gods. “Whatever’s behind that door, it’s been planning this for a long time. We need to take back some control of the situation.”

Nico was quiet for a moment, weighing the risks. “If we do this, if we open that door, there’s no guarantee we can close it again.”

“There’s no guarantee it won’t open on its own regardless of what we do,” Percy countered. “At least this way, we’re prepared.”

“Define ‘prepared’.”

Percy’s grinned; wild, confident and utterly mad. “We’re about to find out.”

Before Nico could protest, Percy placed his hand on the carved stone. The door began to glow with silver light, and somewhere in the distance, an alarm started to sound.

“You know,” Nico said conversationally as ancient power began to stir around them, “when I told Asterid you probably had a plan, I was hoping for something slightly less suicidal.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Percy replied. He pushed the door open.

The door swung open to reveal not another prison cell, but a corridor that defied the laws of physics. White stone stretched ahead of them, lit by an impossible, sourceless light that reminded Percy painfully of places he’d rather not remember. The air that drifted out carried scents that had no business existing in the middle of the North Sea. Where Azkaban smelled of mould and damp, the passageway smelled, to Percy, like pine and strawberries, with a cosy, inviting undertone—his mother’s blueberry cookies, that Percy hadn’t had for over 3000 years.

“The Labyrinth,” Nico breathed. “But that’s impossible. We destroyed the European part of it millennia ago.”

“Apparently not as thoroughly as we thought,” Percy murmured, stepping cautiously into the white stone corridor. The warmth was a shock after the damp cold of Azkaban’s foundations.

They moved forward carefully, both alert for the traps and shifting passages the Labyrinth was famous for. But these corridors seemed stable, almost welcoming; which was somehow more unsettling than obvious danger would have been. There was something simmering underneath the welcome smell though. Like a wedding bouquet placed over a desecrated grave.

Nico followed, but stopped after only a few steps, his expression darkening. “There’s something wrong here.”

“Besides the impossible architecture?”

“It reeks of death,” Nico said quietly, his voice carrying the authority of someone who knew death in all its forms. “But not natural death. Not even violent death. This is … twisted. Corrupted. Like someone took death itself and perverted it into something it was never meant to be.”

Percy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The walls around them flickered, showing glimpses of other places – a homely kitchen with a glowing heath; an ancient Greek temple – before settling back into indeterminate stone.

“Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

“Deeper in the maze. Much deeper.” Nico’s face was grim. “Whatever’s causing it, it’s old and it’s powerful. And it’s been growing stronger.”

They stayed where they were, barely one step from the entrance, watching as the Labyrinth folded and changed in front of them. New doorways appeared and disappeared in minutes. Some led to darkness; others to spaces that seemed to glow with their own light. The floor beneath their feet changed from smooth stone to rough concrete to what felt like metal grating.

“This section feels … hungry,” Nico observed, though his attention kept drifting toward passages that pulsed with malevolent energy. “Like it’s feeding on something.”

“Or being fed by something,” Percy replied grimly. The Labyrinth had always been alive in its own way, but this felt different—corrupted, Nico had said.

A sound echoed from deeper in the maze—not voices, but something else. Something that made the hair on the back of Percy’s neck stand up. A low growling, accompanied by the scrape of metal on stone, growing closer.

“That definitely doesn’t sound friendly,” Nico muttered.

Percy was already moving back toward the door to Azkaban. “We need to—”

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the stairwells above—guards responding to whatever magical disturbance opening the door had caused.

“This is about to get very complicated,” Percy said grimly, positioning himself between the Labyrinth entrance and the approaching Aurors.

The first Aurors appeared at the top of the stairs just as something large and decidedly non-human emerged from the shifting corridors ahead of Percy and Nico.

At first glance, she looked like a beautiful young woman: long dark hair, a smile like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, wearing what appeared to be a tattered school uniform. But her legs told a different story: one was a normal human leg, whilst the other was bronze and ended in a donkey’s hoof that clicked against the stone floor. When she smiled, her teeth were sharp as razors.

“Merlin’s Beard,” whispered Auror Mills, his wand already in his hand but trembling slightly.

The empousa’s mismatched eyes – one green, one brown – swept the assembled Aurors with predatory interest before settling on Percy. When she spoke, her voice carried the false sweetness of poisoned honey.

“Well, well. Lord Perseus. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Kelli.” Percy’s voice was flat. “Still playing dress-up, I see.”

“Oh, you know how it is. A girl has to keep up with the times.” She twirled, her bronze leg catching the light. “Though I must say, mortal prisons are terribly dreary. Not nearly enough screaming.”

“What do you want, Kelli?” Percy’s hand moved to his pocket. He didn’t need Anaklusmos to kill Kelli, but it would be a welcome breath of nostalgia. Clearly, his reputation had taken a beating since he stopped actively hunting monsters a few centuries back.

The empousa’s expression shifted, her predatory smile faltering for just a moment. “There’s someone in the maze. Someone important to you.”

Percy tensed. “Who?”

“A young heroine. Dark hair, green eyes … sound familiar?” Kelli’s mismatched eyes glinted wickedly. “She’s walked straight into a trap, along with her little friends.”

“You’re being deliberately vague, Kelli. That describes half the demigods I’ve trained over the years.”

“Does it?” Kelli tilted her head, studying Percy’s face with predatory interest. “This one’s special, though. Very special. She has your … temperament. Your stubbornness. Your unfortunate tendency to rush headfirst into danger.”

Percy’s expression didn’t change, but Nico caught the subtle tension in his shoulders. “If you’re lying to me,” he said; quietly, threateningly, “I won’t even do you the grace of sending you to Tartarus. I’ll torture you myself until you beg me to send you there. And I have oh so much experience on that subject.”

From deep in the maze, the rattle of chains echoed.

“The little hero and her friends think they’re so clever, following the ancient paths.” Kelli’s voice took on a sing-song quality that made several Aurors step back. “But someone’s been changing the rules. The corruption down there … even we monsters are afraid.”

“You’re lying.” But Percy’s voice lacked conviction. Kelli was many things – vicious, manipulative, sadistic – but she rarely lied outright when it came to information this important, especially to a god. “She is safe, she’s at Camp—”

“At Camp Half-Blood? Oh, sweetie, haven’t you heard?” Kelli’s voice dripped with false sympathy. “There’s been a bit of trouble lately. Coordinated attacks, ancient monsters, that sort of thing. Serious enough that they permitted a quest for the first time in years.” Kelli’s cackled at Percy’s expression. “The maze reeks of twisted death, Stormwright. Your Ghost King friend can smell it, can’t you, My Lord? Something’s been feeding down there. Something that makes even empousai nervous.”

Nico stepped forward, his expression grim. “She’s right about the corruption. Whatever’s down there, it’s wrong on a fundamental level.”

“So here’s my offer,” Kelli continued, her voice dropping to a purr. “I guide you to this … delightful young lady before she becomes monster food. In exchange, you let me hunt freely in this delightfully isolated prison for … oh, let’s say a month?”

“Absolutely not,” said Percy.

Kelli shrugged. “Then she dies. The corruption is spreading, Perseus. Soon it’ll reach the upper levels of the maze, and then even I won’t be able to navigate those paths safely.”

Percy snarled and stepped forward. “Here’s my counter-offer. You lead me to the girl and I don’t eviscerate you and strangle you with your own guts.”

“Honey attracts more flies than vinegar, My Lord,” Kelli trilled. “And your time is running low. Tick-tock-tick-tock.”

“Final offer,” Percy snapped. “You lead me to the girl and if I can save her – only if – I let you go free and I promise neither I nor any of my bloodline will harm you except in self-defence or defence of another. Deal?”

Kelli contemplated for a moment. “And you owe me a favour, to be redeemed against yourself or any of your brats I come across.”

“The favour can’t put them in mortal danger or risk antagonising my … compatriots.”

“You have yourself a deal, Stormwright.”

Percy’s smile looked more like baring of his teeth. “If you’re lying, if this is some kind of trap, I will personally ensure you spend eternity in the deepest pit of Tartarus.”

“Promises, promises,” Kelli laughed, but Percy caught the flicker of genuine fear in her mismatched eyes. “Shall we go then? Time’s a-wasting, and the corruption spreads.”

Percy raised his voice to address the stunned Aurors. “I need immediate release to deal with a family emergency. This … individual … will be assisting.”

“I … that’s not … you can’t just …” Mills stammered, looking between Percy and Kelli.

“Actually,” said Nico smoothly, producing another document that definitely hadn’t existed moments before, “emergency protocols allow for the temporary release on the recommendation of consultants in cases of immediate supernatural threat. Which this clearly qualifies as.”

Percy would bet his throne on Olympus that, to any Clear Sighted mortal, that document would be blank as a cadaver’s face. But Mills took it in shaking hands, nonetheless.

Percy withdrew Anaklusmos, its bronze light revealing the scratches and stains on the apparently-immaculate walls. “Lead the way.”

The Labyrinth had led them through passages that defied logic – a Roman amphitheatre where ghostly gladiators still fought their eternal battles; a New York subway tunnel that smelled of hot dogs and exhaust fumesl a medieval castle courtyard where phantom knights practised their swordwork – before finally depositing them in a corridor that made Percy’s breath catch.

The walls were smooth white marble veined with gold. The craftsmanship was unmistakable: every proportion, every angle, every carefully calculated sight line spoke of a master architect who understood both form and emotional impact. The way the ceiling curved just so, drawing the eye inexorably forward. The strategic placement of relief carvings that would tell a story as you moved through the space. The mathematical precision that felt both intellectually satisfying and emotionally resonant.

“No,” Percy whispered, recognising the style with a certainty that made his chest tight. “She wouldn’t. She couldn’t have.”

“Who wouldn’t what?” Nico asked, but Percy was already moving faster, following the familiar architectural cues that pulled him deeper into a space he’d thought he’d never see again.

The corridor opened into a circular chamber that made Percy stop breathing entirely.

The walls were carved from white marble that had been stained with age, and every surface was covered with inscriptions in Ancient Greek. As Percy’s eyes adjusted to the dim light emanating from phosphorescent moss along the ceiling, he read the words that had been carved with painstaking care:

Here stands Perseus, God of Heroes, who bears eternal service as eternal punishment.

Here dwells the God in Chains, bound by law and love.

Here serves the Shield of Olympus, who guards those who will not guard him.

Here endures the Unwilling God, crowned with divinity he never sought.

Here suffers the Deathless One, who envies every mortal grave.

But it was the statue that made Percy’s knees nearly buckle.

Rising forty feet from the chamber floor stood a figure carved from ivory and gold, unmistakably depicting Percy himself. The craftsmanship was exquisite—every detail perfect, from the windswept hair to the deep-set eyes that seemed to hold depths of ancient sorrow. Golden chains wrapped around the statue’s wrists, ankles, and throat, each link inscribed with names—heroes Percy had trained, heroes he had lost. Names that he remembered. Names that haunted him, even now. The figure’s face was turned skyward, not in triumph but in anguish; chained hands raised to the heavens in a gesture that spoke of pleading, of defeat, of a burden too heavy to bear.

“My statue,” Percy breathed, the words torn from his throat. He remembered when it had been unveiled. Zeus hadn’t liked it. Not one bit. It hadn’t kept with his story—that Percy was being honoured; that godhood was a gift. It was beautiful and terrible, a monument to divine suffering created by someone who had watched him bear that weight.

Around the statue’s neck, obscured and plain against the golden chains, hung a simple clay bead painted blue and gold.

“This is …” Percy’s voice trailed off as he took in the full scope of the chamber. Stone reliefs depicted scenes from his mortal life: battling the Minotaur, holding up the sky, leading the charge against Kronos. But the carvings grew darker as they progressed around the room, showing chains wrapping around his wrists, his face growing gaunt with the weight of watching heroes die.

“A shrine,” Nico breathed, understanding immediately. “To you.”

“Designed by someone who knew exactly how to break my heart,” Percy whispered, taking in details that confirmed his worst fears. The owl motifs worked subtly into the column capitals—Athena’s symbol, marking this as the work of one of her daughters. The way the chamber’s acoustics would have carried every prayer, every plea for heroic courage, directly to the statue’s ears. The positioning of the altar so that offerings would be made while looking up at the chained god’s face.

It was genius. It was beautiful. It was all that could be adored by lovers’ eyes.

It was exactly what she would have created.

At the base of the statue, three figures lay motionless on the altar, positioned as if they were offerings to the chained god above them. The largest inscription, across the body of the altar, seemed to taunt him.

Here weeps the Champion of the Lost, who guards what he cannot save.

“Kallisto!” Percy started forward, but something about the wrongness of the place made him hesitate.

“Careful,” Nico warned. “Whatever’s here has been feeding. The corruption is strongest here.”

Percy could see Kallisto now: a lanky teenager with a mess of curly dark hair over olive skin, bright orange camp t-shirt torn and bloody. Beside her lay a blonde girl he didn’t recognise and Grover, his old friend, both equally still.

“Are they—?” Percy couldn’t finish the question.

“Alive,” Nico said, though his voice was grim. “Barely. Something’s been draining them slowly.”

Percy knelt beside Kallisto, careful not to disturb the ancient ritual circles carved into the marble around her. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her breathing was so shallow he could barely detect it.

Kallisto whispered something Percy couldn’t make out.

“Kallisto?” he prompted. “Kallisto, can you hear me?”

“Dad?”

It was barely a whisper, but it hit Percy like a tsunami.

“I’m here. I’m going to get you out of this.”

“Shouldn’t … have come …” Kallisto’s eyes fluttered open. Percy’s heart wrenched to see they were clouded with pain. “The quest …  my responsibility… I was meant to … to find you … bring you home safely.”

“If the quest was to find me,” Percy said firmly, sliding his arms under his daughter despite the risk, “then mission accomplished.”

“The others,” Kallisto managed, struggling to keep her eyes open. “Annabeth and Grover. We have to—”

“Already on it,” Nico said, moving toward the blonde girl while Percy tried to process the name. Annabeth. Why did that feel significant? And why did looking at her give him the same strange recognition he’d felt about the chamber’s design?

“How did you find this place?” Percy asked as Nico lifted the unconscious demigod.

“We didn’t,” Kallisto said hoarsely. “It found us. Something was … calling to us. Drawing us deeper into the maze.”

“What kind of calling?”

Kallisto’s sea-green eyes met his. Percy saw confusion and hurt there. “It felt like you, Dad. Like your voice, telling us to come home. Telling us we’d be safe here. That someone who loved you was waiting.” Her voice broke slightly. “But it wasn’t you, was it?”

Percy felt ice form in his veins. Something had been using his voice, his power, even his love, to lure his daughter and her friends to this corrupted temple. His gaze moved involuntarily to the clay bead hanging around the statue’s neck, and for a moment, he could have sworn it glowed even more brightly that the gold chains around it.

“No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t me.”

The blonde girl – Annabeth – stirred as Nico lifted her, but she was barely conscious, muttering something incoherent about architectural impossibilities and perfect proportions. Even in her weakened state, she was analysing the chamber’s design.

“How long have you been here?” Nico asked.

“Hours,” Kallisto said. “Maybe days. Time … doesn’t work right here. And the statue … it kept whispering. Kept saying it was lonely, that it missed training heroes, that we should stay and keep it company. It said …” She paused, her voice dropping to barely audible. “It said someone had built this place for you, as a gift. Someone who understood your pain.”

Percy had long since thought himself immune to heartbreak. Being a god was a boring existence. Sure, it was fun for the first few centuries. Exploring never-before-seen lands and destroying cities; revelling in the thrum of energy from mortals all over the world that worshipped you, even if not by name.

But after a while, it grew old. After a while, you saw your favourite heroes breathe their last with no-one around. And you would vow to protect the next one better. And the next. And the next. And you never did, never could. Time heals all wounds and leaves what’s left calloused and rough. After 3000 years, Percy’s heart was more scar than muscle.

But this? This was more than anything he had encountered before.

Something was using not just his voice, but his deepest memories, his most sacred relationships, to manipulate young heroes. The violation was profound—someone had taken what she had built as a monument to their love and perverted it into a trap.

As if responding to his anger, the clay bead around the statue’s neck began to glow with a sickly green light. The golden chains binding the statue’s wrists started to rattle, and Percy felt something stirring—not in the chamber, but in his own soul, as if something was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“We need to leave. Now,” Nico said urgently, but Annabeth was dead weight in his arms, and Grover could barely stand.

Percy looked around for Kelli, only to discover that the empousa had vanished completely, leaving them alone with the corrupted shrine. “Where did she go?”

“Gone the moment we reached the temple,” Nico said grimly.

“I should have expected that. Let’s go the way we came in.” He started, then stopped. The passage they’d entered through was gone, replaced by solid marble wall carved with the same architectural precision as everything else in the chamber.

“She trapped us,” Percy said with grim admiration. “Kelli led us exactly where something wanted us to go.”

The green light from the bead intensified, and Percy felt a pull—not physical, but something deeper. Something that wanted him to approach the statue, to touch the chains, to understand what had been done to this place that had once been built with love some could only dream to capture.

“Don’t look at it directly,” he warned himself as much as the others, turning away from the hypnotic glow. “Whatever it is, it’s been feeding off this place for too long.”

“Dad,” Kallisto said weakly, “we can’t fight it. Not like this. Annabeth is barely conscious, and Grover …”

She was right. The blonde girl had slipped back into unconsciousness, and Grover was leaning heavily against Nico, his usual strength completely gone.

“Then we don’t fight,” Percy said, coming to a decision. “We run.”

He closed his eyes and reached out with his divine senses, feeling for any trace of water, any connection to his domain that might help them escape. There! Far above, he could sense the North Sea; could feel the rain that had been falling on Azkaban’s stones.

“Hold on,” he told them, and called upon power he hadn’t used in decades.

The chamber filled with the sound of rushing water as Percy’s divine strength punched through stone and earth, creating a passage that led up and out. Water cascaded down from above, but it avoided their group entirely, flowing around them like they were protected by invisible barriers.

“Go,” he said to Nico, who needed no further encouragement to carry Annabeth toward the newly created escape route.

“Get on my back, G-Man,” said Percy. “No time for pride.”

Grover hopped onto Percy’s back with somewhat less than his usual goatly agility. Percy adjusted Kallisto in his arms. It felt the exact same as when he had held her for the last time as a baby. Before it had become too dangerous to see her again.

Behind them, the clay bead pulsed with malevolent energy, and Percy felt it trying to follow, trying to maintain its connection to him even as they fled. The ivory statue’s eyes seemed to track their movement, and Percy could have sworn he heard his own voice calling after them—pleading, desperate, promising safety if only they would return to the place that had been built to honour their love.

But underneath his own voice was another—a woman’s voice that made his heart stop.

“Perseus,” it called, and it was definitely her, but wrong in ways that made Percy’s soul ache. “Why do you run from what was built for you? I made this place because I love you.”

Percy forced himself not to look back, not to listen, not to believe the impossible promise that she was somehow waiting for him in this twisted shrine. But her voice followed them through the rushing water.

“You left me,” she said, and it sounded so much like the woman he remembered that Percy nearly stumbled. “You let them make you a god and you left me to grow old alone. But I built this place for you, Perseus. A place where we could be together forever.”

They emerged into a corridor of the Labyrinth that looked mercifully normal, and Percy allowed himself a moment of relief as he felt his daughter’s breathing strengthen slightly.

“Camp,” Kallisto mumbled against his shoulder. “Need to … warn them …”

“We will,” Percy promised, though he was already planning their route back to Azkaban. “But first, we get you somewhere safe.”

Behind them, in the depths of the corrupted shrine, something that wore the voice of his lost love was waiting with infinite patience for his return. And that damn clay bead – the symbol of all Percy’s mistakes – pulsed with new power, fed by his anguish and the perverted love that had built a monument to his suffering.

The Labyrinth, it seemed, had developed opinions about their escape route.

What should have been a straightforward journey back to the door in Azkaban’s foundations became a gauntlet of the maze’s increasingly frantic attempts to keep them inside. Corridors that had been stable on their way in now shifted every few steps, walls sliding closed behind them and new passages opening ahead whether they wanted them or not.

“It’s panicking,” Annabeth mumbled against Nico’s shoulder, her grey eyes flickering open for brief moments of lucidity. “The maze … it knows something’s wrong with that shrine. It’s trying to … to quarantine the corruption.”

“By trapping us with it?” Percy asked, adjusting his grip on Kallisto as another passage sealed itself off, forcing them down a corridor lined with what appeared to be school lockers.

“By keeping us away from populated areas,” Annabeth clarified, her voice growing stronger as they moved further from the corrupted shrine. “The Labyrinth has … safety protocols. Ancient ones.”

Percy glanced at her with new interest. The strategic precision of her analysis, though she was weakened and barely conscious, reminded him painfully of someone else. “You know a lot about the maze’s architecture.”

“I’ve studied it,” she said simply. Her eyes fluttered closed again.

The corridor of lockers gave way to what looked like a Roman bathhouse, complete with steaming pools and mosaic floors. Grover perked up slightly at the sight of water, his nature magic responding to the humid air.

“Rest stop?” Nico suggested, noting how the satyr was struggling to stay clinging to Percy’s neck.

“No,” Percy said firmly, though he could see the appeal. “Something’s still following us. I can feel it.”

As if summoned by his words, the sound of chains rattling echoed from the passage behind them. Not the heavy clank of metal, but something lighter, more musical. Like delicate wind chimes hung in kitchen window.

“The statue,” Kallisto whispered, eyes wide. “It’s moving.”

Percy looked back and caught a glimpse of golden light spilling from the corridor they’d just left. The light moved with purpose, flowing like liquid metal, and with it came a voice that made him recoil.

“Perseus,” the voice called, and it was his own voice, but wrong—layered with harmonics that spoke of loneliness and betrayal. “Why do you run from what was built for you? She made this place because she loved you.”

“Faster,” Percy said grimly, picking up the pace as they exited the bathhouse into what appeared to be a medieval marketplace. Phantom vendors called out in languages that predated Rome, their wares glittering with impossible colours.

The golden light was gaining on them, and with it came whispers—not just his voice now, but others. Voices of heroes he’d trained, friends he’d lost, and underneath it all, a woman’s voice that made his heart stop.

“Do you remember our last night together?” The voice was almost hers. Almost. “Before Zeus called you to Olympus? You held me and promised you’d find a way back to me. I’ve been keeping that promise alive all these years. Don’t break it now.”

“It’s not her,” Nico said sharply, catching Percy’s anguished expression. “Whatever that thing is, it’s not who you think it is.”

“I know,” Percy replied, but his voice shook. I remember, he wated to scream. Damn every god out there, I remember it every night. The corruption wasn’t just using his power. It was using his memories, his guilt, everything he’d tried to bury over three millennia of godhood.

“Dad,” Kallisto said quietly, looking up at him with familiar eyes that held more understanding than any sixteen-year-old should possess. “Who was she? Really?”

“They stole our time together. Zeus, the Ancient Laws, duty—they all conspired to keep us apart. Don’t let them win. Don’t let my love be wasted. Come home to me.” The voice echoed cruelly against every surface.

Percy was quiet for a moment as they hurried through the shifting marketplace, weighing how much truth he could share. “Her name was Anthousa,” he said finally. “She was … she was the architect who designed my first temple. Back when I was still mortal, still pretending I could have a normal life.”

“You loved her,” Annabeth said softly, and it wasn’t a question.

“More than I’ve ever loved anyone,” Percy admitted, more to drown out Not-Anthousa’s voice than because he particularly wanted to share. The words burned on his tongue. “She understood me in ways no one ever had before or since. Brilliant, strategic, creative … she could look at a space and see not just what it was, but what it could become.” His voice dropped to barely audible. “She saw what I could become, too.”

“I designed this place with every measurement of your soul, Perseus. Every column is spaced to match your stride, every arch shaped to frame your face. This is the only space in all creation made specifically for you. Where else will you ever truly fit?”

“What happened to her?” Kallisto asked.

The medieval marketplace dissolved around them, replaced by a modern shopping mall. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the sound of a fountain echoed from somewhere ahead. But the golden light behind them was growing brighter, and the whispers were getting louder.

“I’m trapped here, my love. Bound to this place by the same magic that corrupted it. Only you can free me. Only your power can break these chains. Won’t you save me, as I once saved you?”

“Zeus made me immortal when I was sixteen,” Percy said. “I thought … I thought we’d have forever to figure it out. But gods age differently than mortals, and I stayed sixteen while she grew older. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty … she aged while I remained frozen in time.”

“You watched her die,” Annabeth breathed, understanding immediately.

“Three thousand years, Perseus. Three thousand years you’ve been alone, training heroes who die, loving mortals who age and leave you. But I’m here now. I’ve been waiting. We can have the life we were meant to have.”

“I watched her live,” Percy corrected. “I watched her become everything she was meant to be—a master architect, a teacher, a leader. She designed temples and academies and monuments that stood for centuries. But I also watched her realise that I would never change, never grow with her, never be her equal partner in a mortal life.”

“You moved on so easily, didn’t you? Mortal after mortal, love after love. But did any of them build you temples? Did any of them see your divinity as a burden to be shared rather than a gift to be worshipped?”

They ran through the mall, past storefronts that displayed impossible merchandise: bottled starlight, maps to places that didn’t exist, mirrors that reflected not your face but your heart’s desire. Behind them, the golden light poured through the corridors like a tide, and the voice of the corrupted shrine grew stronger.

“She’s waiting for you,” his own voice called. “In the deep places, in the heart of the maze. Anthousa is waiting, and she’s been so lonely, Perseus. So very lonely.”

Percy’s step faltered at the name spoken in that twisted version of his own voice, and Kallisto gripped his shirt tighter.

“That’s not her,” she said firmly, despite her weakness. “Whatever that thing is pretending to be, it’s not the woman you loved.”

“How can you be sure?” Percy asked, grateful for his daughter’s certainty even as his own resolve wavered.

Kallisto’s smile was tired but determined. “Because if she really loved you, she wouldn’t use that love to hurt innocent people. She wouldn’t trap children to get your attention.” Her eyes met his. “The woman you described … she wouldn’t want you to sacrifice other people’s children for her memory.”

More desperately this time, the voice shrieked, “I’m fading, my love. The corruption is consuming what’s left of me. Soon there will be nothing but the twisted magic, and my voice will be lost forever. This is your last chance to save me. Your last chance to choose love over duty.”

The fountain appeared ahead of them, a simple concrete structure in the mall’s food court, but Percy could feel the connection to his domain humming through the water. As they approached, the fluorescent lights began to flicker and fail, and the golden light behind them surged forward with desperate intensity.

“Now!” Percy shouted, and plunged his free hand into the fountain.

Power roared through him as he connected with every drop of water in the North Sea, every raindrop falling on Britain, every river and stream for hundreds of miles. The mall around them shuddered and began to dissolve, reality reasserting itself as Percy forced open a passage back to the mortal world.

But as they stepped through, something followed them—not the golden light, but a whisper that wound itself around Percy’s soul like a chain.

“I’ll be waiting,” the voice said, and this time it was definitely hers, definitely Anthousa, but wrong in a way that made Percy’s soul ache. “In the deep places, my love. Where time doesn’t matter and gods can’t lie to themselves about what they’ve lost.”

Then they were falling through water and darkness, tumbling through Percy’s hastily created passage until they crashed onto the cold stone floor of Azkaban’s foundations. The mysterious door stood open behind them, but the warm air of the Labyrinth was gone, replaced by the damp chill of the North Sea.

Percy lay on the stone floor for a moment, Kallisto still in his arms, trying to process what they’d just experienced. Beside him, Nico was helping Annabeth sit up, while Grover looked around in confusion.

“Are we safe?” Kallisto asked quietly.

Percy looked at the open door, where shadows moved just beyond the threshold, and felt the weight of the corrupted shrine’s attention like a physical presence. “For now,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Footsteps echoed from the stairs above—Aurors responding to the magical disturbance of their return. Percy heard Mills’s voice calling orders, and the sound of normal, mortal concern was almost overwhelmingly comforting after the twisted whispers of the maze.

“Right then,” Percy said, getting to his feet and helping Kallisto stand. “Time to explain to some very confused wizards why we’ve just returned from an impossible place with three half-dead teenagers.”

“This should be interesting,” Nico observed dryly.

“It always is,” Percy replied, but his eyes remained fixed on the doorway to the Labyrinth, where something that wore the voice of his lost love was waiting with infinite patience for his return.

Behind them, the shadows in the doorway pulsed once with golden light, then settled back into ordinary darkness. But Percy could feel it there: the corruption that had taken something beautiful and turned it into a trap, something that knew his greatest weakness wasn’t his loyalty to heroes, but his guilt over the one hero he’d never been able to save. When can I say your name, he wondered, and have it mean only your name, not what you left behind?

The one who had loved him enough to build him a shrine; whom someone had twisted into a weapon against everything he held dear.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Where Sight Alone Bears Witness

The Azkaban infirmary was a testament to the Ministry’s approach to prisoner welfare: functional in the most grudging sense possible. Three narrow beds, a cabinet of basic medical supplies, and lighting that made everyone look like they were already halfway to the grave. It was, Percy reflected, exactly the sort of place where you’d want to recover from having your life force drained by a corrupted shrine.

Kallisto lay unconscious on the middle bed, her olive skin still bearing that translucent quality that made Percy’s stomach twist with worry. Madam Blackwood, the prison’s part-time Healer, had done what she could, but her expertise ran more toward treating Dementor exposure than whatever ancient magic had been feeding on his daughter.

“Her vital signs are stable,” Blackwood reported to the assembled group, though her voice wavered with uncertainty. “But there’s something … unusual about her magical signature. It’s as if something’s been drawn out of her core and is slowly regenerating.”

“Life force drainage,” Nico said quietly from where he stood beside Annabeth’s bed. The blonde girl was conscious now, grey eyes alert despite her pallor. “An old form of predation. Very old.”

Senior Auror Dawlish, who had been taking notes with the sort of desperate diligence that suggested his day had gone completely off-script, looked up sharply. “Life force drainage? That’s theoretical magic. Dark Arts texts mention it, but there’s no recorded cases of anyone surviving—”

“There are now,” Percy said mildly, not taking his eyes off Kallisto’s too-still form.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Dawlish’s quill trembled slightly as he wrote. “And you’re certain this occurred in … in the impossible corridor behind the door that definitely wasn’t there yesterday?”

“The Labyrinth,” Annabeth spoke up for the first time since their return, her voice hoarse but precise. “It’s a transdimensional maze that connects different times and places.”

Dawlish stared at her. “Transdimensional?”

“Think of it as a very large building with doors that open onto different countries,” Grover offered helpfully from his own hospital bed. “Except some of the doors open onto different centuries. And some of the rooms try to eat you.”

“I see.” Dawlish made another note. “And this … building… just appeared in our foundations?”

“The Labyrinth doesn’t ‘appear,’” Annabeth corrected, shifting to sit up straighter despite Blackwood’s protests. “It’s always been there, underneath everything. But something’s been corrupting it from within. Using it to create … traps.”

Percy’s hands tightened into fists at the word ‘traps.’ The memory of that shrine, of the statue with its golden chains and Anthousa’s voice, made something cold and violent stir in his chest.

“The shrine wasn’t random,” he said quietly. “Someone built it specifically to lure me in. Someone who knew exactly what would hurt the most.”

“Your dead girlfriend,” Nico added with his usual tact.

Percy was about to snap at Nico, tell him that Anthousa was much more than a mere girlfriend, when he saw Kallisto’s eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice.

“Dad?” she mumbled, trying to focus on his face. “Did we … are we safe?”

“We’re safe,” Percy said, moving to her bedside and taking her hand. It was warmer than it had been, which he counted as progress. “You’re in Azkaban’s infirmary. Not exactly four-star accommodations, but you’re alive.”

Kallisto managed a weak smile. “Azkaban. Right. Because a normal hospital would’ve been too easy.” She paused, memory clearly returning. “That place, Dad. That shrine. It was… wrong. But it felt like home. Like you.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “Someone’s been using our connection, using my voice and my memories to manipulate the maze. They knew exactly how to get to you.”

“But why?” Kallisto struggled to sit up, accepting Percy’s help. “What do they want?”

“Me,” Percy said simply. “They want me back there, in that corrupted temple. And they were willing to use you as bait.”

Dawlish cleared his throat nervously. “If I may … who exactly is ‘they’? Because the Minister is going to want a full report, and ‘unknown entities of vast power’ isn’t going to be sufficient.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, weighing how much truth he could share with a Ministry official. The corruption in the Labyrinth felt personal, targeted. But proving that would require explanations about divine politics that Dawlish was nowhere near ready to hear.

“Someone with access to very old magic,” he said finally. “Someone who understands how to corrupt sacred spaces and turn them into weapons.”

Annabeth was staring at the ceiling, her brow furrowed in concentration. “That place …” she said slowly. “The way it was built. I’ve seen that style before.”

“A lot of people have studied Ancient Greek architecture,” Grover pointed out.

“No, not studied.” Annabeth’s voice grew more troubled. “I mean I’ve seen it. The way the columns were spaced, how the light fell … it was like someone had taken a blueprint I knew and twisted it.”

Percy felt something cold settle in his stomach. “What are you saying?”

Annabeth met his eyes, and he saw recognition there that made his chest tight. “Whoever built that shrine … they didn’t just know about your lost love. They knew her work.”

The infirmary fell silent except for the distant sound of waves against Azkaban’s walls.

“That’s impossible,” Percy said bluntly. “She died three thousand years ago. She asked me to destroy anything that attributed the work to her. Said she wanted the work to stand for itself. I made sure of that to protect her memory from being twisted by those who came after.”

He trailed off as realisation hit him like a physical blow.

“But?” Kallisto prompted, squeezing his hand.

“But her work survived,” Percy whispered, his voice heavy with understanding. “She always said she wanted to build something permanent. So I preserved her structures, hid them away where time couldn’t touch them. The temples, the monuments, the architectural techniques she developed …” His face went pale. “Someone’s been studying them. Learning from them.”

“For three thousand years?” Dawlish asked weakly.

“Her style was revolutionary,” Percy continued, more to himself than to the others. “She understood how to build spaces that could influence emotion, that could resonate with divine psychology. I thought I was honouring her memory by keeping her work safe.”

“Instead, you gave someone the perfect blueprints for psychological warfare,” Annabeth finished quietly, understanding immediately.

Dawlish looked between them with the expression of a man who had given up any pretence of understanding. “So we’re dealing with someone who’s had three thousand years to study … what exactly?”

“We’re dealing with someone who’s had three thousand years to plan this,” Percy corrected grimly. “Someone who knows exactly how to hurt me, and who’s willing to use children to do it.”

He looked down at Kallisto, who was trying to hide how much sitting up was costing her. “The question is: what do they actually want? Because luring me to a corrupted shrine is one thing, but keeping me there would require considerably more power than we’ve seen so far.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Grover suggested quietly. “Maybe they don’t want to keep you there. Maybe they want you to escape.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Grover said, his usually cheerful expression unusually serious, “what if the shrine isn’t the trap? What if the trap is what happens when you try to save people from it?”

Percy went very still as the implications hit him.

“Every time I go back there,” he breathed. “Every time I use my power to break free…”

“You make it stronger,” Annabeth agreed grimly. “Like feeding a fire.”

Dawlish’s quill had stopped moving entirely. “Are you telling me that by rescuing these children, Jackson – Perseus – may have made the situation worse?”

“I’m telling you,” Percy said quietly, “that whoever’s behind this understands exactly how I think. They know I’ll save a hero over saving myself. And they’re using that against me.”

Kallisto’s grip on his hand tightened. “Dad, I’m sorry. If we hadn’t gone into the maze—”

“Don’t,” Percy said firmly. “You were manipulated by something with thousands of years of experience. This isn’t your fault.”

“But it is connected to you,” Nico pointed out. “They used Kallisto as bait because they knew you’d respond. They’re studying your relationships. Your weaknesses.”

“Which means,” Percy said grimly, “that everyone I care about is now a potential target.”

He thought of Tonks, alone at Hogwarts with their unborn child, and felt something dark and violent stir in his chest.

“Dawlish,” he said quietly, “I need you to send word to Hogwarts immediately. Security around Professor Tonks needs to be increased. Now.”

“I … yes, sir. Right away.” Dawlish scribbled another note. “Anything else?”

Percy looked around the infirmary—at his daughter still weak from having her life force drained, at Annabeth and Grover recovering from their own ordeal, at Nico whose expression suggested he was already planning their next move.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I need you to tell Minister Fudge that the situation at Azkaban is significantly more complicated than anyone realised. And that he’s going to need to start believing in things that aren’t in any Ministry handbook.”

“Such as?”

Percy’s smile was sharp and dangerous. “Ancient magic, divine politics, and the fact that three thousand years is a very long time to hold a grudge.”

For the next hour, Dawlish took increasingly frantic notes as Percy outlined the basics of mythological threats to the wizarding world. By the time they were finished, the Auror looked like a man who had discovered his job description was woefully inadequate.

“So to summarise,” Dawlish said, reviewing his parchment with the expression of someone hoping he’d misheard everything, “we have an ancient maze beneath our prison that connects to different times and places, housing corrupted shrines that feed on life force, all while unknown entities with millennia-old grudges manipulate events from the shadows.”

“That’s the gist of it,” Percy agreed cheerfully. “Though I suspect there’s more we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Right. And the Minister is going to want a full briefing.”

“I’m sure he is. Tell him I’m happy to provide ongoing consultation on supernatural threats, provided I’m allowed to investigate the Labyrinth properly.” Percy’s tone was reasonable, but there was steel underneath. “After all, I’m not going anywhere.”

Dawlish departed with his notes and what appeared to be the beginnings of a stress headache.

Over the following days, Percy divided his time between investigating the sealed Labyrinth entrance and monitoring the recovery of the three young heroes. The corruption below seemed to pulse with awareness whenever he approached, as if it knew his daughter was healing and his options were expanding.

Kallisto was the first to show real improvement, her natural resilience asserting itself as her life force gradually regenerated. By the second day, she was sitting up and complaining about the hospital food—a sure sign she was feeling better.

“This oatmeal tastes like it was made from cardboard and disappointment,” she grumbled, poking at her breakfast with obvious distaste.

“At least you can taste it,” Grover said from the next bed. “Everything still tastes like ashes to me.”

Annabeth, propped up against her pillows with a stack of books Dumbledore had sent, looked up from her reading. “That’s actually a common side effect of life force drainage. Your magical senses need time to recalibrate.”

“I’m not a damn wizard,” Kallisto snapped. “I’m a demigod. Does that mean nothing to these magical types?”

“Apparently not,” said Annabeth, unconcerned.

It wasn’t until three days after their rescue that Percy felt confident enough to discuss his plans.

Kallisto fixed her father with a knowing look. “So what’s the actual plan? Because I know that look, Dad. You’re scheming.”

Percy’s smile was fond despite everything. “You know me too well. The plan is that you three are going to Hogwarts.”

“Absolutely not,” Kallisto said immediately. “I’m not leaving you here alone with whatever’s lurking in that maze.”

“And I’m not leaving you here to be used as bait again,” Percy replied firmly. “Besides, there are people at Hogwarts who need your help. Students who are trying to prepare for a war they don’t understand.”

“The Unbound,” Annabeth said thoughtfully. “The defence group you mentioned.”

“Exactly. They’re good kids, but they’re learning wizard magic to fight mythological threats. They need teachers who understand both worlds.”

Grover shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But how? We can’t just show up at a British wizarding school and ask to enrol.”

“Leave that to me,” Percy said.

When Dawlish came by for his afternoon rounds, Percy said, “Send word to Albus Dumbledore that they’re strong enough now. Tell him it’s time.”

“I … yes, sir. I’ll send word immediately.”

Al arrived that afternoon, having received Percy’s message, accompanied by Fawkes and wearing an expression of deep concern. Percy had asked Dawlish to clear the infirmary, leaving them alone to speak freely.

“Percy,” Al said without preamble. “I understand you’ve made some disturbing discoveries.”

“That’s putting it mildly, Al.” Percy gestured to the three young heroes, who were looking much better after proper rest and healing. “These are the children I rescued from the corrupted shrine. They were sent on a quest to find me, but something in the Labyrinth used my voice to lure them into a trap.”

Al’s blue eyes grew grave as Percy explained what they’d found: the shrine built from perverted memories of Anthousa’s work, the statue with its golden chains. But when he reached the part about the sacred bead, Percy’s voice faltered.

“There was something else,” he said quietly, unable to meet his old friend’s eyes. “Something I… something I should have told you about long ago.”

Al said nothing, just watched him with an unreadable expression.

Percy’s hands clenched into fists. “There was a bead. A sacred Camp Half-Blood bead, hanging around the statue’s neck. I could feel it calling to me, trying to pull me back to that place.”

“A Camp Half-Blood bead?” Al’s voice was carefully neutral, but Percy caught the sharp attention behind it.

“I gave it to him,” Percy spat. “When Tom was young, when he was still just a brilliant, charming student who reminded me of the heroes I used to train. I gave him one of our most sacred objects because I thought … I thought he had the potential for greatness.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of Percy’s admission.

“He corrupted it,” Percy continued, his voice hollow with self-recrimination. “Turned it into something dark and twisted. And now someone’s using it to corrupt the Labyrinth, to create traps specifically designed to hurt me.” His jaw tightened. “And they’re willing to use children to do it.”

Al nodded sagely. “What do you need from me?”

“I need these three at Hogwarts,” Percy said without hesitation. “Your students are preparing for a war they don’t understand. They need teachers who know about mythological threats, about fighting creatures that don’t follow wizarding rules.”

Al studied the three young heroes with interest. “And their … unusual nature? How do we explain their presence?”

“False memories,” Percy said simply. “I can use the Mist to create identities for them, make everyone believe they’ve been students there for years. But I’ll need your help with the details—academic records, house placements, that sort of thing.”

“Interesting.” Al stroked his beard thoughtfully. “What houses did you have in mind?”

Percy looked at his daughter and her friends, weighing the strategic needs against their personalities. “Kallisto in Slytherin; she has the cunning and ambition to handle that environment, and someone needs to keep an eye on the students there. Annabeth in Ravenclaw; her analytical mind will fit perfectly, and she can help the intellectual students understand what they’re facing.”

“And Mr Underwood?”

“Gryffindor,” Percy decided. “His empathy and loyalty will resonate with them, and someone needs to watch over Harry and his friends directly.”

Grover looked nervous. “Are you sure? I’m not really the brave, charging-into-danger type…”

“You’re braver than you think,” Percy said firmly. “And Harry’s going to need friends who understand what it’s like to carry burdens that feel too heavy.”

Al nodded slowly. “It could work. Although there will be complications. Some members of staff may sense that something is amiss, even if they cannot pinpoint what.”

“Only you will know the truth,” Percy said. “The other professors need to believe the false memories completely, or the deception won’t hold.”

“There’s one more thing we need to consider,” Annabeth said. “The false memories; will they work on everyone?”

“The Mist is very powerful,” Percy replied. “It should affect anyone without specific protections or unusual gifts.”

“What sort of unusual gifts?” Al asked.

“Clear Sight,” said Kallisto. “Some people can see through illusions and divine magic. It’s rare, but it happens. Usually runs in families, or shows up in people who’ve been exposed to a lot of mythological activity.”

Percy nodded. “If someone at Hogwarts has Clear Sight, they’ll see right through the deception. They’ll remember that you weren’t there before, that your entire existence is essentially a lie.”

“That could be problematic,” Al mused. “Though I’m not aware of any students or staff who possess such abilities.”

“You might not know,” Annabeth pointed out. “Most people who have Clear Sight don’t realise what it is. They just think they’re good at spotting lies or noticing details others miss.”

“We’ll have to deal with that if it comes up,” Percy said. “Hopefully anyone who does see through it will be reasonable enough to listen before they act.”

“And if they’re not?” Kallisto asked.

“Then we’ll handle that situation when it arises,” Al said calmly. “For now, let us focus on getting these young heroes safely to Hogwarts.”

Percy closed his eyes and reached out with his consciousness, feeling for the Mist that flowed through the world like an invisible river. Working with Al’s knowledge of the school, he began weaving false histories into reality.

Kallisto Lau. Sixteen, Slytherin, been at Hogwarts since first year. Parents work in the Department of Mysteries. Brilliant at Defence, but keeps to herself. Picks fights with Professor Snape. Respects strength and loyalty above all else.

The lies flowed through the connection between minds, settling into place like they’d always been there.

Annabeth Chase. Seventeen, Ravenclaw. Academic prodigy with a particular gift for Arithmancy and History of Magic. Muggle-born but fascinated by magical history and architecture.

Grover Underwood. Sixteen, Gryffindor. Vegetarian, loves animals, exceptional at Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. Quiet but fiercely loyal to his friends.

The effort was enormous, like rewriting a book while hundreds of people were reading it. Percy felt sweat beading on his forehead as he wove the false memories into place, creating years of shared experiences that had never happened.

“Done,” he said, opening his eyes to find Al watching him with fascination.

“Remarkable,” the headmaster murmured. “I can feel the new memories settling into place, even though I know they’re false.”

“The effect will hold as long as I can maintain it,” Percy said. “But Al—be careful. I don’t know what’s corrupting the Labyrinth, but it has intimate knowledge of my past, my memories, my weaknesses. If it can reach Harry through whatever connection he has to Tom …”

“I will watch over him carefully,” Al promised. “And your daughter and her friends … what should I tell them about their mission?”

“The truth,” Percy said simply. “These students need to understand that they’re not just fighting Voldemort and Death Eaters. There are older powers stirring, mythological threats that wizarding magic can’t easily counter. Teach them to think beyond the boundaries of their world.”

Al Albus gathered the three students together and prepared to bring them to Hogwarts, Percy felt the corruption in the depths of Azkaban pulse with malevolent awareness. Something down there knew his daughter was leaving, knew that it was losing potential leverage over him.

The lights in the infirmary flickered, and for a moment, Percy could have sworn he heard Anthousa’s voice calling his name—not the corrupted version from the shrine, but her real voice, warm and alive and impossibly distant.

Then a burst of flame swallowed his daughter and her friends, and Percy was left alone with the Aurors, the storm, and the growing certainty that whatever was stirring in the depths of the earth was far from finished with him.

Miles away, in a castle in Scotland, a boy with a lightning bolt scar found a letter under his pillow, written in familiar sharp, sword-like handwriting:

Harry—

the next lesson should focus on group tactics and coordinated defence. Something is coming, and you’ll need to be ready to lead them when it arrives. Trust your instincts, and remember that the strongest shields are built from unity, not individual power.

—P

The phoenix travel deposited them in the Room of Requirement, which had configured itself as a comfortable sitting room complete with a crackling fire. Dumbledore walked over to three sets of school robes and what appeared to be several years’ worth of textbooks and personal belongings.

“The Room has been most helpful in creating your histories,” Dumbledore explained with a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll find everything you need to maintain your identities, including homework assignments you supposedly completed years ago.”

“This is so strange,” Grover murmured, picking up a Herbology essay that was written in his own handwriting but discussed plants he’d never studied. “I remember writing this, but I know I didn’t.”

“That’s the Mist integration,” Dumbledore said kindly. “Your minds are adapting to accommodate both the true and false memories. It may feel disorienting at first, but it will become more natural with time.”

Kallisto was examining her Slytherin robes with interest. “Dad really put me in the snake house?”

“He felt you were best suited to navigate that particular social environment,” Dumbledore replied diplomatically. “The Slytherin students have been somewhat … marginalised since your father’s arrest. They could benefit from someone who understands what it means to be judged for circumstances beyond your control.”

Annabeth was already flipping through Advanced Arithmancy texts, her eyes lighting up at the mathematical precision of magical theory. “This is fascinating. The way magical energy follows mortal geometry …”

“You’ll fit right in at Ravenclaw,” Dumbledore observed with amusement. “Though I suspect your particular insights into ancient magic will surprise even your housemates.”

“What about the staff?” Grover asked nervously. “Won’t they notice that we’re … different?”

“The false memories are quite comprehensive,” Dumbledore assured him. “As far as they’re concerned, you’ve always been exactly as you are now. Though I would advise against demonstrating any abilities that might seem … unusual, even by wizarding standards.”

“No problem there,” Kallisto said dryly. “I’ll just have to resist the urge to cause natural disasters when someone annoys me.”

“That would be wise,” Dumbledore agreed solemnly, though his eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. “As we mentioned earlier, if any student possesses Clear Sight, they will see through your deception completely. They will remember that none of you existed yesterday, and they will likely be suspicious of your motives.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” Grover asked nervously.

“It’s possible,” Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. “And if it happens, you must be prepared. Students here are fiercely protective of their friends, particularly given recent events. If someone perceives you as a threat, they may act to neutralise it, regardless of the consequences to themselves. However, most of our students are also fair-minded. If you can prove that you’re here to help …”

“We earn their trust,” Kallisto finished. “Got it.”

“The key will be patience,” Annabeth added. “If someone does see through the illusion, we can’t afford to panic or become defensive. We need to show them we’re allies, not enemies.”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore said approvingly. “And remember: you have genuine skills and knowledge that will benefit your fellow students. Let your actions speak louder than any explanation you might offer.”

“One more thing,” Dumbledore added as they reached the door. “Your father wanted me to tell you that Harry’s scar contains more than anyone realises. There’s some connection between Harry and Voldemort that goes beyond a simple curse mark. Watch over him carefully - if the corruption in the Labyrinth can affect your father through that bead, it might be able to reach Harry as well.”

The three young heroes exchanged worried glances, understanding the weight of responsibility that had just been placed on their shoulders.

“We won’t let anything happen to him,” Grover promised with quiet determination.

“I know you won’t,” Dumbledore said warmly. “Now, off to bed with you all. Tomorrow begins your most challenging quest yet: pretending to be normal students whilst secretly preparing your classmates for war.”

The Unbound had been training for nearly an hour when Harry called for a water break. As students scattered around the Room of Requirement, grabbing drinks and towelling off sweat, Ron found himself watching the three newest members with growing unease.

Something was off. He couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly, but every instinct he possessed was screaming that these people didn’t belong here.

“Harry,” he said quietly, catching his friend near the refreshment table. “Can I have a word?”

“Course,” Harry replied, though he looked puzzled. “Everything all right?”

Ron glanced round to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, then gestured for Hermione to join them. When she approached, he took a deep breath.

“I need you both to think really carefully about something,” he said. “Those three—Kallisto, Annabeth, and Grover. Can you actually remember specific conversations you’ve had with them? Not just the feeling that you must have talked to them, but actual, detailed memories?”

Harry frowned, trying to focus. He had clear impressions of the three contributing to their group, but when he tried to recall specific moments …

“It’s all a bit fuzzy,” he admitted.

“Exactly,” Ron said grimly. “Because I don’t think they’ve actually been here as long as you think they have.”

“Don’t be daft,” Hermione said automatically. “Of course they have. Kallisto’s turned up to nearly every meeting and Annabeth did that massive report on Hogwarts’s defensive architecture.”

“Did she?” Ron’s voice was carefully neutral. “Because I can’t remember that happening at all.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then stopped, a troubled expression crossing her face. “That’s … odd. I can remember her report, but not the specific meeting where she made them.”

“It’s like with Jackson and the Umbridge incident,” Ron continued. “Remember how you both saw an empty classroom, but I could see all of us standing there? This feels the same.”

Harry’s stomach dropped as understanding began to dawn. “You think someone’s been altering our memories again?”

“I think someone’s been making you see things that aren’t real,” Ron said darkly. “The question is why.”

Before either Harry or Hermione could respond, Kallisto appeared beside them with that unnerving silent grace they’d all noticed.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, but her eyes were fixed on Ron with uncomfortable intensity.

“Fine,” Harry said quickly. “Just discussing strategy for next week’s session.”

“Good,” Kallisto said, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Ron, you seem troubled about something. Care to share with the group?”

The way she said it made it clear it wasn’t really a question.

“Actually,” Ron said, meeting her gaze directly, “I was wondering if we could have a private chat. The six of us.” He nodded toward where Annabeth and Grover were watching them with ill-concealed concern.

“Of course,” Kallisto replied, though Harry caught the sharp look she exchanged with her companions.

They moved to an alcove near the back of the room, where the noise from the breaktime chatter would mask their conversation. As soon as they were relatively isolated, Ron got straight to the point.

“Who are you really?” he asked. “And don’t give me any rubbish about being fellow students, because I can see right through whatever spell you’re using on my friends.”

Kallisto stilled. Annabeth and Grover flanked her, and Harry noticed they moved like people accustomed to potential combat.

“You have Clear Sight,” Annabeth said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“According to some Slytherins I talked to after Jackson’s little disappearing act, yes,” Ron confirmed. “Which means I can see through whatever type of magic you’re using that’s making Harry and Hermione think they’ve known you for months.”

“Jackson?” Grover asked, looking genuinely confused. Annabeth elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Kallisto glared.

“Professor Jackson,” Harry said slowly. “Our Defence teacher? The one who’s been training us?”

Kallisto’s eyes returned to Harry. “He doesn’t use that name around us,” she said. “We just know him as Perseus.”

“Ron,” Hermione said uncertainly, “what are you on about? Of course we’ve known them—”

“No, Hermione, we haven’t,” Ron interrupted, increasingly frustrated. “I know this is confusing, but someone’s been playing with your memories. Again.”

Harry felt that horrible dissonance returning—two sets of conflicting memories warring in his head. Part of him insisted these three had been part of the Unbound from early on, but another part was beginning to recognise the artificial nature of those recollections.

“If you can see through the Mist,” Kallisto said carefully, “then you’ll understand why we needed to use it.”

“The what now?” Ron asked.

“It’s a form of … misdirection,” Grover explained, his voice carrying that odd, reedy quality Harry had noticed before. “It helps people see what they need to see rather than what might disturb them.”

“And you decided we needed to see you as longtime friends rather than complete strangers because …?” Harry asked, feeling a mixture of betrayal and curiosity.

“Perseus sent us,” said Annabeth. “He needs to find out what’s going on in Hogwarts whilst he deals with a situation that requires his immediate attention.”

“Then why not just introduce yourselves honestly?” Hermione demanded, struggling with the artificial memories. “Why the deception?”

“Something about some Umbitch woman,” said Kallisto. “I didn’t really understand but sounds like she’s got a vendetta against Dad for some reason. Either way, easier not to draw attention to ourselves in the first place.

“Easier for whom?” Ron asked suspiciously.

“Hang on,” said Harry. “Back up. Dad?”

Kallisto blinked. “Yeah. Perseus. My dad.”

“I don’t think that translated over in the memories, Kal,” said Annabeth dryly.

Harry wondered why he hadn’t noticed. The resemblance was uncanny. The same unruly waves of jet-black hair, the same tanned complexion and strong nose; even the same way they held themselves, straight-backed and commanding.

“But you’re sixteen,” said Ron incredulously. “You look the same age as him!”

Kallisto’s expression grew carefully neutral. “Our family … ages differently. It’s complicated.”

Ron studied the three of them carefully. “You’re not entirely human, are you?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Finally, Grover shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not, at least.”

“What are you?” Harry asked, surprised by how calm his voice sounded.

“Someone from a world that exists alongside yours but separate from it,” Annabeth said carefully. “A world Perseus belongs to as well.”

“That’s why his magic is different,” Hermione realised. “Why he can do things that don’t match normal magical theory.”

“Exactly,” Kallisto confirmed. “And it’s why the threats you’re training to face are more serious than your teachers realise.”

“What sort of threats?” Harry asked.

“The sort that have been around since before wizards learned to organise themselves into governments,” Annabeth replied. “Ancient powers that your world has forgotten but that haven’t forgotten you.”

Harry thought about Jackson’s advanced training methods, his emphasis on practical combat over theory, the way he spoke about preparing them for realities they couldn’t imagine.

“If Jackson sent you,” Harry said finally, “then I trust you. But no more false memories. If we’re going to work together, we do it honestly.”

“Agreed,” Kallisto said. Her smile was genuine for the first time since they’d met.

“One last thing,” said Hermione before they returned to the group. “Jackson—Perseus—whatever—what actually is he?”

The Americans exchanged a glance and then laughed without humour.

“His name is Perseus, he’s Greek, and he’s really, really old,” said Annabeth. “That will tell you all you need to know, if you know where to look.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Law and Aurors

Minister Fudge stared at the reports spread across his mahogany desk as if they might rearrange themselves into something sensible. His lime-green bowler hat sat askew, and his complexion had taken on an unhealthy greyish tinge.

“A transdimensional maze,” he said slowly, testing each word like it might explode. “Beneath our most secure prison.”

“Yes, Minister,” Dawlish confirmed, his notes trembling slightly in his hands.

“Containing corrupted shrines that feed on life force.”

“According to Jackson, sir.”

“Controlled by unknown entities with millennia-old grudges against a Defence teacher we arrested last week.” Fudge’s left eye developed a twitch. “Jackson, who may not be entirely human and who demonstrated abilities that, according to your report, ‘made our strongest containment measures look like party tricks.’“

The silence that followed was broken only by the ticking of Fudge’s ornate clock and the distant sound of interdepartmental memos whooshing through the pneumatic tubes.

“Not entirely human,” Fudge repeated. “Dawlish, are you feeling quite well? Perhaps you should see a Healer. Prolonged exposure to Azkaban can be … taxing.”

Dawlish shifted uncomfortably. “Minister, with respect, I’ve been an Auror for fifteen years. I know the difference between Dementor exposure and whatever this is.”

“Do you?” Fudge’s voice carried the careful tone of a man hoping everyone had gone collectively mad, because the alternative was worse. “Because what you’re describing sounds like the ravings of someone who’s spent too long in that fortress.”

Dawlish’s jaw tightened. “Sir, Jackson spoke to a Dementor in an ancient language and it obeyed him. He rescued three children from a location that shouldn’t exist using powers that—”

“Yes, yes, I read your report.” Fudge waved a dismissive hand, though his fingers shook slightly. “Dawlish, are you familiar with the concept of mass hysteria? Shared delusions brought on by extreme stress?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of wilful ignorance?” Mills shot back, earning a sharp look from his superior.

The silence stretched taut as piano wire. Finally, Fudge stood and began pacing behind his desk, his movements sharp and agitated.

“Gentlemen, do you understand what you’re asking me to believe? That there are ancient powers beneath our facility? That we’ve been housing some sort of … superhuman being … without knowing it?” His voice rose with each word. “That everything we thought we knew about magical security is worthless?”

“Yes, sir,” Dawlish said simply. “That’s exactly what we’re saying.”

Fudge stopped pacing abruptly. “If this information becomes public – if the Daily Prophet learns that the Ministry doesn’t understand what’s happening in its own prisons – it won’t matter if these threats are real. We’ll be finished.”

Mills leaned forward. “Minister, if these threats are real and we do nothing, there might not be a Ministry left to worry about.”

“Enough.” Fudge’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to revise these reports. Jackson is a powerful wizard with unusual abilities who was involved in a security breach. The children were found in a previously unknown section of the prison.”

“You want us to lie?” Mills asked incredulously.

“I want you to prevent mass panic,” Fudge snapped. “Jackson remains contained while we bring in appropriate experts.” His expression grew calculating. “Mills, that consultant who appeared during the incident—di Angelo. Check if the Ministry used his services before.”

Mills consulted his files. “Three times in five years, sir. Payments for ‘unusual supernatural phenomena.’ Classified projects. Mostly in the Department of Mysteries.”

Fudge’s frown deepened. If the Unspeakables had been consulting with someone who could speak to Dementors …

“Contact the Unspeakables. Arrange another consultation.” Fudge returned to his chair, his movements sharp with barely controlled tension. “If we’re dealing with forces beyond normal understanding, we need experts who operate beyond normal boundaries.”

“And Jackson?” Dawlish asked.

“Jackson stays exactly where he is until we understand what we’re dealing with.” Fudge’s smile was thin and unpleasant. “The last thing we need is to give a potentially unstable individual more opportunities to cause … incidents.”

As the Aurors prepared to leave, Fudge called after them. “Daily reports on Jackson’s behaviour and those children’s condition. If anything changes – anything at all – I want to know immediately.”

After they’d gone, Fudge slumped in his chair, staring at the impossible reports. Ancient mazes, divine beings, millennia-old grudges … and now consultants who spoke to Dementors and worked for the Department of Mysteries.

He reached for his quill and began drafting a carefully-worded memo to the Unspeakables.

The bronze needles of Azkaban’s magical detection grid had been dancing like compass needles near a lodestone for the better part of an hour, and Junior Auror Lysander Mills was beginning to suspect his quiet night shift was about to become considerably less quiet.

“That’s not right,” he muttered, adjusting the sensitivity controls for the third time. The readings only grew more erratic: temperature fluctuations in the lower levels that defied the warming charms; brief magical signatures that spiked far beyond anything the ancient instruments were designed to measure; and underneath it all, a low-frequency thrum that seemed to resonate through the prison’s stone foundations.

The crystal that normally glowed steady blue to indicate normal magical levels was now pulsing between deep purple and brilliant white. Worse, the delicate silver device meant to detect specific types of magic kept registering readings that shouldn’t exist; Ancient Greek magical signatures that hadn’t been practiced for centuries.

Mills tried to convince himself it was equipment failure. The detection grid was ancient, installed during Minister Bagnold’s tenure and barely updated since. But when the temperature readings showed the foundations dropping to minus twelve degrees despite the warming charms, he knew he needed backup.

“John,” he called through the Floo network, sticking his head into the green flames. “You need to see this.”

Twenty minutes later, Senior Auror John Dawlish arrived looking like he’d dressed in the dark. His Auror robes inside-out, hair sticking up at impossible angles, carrying his boots rather than wearing them.

“Right,” Dawlish said, pulling on his boots and examining the still-frantic instruments. “Show me.”

Mills gestured to the bronze needles, which continued their manic dance. “Started about an hour ago. Look—” He tapped the pulsing crystal. “And this silver detector keeps picking up magical signatures that predate modern wizarding theory.”

Dawlish frowned at the runic temperature display. “Minus five in the foundations? The warming charms alone should prevent that.”

“Unless something down there is actively overriding them,” Mills said grimly.

They stared at the readings in uncomfortable silence. The instruments continued their frantic warnings, and even the familiar sound of waves against the prison walls seemed ominous tonight.

“We should investigate,” Mills said finally.

Dawlish looked at him sharply. “Should we? Because the last time we reported impossible readings, Fudge told us to sanitise our reports and pretend nothing was happening.”

“I’m not talking about reporting. I’m talking about doing our jobs.” Mills’s voice grew steadier. “We’re Aurors. We investigate magical threats.”

After a moment’s consideration, Dawlish nodded. “Full protective gear. Emergency portkeys. And we stick together.”

The lift down to the foundations felt longer than usual, the ancient cage creaking as they descended. The temperature dropped with each level—not gradually, but in sudden, breath-stealing plunges that made their ears pop. By the time they reached the bottom, their exhalations came out as white clouds that hung in the air longer than they should have, forming shapes that almost looked like reaching hands.

“Definitely not natural,” Dawlish muttered, his voice echoing strangely in the frigid air.

Their footsteps rang hollow on the stone, each sound seeming to multiply and return from directions that shouldn’t exist. The magical instruments they’d brought were convulsing rather than simply malfunctioning, detection charms flickering between readings as if trying to process something their creators had never imagined.

They turned a corner. Mills stopped breathing.

The sealed door was covered in frost, but not in the usual geometric patterns.

The ice formed faces.

Dozens of them, frozen in expressions of absolute terror, their mouths open in silent screams. Some looked recent, with features Mills almost recognised from missing prisoner reports. Others seemed ancient, their details worn smooth like cemetery sculptures weathered by centuries of rain.

The door itself pulsed with sickly golden light that leaked through the stone like infected blood through bandages. Each pulse made the frozen faces seem to writhe, their eyes following the Aurors’ movements with desperate hunger.

Then came the whispers.

Not voices, at first. Something underneath language: the sound of fingernails scraping against the inside of coffin lids; of breath rasping through throats that no longer existed. The noise burrowed into their heads, making their teeth ache and their vision blur at the edges.

Mills felt something warm trickling from his nose and realised he was bleeding.

The whispers grew louder, more distinct, overlapping until they formed a cacophony of the damned. But underneath it all, threading through the chaos like a melody of madness, came words in a language that bypassed the brain entirely and spoke directly to the soul:

Help us. Free us. Join us. He promised he would come back. She’s been waiting so long. The architect builds monuments from bone now.

Dawlish grabbed Mills’s arm as his partner began to sway toward the door, drawn by promises whispered in voices like honey poured over glass. The touch broke whatever spell was settling over them, but Mills could still feel it pulling at the edges of his mind: a sweet, seductive invitation to step forward, to touch the ice-covered faces, to add his own scream to the eternal chorus.

“They’re not just trapped,” Mills gasped, wiping blood from his nose with shaking fingers. “They’re being harvested. Used as instruments.”

One voice rose above the others—clearer, more focused, speaking in heavily accented English that carried the weight of impossible age:

“Tell Perseus his love is waiting. Tell him she’s been so lonely in the dark places, building beautiful things from the bones of heroes.”

The voice changed mid-sentence, becoming younger, warmer, filled with an affection that made Mills’s chest tight with inexplicable longing and revulsion: “Perseus, my heart, why do you stay away? I’ve built such beautiful monuments to our love. Come see what I’ve made for you.”

Mills felt his stomach lurch as he realised the voice wasn’t just mimicking someone Perseus Jackson had loved—it was wearing her vocal cords like a costume, speaking through her stolen larynx while something else puppeteered the words.

The golden light surged brighter, and the frost began to crack. Through the fissures, Mills caught glimpses of movement—shadows that shouldn’t exist, architectural impossibilities that hurt to perceive directly. And eyes. So many eyes, all focused on them with predatory intelligence.

“Little Aurors,” the corrupted voice crooned, “would you like to see what love becomes when it festers for three thousand years? Would you like to meet the woman who built monuments to immortal guilt?”

Something pressed against the door from the inside—not a hand, but something that had once been a hand, now reformed into building material for structures that shouldn’t exist. The pressure made the stone groan, and hairline cracks began to spread outward from the impact points.

“Move!” Dawlish shouted, and they ran through corridors that seemed to stretch longer with each step. Behind them, the voices followed—sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening, sometimes singing lullabies in that ancient language that made their souls recoil. But worst of all was the sound of the door beginning to splinter, and the architectural impossibilities that started to leak through the cracks like infected dreams made manifest.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the lift, gasping and shaking as the cage carried them toward the relative safety of the upper levels. Mills was still bleeding from his nose, and Dawlish’s hands shook so violently he could barely press the buttons.

Even then, they could hear it – faint but unmistakable through the floors of stone and steel – the sound of something that had once been love and devotion, now twisted into an abomination that built temples from the bones of the faithful.

And underneath it all, a woman’s voice singing an ancient lullaby about heroes who never came home.

Back in the break room, Mills clutched his tea mug like a lifeline as he stared out at the churning waters of the North Sea. The voices from the depths still echoed in his mind—that horrible harmony of trapped souls, and underneath it all, the woman’s voice that had spoken of Perseus with such intimate knowledge.

“Mental,” he said. “Absolutely mental.”

“Which bit?” said Dawlish dryly.

“All of it,” said Mils. “The door that shouldn’t exist, Jackson wandering around like he owns the place, and now these voices. The way that woman’s voice spoke about him. Not like he was just powerful, or even just immortal. Like he was something … more.”

Dawlish nodded grimly. “I’ve been thinking about that too. You heard about the story with the Dementor?”

“The one Jackson had a chat with and then it just left?”

“That’s the one. But here’s the thing: it didn’t just obey Jackson. It recognised him. Called him something … what was it?”

“Stormwright,” Mills remembered. It had been the talk of the break room for days. “And it bowed. Dementors don’t bow to wizards, John. Not even the most powerful ones.”

“No, they don’t.” Dawlish pulled out a battered notebook from his robes. “I’ve been making some notes. Little things that didn’t make sense individually, but together …” He flipped through pages covered in his careful handwriting.  “Remember his intake report? No birth records, no education history, no employment before this year. It’s like he didn’t exist before September.”

Mills frowned. “You think he’s older than he appears?”

“I think he’s older than Britain appears.” Dawlish’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Mills, what if Jackson isn’t just some ancient wizard or supernatural being? What if he’s actually one of them?”

“One of who?”

“The old gods. The ones from before Christianity, before the Romans, before wizards organised themselves into governments.” Dawlish leaned forward. “Think about it. Greek name—Perseus. controls storms and seas without effort. Speaks to death spirits and they show him deference. The corruption down there knows intimate details from three thousand years ago.” Dawlish leaned forward. “And the way he talks about divine laws, ancient restrictions. Like someone who’s bound by rules older than civilisation.”

Mills felt something cold settle in his stomach as the pieces clicked into place. “And the woman’s voice … she called him ‘my heart.’ Said he’d left her to grow old alone …”

“Before he became a god.” Dawlish found the page he was looking for in his notebook. “I was doing some reading the other day, into the old gods. Perseus, the God of Heroes, son of Poseidon.  Ascended to godhood after saving Olympus because Zeus feared the loyalty he commanded in demigods. Had to leave his mortal love behind. No records remain of her name, but scholars think she was an architect based on how distinct Perseus’s temples are from those of other gods. But here’s the real kicker.” Dawlish closed his book and looked at Mills with grim determination. “Guess what Perseus was known as.”

“What?” asked Mills weakly, but he had a funny feeling he already knew.

“The Stormwright,” Dawlish confirmed.

They sat in stunned silence, the weight of the realisation pressing down on them. Finally, Mills found his voice.

“We’re guarding an actual Greek god in Azkaban,” he said flatly. “A god who’s being psychologically tortured by something that knows how to use thousands of years of grief against him.”

“And the Ministry wants us to evaluate his mental health using standard psychological assessment forms,” Dawlish added with a bitter laugh.

From the depths below, ancient voices whispered of love and betrayal, while the detection equipment screamed warnings no one wanted to believe.

The interview room’s anti-magic wards hummed their familiar tune of contained power, but Perseus sat in the uncomfortable chair as if it were a throne, examining the ward-stones with professional interest.

“Decent work,” he commented as Dawlish entered with official forms and recording crystals. “Ninth-century craftsmanship. Though whoever installed them didn’t understand the interaction between binding circles and tidal forces.”

Dawlish paused in arranging his paperwork. “You can tell that just by looking?”

“I can tell by sitting here. The wards rotate with the North Sea tides. They’re drawing external power rather than being self-contained.” Perseus tilted his head, listening to something Dawlish couldn’t hear. “High tide was an hour ago. Maximum containment strength. In six hours, when the tide goes out…”

“The wards will become unstable,” Dawlish finished.

“Probably why you’ve had so many ‘mysterious equipment failures’ over the years.” Perseus’s smile held the satisfaction of someone solving a puzzle. “Though it’s never been a problem before, since most prisoners couldn’t take advantage even if they knew.”

Dawlish set down his quill and really looked at the man across from him—no, not a man. An Olympian god, if his and Mills’s deductions were correct. The thought should have been terrifying, but instead Dawlish felt oddly relieved. At least now the impossible things they’d witnessed made sense.

“You’re not most prisoners,” he said carefully.

“No,” Jackson said simply. “I’m not.”

The weight of that admission settled between them; heavier now that Dawlish understood its true meaning. Finally, he consulted his forms: standard psychological evaluation questions about hearing voices, delusions of grandeur, paranoid fantasies. The absurdity of using them to assess a god wasn’t lost on him.

“The Ministry wants me to evaluate your psychological condition,” he said, though the words felt laughably inadequate.

Perseus’s eyebrows rose in genuine amusement. “And how exactly does one psychologically evaluate an Olympian?”

Dawlish’s breath caught. “You know that we know.”

“Mills figured it out first, didn’t he? The way he looked at me during patrols the other day—like he was finally seeing the whole picture.” Perseus leaned back, seeming almost relieved. “Clear Sight runs in his family line, I’d guess. Makes people good at seeing through divine misdirection.”

Dawlish decided not to be insulted that Perseus thought his deduction skills were worse than that of a Junior Auror barely out of training. “So it’s true. You’re actually one of the old gods.”

“The God of Heroes, to be specific. Also storms, courage, loyalty, battle, water, naval warfare—” Perseus waved a hand dismissively. “Zeus wasn’t very happy I amassed so many – wanted to force me to stay a minor god of heroes – but the Fates had their own ideas, I suppose.”

“Force?”

For the first time since Dawlish had met him, Perseus looked truly weary. “I was sixteen when I saved Olympus from the Titans. Thought I’d be rewarded with a normal life, maybe get to grow old with the girl I loved. Instead, Zeus decided I was too dangerous to remain mortal and made me a god against my will.” His voice turned bitter. “Apparently sixteen-year-olds don’t get to refuse divine ‘gifts’ from the King of the Gods.”

Dawlish felt something cold settle in his stomach. “So you’ve been immortal for…”

“Three thousand years, give or take a century. Watching every generation of heroes I train grow old and die while I remain exactly as I was at sixteen.” Perseus’s hands clenched. “Including Anthousa. The woman whose voice you heard in the depths.”

“But if she died three thousand years ago …”

“She did. I held her as she breathed her last, laid her to rest myself and burned her shroud with her family.” Perseus’s voice was raw with old pain. “But the voice down there knows things. Private conversations, the way she laughed, her exact words the night before my ascension. Either someone has complete access to my divine memories, or something has taken her soul and is using it as a weapon.”

Dawlish leaned forward, abandoning all pretence of official procedure. “What are we really dealing with down there?”

“Something that understands divine psychology well enough to target my specific weaknesses. Three millennia of guilt over leaving her to age alone, three millennia of wishing I could have chosen mortality.” Perseus met his eyes. “The corruption is using my own domains against me—loyalty twisted into obsession, love perverted into possession.”

“And the sacred bead you mentioned?”

“A Camp Half-Blood bead I gave to young wizard when I thought he had heroic potential. It contains part of me—my domain. If whoever’s controlling this knows their craft, they can use it to manipulate my emotions, memories, even my perception of reality.” Perseus’s expression grew fierce. “Which is why I need you to understand: if I start acting strangely, if I become obsessed with the maze, if I start claiming Anthousa is really down there… don’t trust me. Divine madness is a real thing, and ancient laws prevent other gods from intervening.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if I fall to this corruption, if it turns me into something twisted, Zeus won’t lift a finger to stop me. The Ancient Laws forbid divine interference in each other’s domains unless Olympus itself is threatened.” Perseus’s smile was sharp and bitter. “I’ll be on my own, just like I have been for three thousand years.”

The recording crystals pulsed softly, capturing every word of a conversation that would redefine everything Dawlish thought he knew about the magical world.

“Why tell me this?” Dawlish asked quietly. “Why trust mortal Aurors with divine secrets?”

“Because mortals are the only ones who can act without being bound by the Ancient Laws. Because you chose to help without knowing what I was, which means your motives are pure. Because sometimes the only way to fight monsters is to trust that there are still heroes in the world.” Perseus’s expression grew fierce. “And because if I fail, someone needs to know how to stop what I might become.”

“How?”

“Fiendfyre. Burn everything in that shrine—the statue, the bead, anything that could anchor the corruption to this reality. Don’t try to save the architecture or preserve evidence. Just burn it all and make sure nothing survives.”

Dawlish nodded, filing away instructions he prayed he’d never need to use. “And if we can’t reach the shrine?”

It felt wrong to call Perseus’s expression a smile. It was too sharp; too dangerous. For the first time, Dawlish caught a glimpse of the terrible power that had once saved Olympus itself.

“Then you evacuate everyone from a fifty-mile radius and hope that whatever gods are still paying attention can contain the damage when an Olympian god finally breaks.”

Mills found Perseus in Azkaban’s exercise yard, standing by the thin opening in the high walls, watching waves crash against rocks below. Away from the artificial lighting and oppressive corridors, he looked more human: tired, concerned, carrying impossible weights rather than radiating casual confidence.

“We’ve decided to help you,” Mills said without preamble, approaching across the wind-swept stone. “Dawlish and me. Officially or unofficially.”

Perseus turned, genuine surprise flickering in his dark eyes. “Help how?”

Mills set a canvas bag on the stone bench between them. It clinked softly with hidden contents. “Information. Resources. Access. Whatever you need.”

“That’s a significant risk,” Perseus observed, though he was already examining the bag with interest. “Assisting a prisoner, providing unauthorised materials …”

“Some things are more important than following orders,” Mills said, settling onto the bench despite the cold wind.

Perseus opened the bag and began examining ancient books on protective magic, communication crystals humming with energy, and small devices from the Ministry’s experimental division—instruments designed to detect supernatural threats that didn’t fit standard categories.

“Dawlish has friends in the Department of Mysteries,” Mills explained. “They’ve been quietly collecting information on ‘unusual phenomena’ for decades. The communication crystals link to Dumbledore’s office. And this—” he held up what appeared to be a small mirror “—is meant to show the true nature of disguised entities.”

Perseus examined the mirror with particular interest. “If whatever’s wearing Anthousa’s voice is an imposter, this should reveal its true form.” His expression grew troubled. “Though I’m not sure I want to know what I’ll see.”

They sat watching waves crash below, the sound rhythmic and hypnotic. Mills found himself thinking about the vast power contained in all that moving water—power the man beside him could supposedly command with a thought.

“Why?” Perseus asked finally. “You barely know me. For all you can tell, I really am just a delusional wizard. Why risk everything to help me?”

Mills stared out at the sea. “I’ve got a daughter. Seven years old, loves unicorns and fairy tales. Thinks Aurors are heroes who protect people from monsters.”

Perseus waited, understanding there was more.

“When I took this job, I thought the monsters were simple. Dark wizards, cursed objects, rogue creatures. Things that could be stopped with proper training and the right spells.” Mills turned to meet Perseus’s eyes. “But then I met you, and I realised the monsters are actually real. Ancient, powerful, patient. The kind that wait centuries for the right moment.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. “If those monsters win, if they get what they want from you, my daughter’s fairy tale world disappears. The magic that makes her eyes light up when she talks about heroes … it becomes something to be feared.”

Perseus stood and moved back to the window, looking out at endless grey water. “Helping me doesn’t guarantee a happy ending. Ancient powers don’t operate by fairy tale rules. Sometimes the hero fails. Sometimes saving the world requires sacrifices no one should have to make.”

“The alternative is doing nothing while something that feeds on corrupted love grows stronger beneath us,” Mills said firmly. “That’s not acceptable.”

Perseus turned back, and for a moment Mills saw something bright as summer sunshine in those dark eyes—like his words had injected hope directly into the god’s veins.

“All right,” Perseus said finally. “We do this together. But Mills—when this goes wrong, and it probably will, promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t let anyone convince you the monsters aren’t real. Don’t let them file reports saying this was all a misunderstanding. Because the next time something like this happens, the people who come after us need to know what they’re really facing.”

Mills nodded solemnly. “We’ll document everything. The real version.”

“Good.” Perseus picked up the bag, testing its weight. “Because there’s one more thing you need to understand. If I go back into that maze, if I hear Anthousa’s voice calling … I might not come back out as myself.”

“Then we don’t let you go alone,” Mills said firmly. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”

Perseus stared at him, then smiled—the first genuinely warm expression Mills had seen since their first meeting.

“You know,” Perseus said, “I think your daughter’s fairy tales might not be so far from the truth after all.”

Wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But for the first time since discovering the impossible door in Azkaban’s foundations, Mills felt something that might have been hope.

Because sometimes the monsters were real.

But sometimes, so were the heroes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: They Appeal from Tyranny to God

Harry did not consider himself a natural leader, but as he watched the members of The Unbound practise their defensive formations in the Room of Requirement, he had to admit there was something satisfying about seeing real improvement: even some of the Slytherins were beginning to look like they belonged on the same side.

“Right then,” Harry called, raising his voice over the sounds of flying hexes. “Let’s try the corridor defence pattern again. Remember what Jackson said about—”

The words died in his throat. For a moment, the room seemed to shimmer around him, the familiar stone walls flickering into something older, more primitive. He could smell earth and ancient magic, hear the distant sound of running water, and somewhere, impossibly far away, a woman’s voice speaking in a language that hurt his ears.

“Harry?” Hermione’s concerned voice pulled him back to the present. “Are you all right?”

He blinked, and the Room of Requirement solidified around him again. Twenty concerned faces were staring at him, and he realised he’d been standing motionless for several seconds.

“Fine,” he said quickly. “Just … tired. Where were we?”

“The corridor defence,” Ron said, but his expression suggested he wasn’t buying Harry’s explanation. “You were saying something about what Jackson taught us?”

Harry nodded, though the memory felt strangely distant. “Right. Form up in pairs, alternating shield and attack positions. When someone calls ‘rotation,’ you—”

I wait for the hero.

The words were in Harry’s own voice, emerging from his throat without his conscious control.

The room went dead silent.

“Er,” said Dean Thomas eventually. “That sounded … odd. What language was that?”

Harry stared at him, his heart beginning to race. “What do you mean? It was just … English, right?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Ginny said, frowning. “It was definitely something foreign.”

“What did I say?”

“We couldn’t understand it,” Hermione said slowly. “But it sounded … ominous.”

From across the room, Kallisto had gone very still, her face pale. When Harry met her eyes, he saw something that looked like recognition—and fear.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Hermione suggested gently. “You’ve been pushing yourself quite hard since Jackson left.”

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped, more sharply than he’d intended. “We need to keep training. He’s counting on us to—”

The surge of power that erupted from him was completely unexpected. Every piece of furniture in the room jumped sideways, several practice dummies exploded into stuffing, and the magical lights flickered wildly. For a brief moment, Harry’s eyes flashed with something that wasn’t quite human—something that, Kallisto thought, looked out-of-place on the face of a fifteen-year-old wizard.

Then it was over, leaving him swaying on his feet while his friends stared at him in alarm.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Ron breathed. “What was that?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but found he had no idea what to say.

It was well past midnight when Harry finally fell into an uneasy sleep. He was too rattled from the meeting to practice his Occlumency, resulting in the first prophetic dream since his vision of Arthur Weasley.

He found himself standing in what appeared to be a vast underground chamber, its walls carved with symbols that seemed to writhe in the flickering torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of old magic and something else—something that reminded him unpleasantly of the Chamber of Secrets.

Two figures stood in the centre of the space, their voices carrying clearly across the stone.

“The hero believes he can contain what he’s set in motion,” the first voice said, high and cold. Lord Voldemort, unmistakably, though Harry had never heard him sound quite so … deferential.

“Three thousand years I have waited for this debt to be paid,” replied the second voice—a woman’s, rich with ancient rage and bitter satisfaction. “The maze remembers everything. Every drop of blood spilled within it, every hero who thought himself clever enough to escape my domain.”

Harry tried to move closer, to see the woman’s face, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot.

“And you are certain he will come?” Voldemort asked.

The woman’s laughter was like the sound of distant thunder. “Oh, he will come. Loyalty is his fatal flaw, as it has always been. And when he does …” She switched languages but Harry still understood, though the words felt wrong in his mind. “Death will be too sweet.”

The woman turned slightly, and for a brief moment Harry caught a glimpse of her profile—beautiful in the way that predators were beautiful, with eyes that held depths of fury that made Voldemort’s madness seem like a child’s tantrum.

“The boy sees us,” she said suddenly, those terrible eyes turning directly toward Harry. “Perseus’s little project. How fitting that he should witness the beginning of his precious mentor’s end.”

Harry tried to scream, but no sound emerged. The woman smiled, and it was the most terrifying expression he’d ever seen.

“Give him our regards, child. Tell him the Labyrinth sends its love.”

Harry jolted awake, his scar burning like fire and his sheets soaked with sweat. The dream was already beginning to fade, but the woman’s words echoed in his mind: The maze remembers everything.

The Slytherin common room felt particularly oppressive that evening, its usual warmth replaced by an atmosphere thick with tension and whispered conversations. Kallisto sat in one of the deep leather armchairs near the fire, ostensibly reading a Transfiguration textbook but actually listening to the hushed discussions happening around her.

“—completely mental, if you ask me,” Theodore Nott was saying to a cluster of fifth-years. “Potter’s been having episodes all week. Yesterday in Care he just stared at nothing for five minutes, then started muttering under his breath.”

“It’s that mad professor’s influence,” muttered Pansy Parkinson. “Jackson. He’s turned half the school into wannabe soldiers.”

“Don’t let Umbridge hear you talking about student defence groups,” warned Blaise Zabini, settling into the chair across from Kallisto with an elegant grace that reminded her uncomfortably of her father. “She’s been asking questions about which Slytherins have been  … socialising with certain Gryffindors.”

Daphne Greengrass looked up from her Arithmancy homework, her pale eyes sharp with concern. “What sort of questions?”

“The sort that suggest she’s compiling lists,” Blaise replied grimly. “Names, family connections, political leanings. Anyone who’s been seen talking to Potter or his friends.”

Kallisto kept her expression carefully neutral, though her grip on her textbook tightened slightly. She’d grown genuinely fond of Daphne and Blaise over the past few weeks. They were among the few Slytherins who seemed to understand that the war wasn’t as simple as the pure-blood propaganda made it seem.

“Well,” Daphne said with characteristic caution, “some of us have always believed in … broader social connections. The question is whether that’s still wise.”

“Wise?” Parkinson’s voice dripped with disdain. “How very Ravenclaw of you, Greengrass. Some of us prefer to think about what’s profitable.”

“And what,” said a new voice from the other end of the common room, “could be more profitable than choosing the winning side?”

Everyone turned to see Draco Malfoy descending the stairs from the dormitories, his Inquisitorial Squad badge gleaming silver against his black robes. His pale eyes swept the assembled students with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he stood in the hierarchy.

“Malfoy,” Blaise acknowledged with a nod that managed to be both respectful and slightly wary.

“Zabini.” Malfoy’s attention shifted to Kallisto, and she felt something electric pass between them—not quite hostile, but certainly not friendly. “Lau. Still playing at being the noble hero, I see.”

There was a challenge to his voice. Kallisto loved a challenge.

“Someone has to,” she replied evenly. “Though I suppose some people prefer to bow and scrape to whoever’s in power this week.” She eyed his Inquisitorial Squad badge with obvious contempt.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Malfoy stepped closer, and Kallisto caught the faint scent of expensive cologne. “How delightfully simplistic.”

“Simple tends to work,” Kallisto said, rising from her chair. “Unlike whatever game you’re playing with that badge.”

The common room had gone very quiet. Even the fire seemed to crackle more softly.

Malfoy smirked. “At least I’m not throwing myself into danger to impress a teacher.”

The words hit their mark. Kallisto’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come now,” Malfoy continued, clearly enjoying himself. “We all know why you suddenly developed such enthusiasm for Jackson’s methods. Hero worship is so tragically obvious. Does daddy dearest not give you enough attention at home?”

“You don’t know anything about my motivations or my father,” Kallisto said, her voice dropping to a warning growl.

“Don’t I? Five years of keeping your head down, staying out of trouble, and then suddenly you’re Potter’s most devoted follower? All because our mysterious Defence professor pays you a bit of attention?”

“That’s not—”

“Of course it is,” Malfoy interrupted cruelly. “The question is whether you’re brave enough to admit it, or if you’ll keep pretending this is about noble ideals.”

Kallisto was about this close to putting her wand through Malfoy’s eye. No, she thought, I can’t screw up the first mission Dad has trusted me with. Finally, softly, she said, “At least I’m not a coward hiding behind my father’s reputation. Tell me, Malfoy, what happens when Daddy can’t protect you anymore? When the Dark Lord decides the Malfoy name isn’t worth what it used to be?”

Now it was Malfoy’s turn to go very still. “Careful, Lau.”

“Or what?” Kallisto stepped closer, and suddenly they were standing barely a foot apart, tension crackling between them like electricity. “You’ll tell Umbridge on me? Run crying to your father? Face it, Malfoy—you’re playing a game you don’t understand with stakes you can’t afford.”

“And you’re playing hero for a teacher who barely knows you exist,” Malfoy shot back, his voice low and vicious. “At least my father acknowledges me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Daphne and Blaise exchanged alarmed glances, while the other students seemed frozen in place.

Kallisto’s laugh was soft and utterly without humour. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t know me. None of them do. Five years in this house, and I’m just another face in the crowd … until I start throwing hexes around.”

Something shifted in Malfoy’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition.

“But you know what the difference is between us, Malfoy?” Kallisto continued, her voice gaining strength. “I’m done trying to earn approval from people who don’t deserve it. The question is: are you?”

She gathered her books and headed toward the stairs, pausing only when Malfoy called after her.

“This isn’t over, Lau.”

Kallisto turned back, and her smile was sharp as a blade. “No, it isn’t. See you in Defence tomorrow, Malfoy. Try to keep up.”

After she disappeared up the stairs, Malfoy remained motionless for several long moments, his expression unreadable.

“Well,” Blaise said eventually, “that was … intense.”

“She’s dangerous,” Parkinson muttered.

“Yes,” Malfoy said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the staircase. “She is.”

The History of Magic classroom felt particularly suffocating under Professor Umbridge’s reign. Kallisto had vague Mist-induced memories of Professor Binns boring students into merciful unconsciousness, which she ordinarily would have found torturous and probably have set something on fire to escape. Somehow, Umbridge’s lessons were worse, like being force-fed treacle laced with vinegar—sweet, sticky, and vaguely nauseating.

“Now then,” Umbridge chirped, practically bouncing in front of the blackboard in her violently pink robes, “who can tell me why the Ministry’s response to the 1749 Centaur Uprising was both necessary and proportionate?”

Kallisto doodled a small centaur in the margins of her parchment, giving it a decidedly unimpressed expression. The false memories floating around in her head included five years of various Hogwarts professors with unhinged opinions, but none of them had been quite this aggressively cheerful about historical oppression.

“Miss Parkinson?”

“Er … because the Ministry had to show that laws apply to everyone?” Pug-Face Parkinson ventured, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Wonderful! Five points to Slytherin.” Umbridge clapped her hands together with the enthusiasm of someone praising a particularly clever house-elf. “Proper authority must be maintained, no matter how … difficult the circumstances.”

She continued rabbiting on about the glorious wisdom of bureaucratic overreach, her voice taking on a peculiar edge that made Kallisto think the pleasure Umbridge derived from this was not purely cerebral.

“Of course,” Umbridge said, her smile sharpening as she surveyed the room, “some people prefer spreading doom and gloom rather than trusting our wonderful institutions. They go about claiming traditional methods aren’t good enough, filling children’s heads with nonsense about defending themselves against imaginary bogeymen.”

Several students suddenly found their quills absolutely fascinating. Everyone knew she was having another go at their former Defence teacher—and anyone who’d actually learned something useful in his classes.

“Miss Lau,” Umbridge said suddenly, zeroing in on Kallisto like a well-timed hex. “You look terribly thoughtful today. What’s your take on balancing proper education with these more … dramatic approaches some people favour?”

Kallisto looked up from her centaur drawing, which had somehow acquired a small speech bubble saying ‘bureaucrats are pillocks.’ “I suppose both have their place, Professor. History’s quite good at showing us what happens when people ignore obvious warning signs.”

“How refreshingly mature of you,” Umbridge said, though her tone suggested she found it about as refreshing as a mouthful of Flobberworms. “And what sort of warning signs might those be?”

“Well,” Kallisto said, warming to the theme, “authoritarian governments tend to collapse spectacularly when they spend too much time crushing dissent and not enough time actually governing.”

The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard a Bowtruckle sneeze. Half the class looked like they expected Umbridge to spontaneously combust, while the other half seemed to be calculating the distance to the door.

Umbridge’s smile had frozen into something that belonged in a horror story. “How … colourful. That’s quite an advanced perspective for someone your age. Wherever did you pick up such strong opinions about … governmental flexibility?”

“Books, mostly,” Kallisto replied innocently. “Amazing what you can learn when you actually read them.”

“Books.” Umbridge didn’t move, eyes fixed on Kallisto’s. “How wonderfully … comprehensive of you. Tell me, have you perhaps been receiving guidance from someone with particularly strong views on these matters?”

“Just Madam Pince, really. She’s got some brilliant recommendations if you know how to ask.”

“The librarian.” Umbridge pulled out her quill and made a note—the first time anyone had seen her take notes during one of these delightful propaganda sessions. “How curious. Because your previous teachers describe you as competent but hardly … outspoken. Yet here you are, holding forth about political theory like a seasoned revolutionary.”

The atmosphere in the room had shifted from ‘uncomfortable’ to ‘someone’s about to get detention until they’re thirty.’ Kallisto could practically feel her classmates holding their breath.

“Maybe I just never had anything interesting to say before,” she said with a shrug.

“Perhaps.” Umbridge circled closer, her pink cardigan somehow managing to look predatory. “And this sudden burst of … intellectual confidence … when exactly did this delightful transformation occur?”

“Hard to say,” Kallisto replied, going for casual and hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. “These things just sort of happen, don’t they?”

“Do they indeed?” Umbridge scribbled something else on her clipboard. “How fascinating. According to your records, you’ve been remarkably quiet about such matters for five whole years. One might wonder what’s inspired this sudden … awakening.”

Before Kallisto could think of a suitably vague response, the bell rang. Kallisto ushered off a quick prayer and wondered what dealing her father had made with Kronos to secure the fortunate timing. Students began packing up with the desperate efficiency of people fleeing a sinking ship.

“Miss Lau,” Umbridge called as everyone made their escape. “Do stay behind for a moment.”

Kallisto approached the desk with the same sullen saunter she approached Camp Half Blood’s climbing wall of fire.

“Such a stimulating discussion today,” Umbridge said, her voice dripping with false warmth. “Such passion for complex ideas. Such confidence in challenging established wisdom. Tell me, dear, have you been receiving any special … mentoring recently? Perhaps from someone who shares your rather unique worldview?”

“Not really, Professor. Just reading and thinking.”

“Just reading and thinking.” Umbridge’s smile could have curdled milk. “How remarkable. You know, I think I’ll be taking a special interest in your academic progress, Miss Lau. Students who show such dramatic … evolution often benefit from closer supervision.”

The threat was about as subtle as a troll in a tutu.

As Kallisto gathered her things and headed for the door, she could feel those pale eyes tracking her every movement. The scratch of quill on parchment followed her into the corridor.

Well, she thought grimly, that could have gone better.

“Guys,” Kallisto said, “I fucked up. I think it was bad.”

They were lounging in the April sunshine by the Black Lake, the laughter of students guaranteeing privacy better than any Silencing Charm.

“What happened?” Annabeth asked, though her expression suggested she could guess.

Kallisto gave them a blow-by-blow account of her verbal sparring match with Umbridge, complete with dramatic reenactment of the professor’s increasingly unhinged smile.

“Oh, brilliant,” Grover said weakly. “So you basically announced to the most paranoid woman in Britain that you’ve got suspiciously advanced political opinions and a mouth to match.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Kallisto rubbed her face. “In my defence, she was being particularly insufferable about historical oppression, and I may have … reacted.”

“You compared the Ministry to an authoritarian regime,” Annabeth said flatly. “In front of the woman who is Heinrich Himler to Fudge’s Hitler.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds even worse.”

“Because it is worse!” Grover squeaked. “She’s probably writing your name in her little black book right now. With stars and underlining and possibly some sort of ominous symbol.”

“The problem,” Annabeth said thoughtfully, “is that she’s noticed you’re not what you appeared to be for five years. According to the false memories, you were supposed to be quiet and unremarkable.”

“I was trying to be unremarkable,” Kallisto protested. “But she kept pushing, and she was being so smug about everything, and … oh, bollocks. She thinks someone’s been mentoring me, doesn’t she?”

“Almost certainly.” Annabeth’s expression was grim. “From her perspective, students don’t just wake up one morning with sophisticated political analysis and the confidence to challenge authority figures. Someone taught you to think like that.”

“But the beautiful thing about paranoid people,” Grover added with forced cheer, “is that they see conspiracies everywhere. She probably thinks half the school is being secretly radicalised by rogue librarians and subversive house-elves.”

“That’s not particularly comforting,” Kallisto said.

“It wasn’t meant to be comforting. It was meant to be realistic.” Grover slumped into the grass. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

“We’re in trouble,” Annabeth confirmed. “The question is how much trouble, and whether we can avoid making it worse.”

“Right,” Kallisto said, straightening up. “So from now on, I’ll be the picture of a reformed student. Quiet, respectful, and absolutely bursting with enthusiasm for Ministry-approved historical interpretation.”

“Can you manage that?” Annabeth asked sceptically.

“Probably not,” Kallisto admitted. “But I’ll give it a good try.”

“We’re doomed,” Grover muttered into his hands.

“Cheer up,” Kallisto said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

They all stared at her.

“Right,” she said quickly. “Pretend I didn’t ask that.”

The next morning brought with it a development that Harry was fairly certain would have sent Jackson into one of his more spectacular rages, had he been present to witness it.

“Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said crisply as Harry went to exit the Great Hall after breakfast, “a word, if you please.”

Harry’s stomach sank. McGonagall’s expression suggested that his display in the Room of Requirement the previous evening hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Professor?” he said, trying for innocent confusion.

“My office. Now.”

The walk to McGonagall’s office felt like a march to the gallows. Harry had always respected his Head of House, but there was something in her bearing this morning that reminded him uncomfortably of the way she’d looked whenever Professor Trelawney’s predictions were mentioned: professional, disappointed, and absolutely unmovable.

“Sit down, Potter,” McGonagall said once they’d reached her office. She moved to stand behind her desk, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I think it’s time we had a frank discussion about your recent … activities.”

“If this is about my extracurricular studying—”

“It most certainly is about your little study group.” McGonagall said sharply. “Potter, do you have any idea what you’ve become?”

The question caught him off guard. “I’m sorry?”

“Three months ago, you were a frightened, angry boy struggling with perfectly normal adolescent problems. Now?” McGonagall gestured at him as though he were a particularly mangled Transfiguration project. “Now you march around this castle like a general, organising students into military units and training them for combat as though they were soldiers rather than children.”

“We need to be prepared,” Harry said, feeling defensive. “Voldemort’s back, and—”

“Yes, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned. That doesn’t mean you should be teaching first-years to fight to the death.”

“I’m not—”

“Mr Longbottom,” McGonagall interrupted, “spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining to me why it was necessary for students to learn ‘combat formations for maximum lethality.’ Those were his exact words, Potter. When I suggested that perhaps children shouldn’t be focused on killing, he looked at me as though I’d suggested they learn to fly by jumping off the Astronomy Tower.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Neville’s just enthusiastic.”

“Neville Longbottom is traumatised,” McGonagall said flatly. “As are you, and half the students you’ve been ‘training.’ Professor Jackson may have meant well, but his methods have been …” She paused, clearly searching for the right word. “Inappropriate.”

“He’s trying to save our lives,” Harry said hotly. “Without his training, we can’t expect to—”

“Potter.” McGonagall’s voice cut across his protest. “You are fifteen years old. You should be worried about your OWLs and whether you’ll work up the courage to ask someone to the next Hogsmeade weekend. Instead, you’re leading what amounts to a child army and having what appear to be violent episodes in public spaces.”

Harry flushed. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly well.” McGonagall leaned forward, her expression intense. “I understand that you’ve been placed in an impossible situation by adults who should have protected you better. I understand that Professor Jackson, whatever his intentions, has treated you like a weapon to be sharpened rather than a child to be nurtured. And I understand that the psychological cost of that treatment is becoming increasingly apparent.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry protested, but even as he said it, he could hear how weak the words sounded.

McGonagall’s expression softened slightly. “Potter, when was the last time you laughed? Really laughed, not the bitter sort of amusement you seem to favour these days?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. He honestly couldn’t remember.

“When was the last time you did something simply because it brought you joy, rather than because it served some tactical purpose?”

Again, Harry couldn’t remember. He hadn’t had proper “fun” since Umbridge had banned him from Quidditch.

“Professor Jackson may be an excellent general for war,” McGonagall said quietly. “He may be courageous, driven and strategic. But generals often make terrible teachers. They’re so focused on the destination that they forget to consider the price of the journey. And Potter …” She looked at him with something that might have been pity. “You’re paying a very high price indeed.”

Before Harry could respond, the office door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Kallisto Lau stood in the doorway, her usually perfect composure completely shattered.

“Professor McGonagall,” she said, breathing hard, “you need to come quickly. Something’s wrong in the corridor near the Defence classroom. It’s Harry—he’s having some sort of fit, and Professor Umbridge is there, and everything’s going to the crows.”

Harry and McGonagall exchanged confused glances.

“Miss Lau,” McGonagall said carefully, “Mr Potter is sitting right here.”

Kallisto blinked, then looked at Harry as though seeing him for the first time. Her expression shifted from confusion to alarm to something approaching panic.

“Oh,” she said faintly. “Oh, that’s … that’s not good.”

Without another word, she turned and sprinted from the office, leaving Harry and McGonagall staring after her.

“Potter,” McGonagall said grimly, “I believe we had better investigate this situation. Immediately.”

The scene in the corridor outside the Defence classroom could most charitably be described as chaos.

A crowd of students had gathered in a rough circle, their faces ranging from fascinated to terrified. In the centre of the circle, Harry – or someone who looked exactly like him – was standing rigidly still, his eyes rolled back in his head while he spoke in what sounded like a foreign language, though the words somehow felt both familiar and wrong in Harry’s ears. Occasionally, sparks of magic would arc from his wand, scorching the stone walls.

“Stand back!” Professor Umbridge was shouting, her usual composure completely abandoned. “Everyone stand back immediately!”

“What’s happening to him?” Hermione demanded. She was standing at the edge of the circle with Ron and several other members of The Unbound, her face pale with worry.

“Some sort of possession,” Umbridge snapped. “Clearly the result of dangerous illegal magic practices. I warned the Headmaster that allowing unauthorised magical training would lead to—”

She broke off as the Harry-figure turned toward her, still speaking in that strange language but with a distinctly ominous tone. The real Harry found he could understand the words despite never learning the language: “Three thousand years I have waited for this debt to be paid.”

“Merlin’s pants,” the real Harry said under his breath. “This is definitely not normal.”

Before McGonagall could stop him, he pushed through the crowd toward his doppelganger. As he got closer, he could make out more of the words—something about waiting, about ancient debts, about a maze that remembered everything.

From across the circle, Kallisto had gone very still, her face pale with what looked like recognition and growing alarm.

“Harry, don’t!” Hermione called, but he was already reaching out toward the other version of himself.

The moment his fingers made contact, several things happened at once.

The false Harry vanished like smoke, leaving the real Harry stumbling forward. A surge of power erupted from the spot where the apparition had stood, sending several students tumbling backwards. Kallisto, who had been standing just outside the circle, moved with impossible speed to catch a falling chunk of masonry that would have otherwise crushed a terrified-looking second-year.

The masonry – which had to weigh at least two hundred kilos – stopped in her hands as though it weighed nothing at all. For a moment that seemed to stretch forever, she stood there holding it above her head, her muscles showing no strain whatsoever.

Then she seemed to realise what she’d done. She set the stone down gently, brushed dust from her robes, and looked around at the circle of staring faces with an expression of mild concern.

“Is everyone all right?” she asked politely.

The silence that followed was broken by Neville’s voice, shaky but determined: “That stone weighs more than you do.”

Kallisto turned to look at him, her expression carefully neutral. “I’ve been working out.”

“No one works out that much,” Neville said, stepping forward with more courage than Harry had ever seen him display outside of The Unbound.

From the edge of the crowd, Draco Malfoy watched this exchange with sharp grey eyes. Still, he remained silent, his hand resting on his Inquisitorial Squad badge.

“Enough!” Umbridge’s voice cracked like a whip, her earlier satisfaction now replaced by barely controlled panic. “I will have answers, and I will have them now!” She turned to McGonagall, her face flushed with anger and what might have been fear. “Minerva, you will explain to me immediately what sort of dangerous creatures you’ve allowed into this school!”

“I beg your pardon?” McGonagall said icily.

“This girl is clearly some dangerous Half-Breed,” Umbridge continued, gesturing wildly at Kallisto. “And this …” She waved at the scorch marks on the walls. “This is obviously the result of dark magic contamination spreading throughout the student body. I will not tolerate—”

“You’ll tolerate whatever I tell you to tolerate,” McGonagall interrupted, her voice dangerously quiet. “And you will lower your voice when addressing me, Dolores.”

“Dolores, please stop this and think a minute!”

The new voice cut through the argument. Professor Tonks had appeared at the edge of the crowd, looking concerned and slightly out of breath. She stepped forward, positioning herself protectively in front of the students.

“Everyone needs to calm down,” she said firmly. “Whatever’s happened here, we can sort it out without threatening children.”

Umbridge’s eyes fixed on Tonks with a look that made Harry’s blood run cold. “Nymphadora. How … convenient that you’ve arrived.”

“The students aren’t the problem here, Dolores,” Tonks said, her voice steady despite the obvious tension. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private—”

“Oh, I think this is quite private enough,” Umbridge interrupted. She took a step closer to Tonks, and Harry noticed that her wand was still in her hand. “You see, I’ve been putting pieces together. This girl …” She gestured at Kallisto. “She’s not really a student, is she? She’s connected to him. To Jackson.”

Tonks’s expression didn’t change, but Harry saw her hand move subtly toward her own wand.

“And you,” Umbridge continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “you’re part of it too. All of this – the illegal training, the dangerous influences, the corruption spreading through this school – it all leads back to him. And to you.”

“Dolores,” McGonagall said sharply, “you’re being ridiculous—”

“Am I?” Umbridge’s laugh was high and unstable. “A pregnant witch, carrying the child of a man who commands storms and speaks to monsters? A girl who catches falling stones with her bare hands? Magical apparitions that speak in tongues? This isn’t coincidence, Minerva. This is conspiracy.”

The air in the corridor seemed to grow heavy with tension. Harry could see the other students backing away, sensing that something terrible was about to happen.

“You’re going to tell me where he is,” Umbridge said, raising her wand toward Tonks. “You’re going to tell me everything about this network of dangerous individuals, or—”

“Or what?” Tonks interrupted quietly.

“Or you’ll learn that there are consequences for those who threaten the authority of the Ministry.”

“Dolores, put that wand down,” McGonagall commanded, but Umbridge wasn’t listening anymore.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The spell hit Tonks square in the chest, and she toppled backward like a felled tree. The sickening crack of her head hitting the stone floor echoed through the corridor.

“Expelliarmus!”

The disarming spell came from behind the crowd, powerful enough to send Umbridge’s wand flying and knock her to the ground. Everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore striding toward them, his face set in an expression of cold fury that Harry had never seen before.

“How dare you,” Dumbledore said, his voice impugned with absolute authority and barely contained rage. “How dare you attack a member of my staff.”

Umbridge scrambled to her feet, her face flushed with a mixture of pain and triumph. “You attacked me! You attacked a Ministry official!”

“I disarmed someone who had just cursed an innocent woman,” Dumbledore replied, moving to kneel beside Tonks. “Poppy! Someone get Madam Pomfrey!”

“WITNESSES!” Umbridge shrieked, backing away from Dumbledore. “I need witnesses! The Headmaster attacked me! Unprovoked assault on a Ministry representative!”

The sound of running footsteps echoed from multiple directions. Within moments, the corridor was filled with more teachers, students, and – most ominously – Minister Fudge himself, flanked by several Aurors in official robes.

“Cornelius,” Umbridge said, her voice shaking with what sounded like genuine distress. “Thank Merlin you’re here. Dumbledore just attacked me!”

Fudge’s eyes took in the scene: Dumbledore kneeling beside an unconscious Tonks; Umbridge’s wand on the floor; scorch marks on the walls; dozens of frightened students.

“Albus,” Fudge said, his voice heavy with what might have passed as disappointment to anyone who didn’t know him. “What have you done?”

“I protected a member of my staff from an unprovoked attack,” Dumbledore replied without looking up from Tonks. “Dolores cursed Professor Tonks, who is pregnant, and sent her crashing to the floor.”

“He’s lying!” Umbridge protested. “I was conducting a legitimate investigation into dangerous magical contamination when he attacked me!”

“Professor Dumbledore didn’t attack anyone,” Hermione shouted. “We all saw what happened—”

“Silence,” Fudge snapped. “This is a Ministry matter now.” He looked around at the gathered crowd, his expression growing more grave by the moment. “Albus, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us for questioning.”

“Cornelius,” McGonagall said sharply, “this is preposterous. Albus was protecting—”

“The evidence speaks for itself, Minerva,” Fudge interrupted. “Dolores has been the victim of a magical attack by the Headmaster of this school. Under Emergency Decree 847, I have no choice but to place Albus Dumbledore under arrest and remove him from his position immediately.”

Harry watched in horror as several Aurors moved forward, their wands drawn.

“That won’t be necessary,” Dumbledore said quietly, rising from beside Tonks. Madam Pomfrey had appeared and was already tending to the unconscious woman. “I believe it would be best if I took my leave. For everyone’s safety.”

“Albus Dumbledore,” Fudge said formally, “you are under arrest for assault on a Ministry official. You will come with us immediately for questioning.”

“I think not,” Dumbledore replied mildly.

And then, with a brilliant flash of fire and the sound of phoenix song, Dumbledore vanished from the corridor.

The silence that followed was broken by Umbridge’s voice, though it came out as more of a croak than her usual simpering tone.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat with obvious difficulty. “I suppose I am now Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

But as she spoke, Harry noticed something odd. Her reflection in the window behind her seemed to be moving just a fraction of a second behind her actual movements.

Kallisto moved over and grabbed Harry by the shoulder. “Get away from her,” she whispered . “Everyone needs to get away from her. Now.”

“Why?” Ron asked, but he was already backing away.

“Because,” Kallisto said, her voice tight with an emotion Harry couldn’t identify, “I think she just broke a very serious promise to a very dangerous person.”

As if summoned by her words, the shadows in the corridor began to move independently of their casters. The temperature dropped ten degrees in as many seconds. And somewhere – impossibly far away but growing closer – Harry could swear he heard the sound of storm clouds gathering.

“Oh,” he said faintly, understanding flooding through him. “Oh, that’s really not good.”

Umbridge tried to scream, but no sound emerged. When she looked at her reflection in the window, it waved at her with someone else’s hand

In a fortress hundreds of miles away, Perseus, God of Heroes, felt the exact moment his oath was broken.

The psychic shock of it hit him like a physical blow, driving him to his knees in the courtyard of Azkaban. For a moment, the world went white with fury and power; every piece of glass in the prison shattered simultaneously.

When his vision cleared, he was standing in the ruins of what had once been the exercise yard, Dawlish staring at him with an expression of profound alarm.

“What,” Perseus thundered, “has that woman done to my family?”

The storm that erupted over the North Sea could be seen from three countries. In Hogwarts, the very stones of the castle began to sing with harmonies that hadn’t been heard since the day it was built.

And in the corridors where Dolores Umbridge stood trapped in the consequences of her own choices, the shadows began to whisper in Ancient Greek.

The Styx, after all, always collected its debts.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: Perfect Lies and Sweet Illusions

Harry’s scar exploded with pain in the early hours of Friday morning, dragging him from sleep with such violence that he tumbled out of bed, gasping. But this wasn’t the usual sharp burn—this was different. Deeper. As if something vast and ancient was pressing against his mind, filling it with images that felt both foreign and terrifyingly familiar.

Stone corridors. Ancient and cold. The sound of chains.

Jackson—but not Jackson as Harry knew him. This version was bound, kneeling, his dark hair matted with liquid gold that shimmered in the half-light. His eyes, usually so piercing and focused, were dulled with pain.

“Tell me where it is, Perseus,” a voice hissed, high and cold. Voldemort, but speaking words that seemed to echo with power older than wizarding magic.

Jackson said nothing, but his jaw tightened. The chains around his wrists glowed with malevolent energy.

“Your silence protects no one,” Voldemort continued, circling the bound figure like a predator. “Every moment you delay, the corruption spreads. Soon your precious students will face threats they cannot comprehend.”

Still Jackson remained silent, though Harry could feel his anguish like a physical weight.

“The Department has such interesting  … experimental facilities,” Voldemort continued. “We could keep this up for quite some time.”

Harry sat up in his four-poster, trying to calm his racing heart whilst the dormitory settled back into pre-dawn quiet around him. The vision had been different from his usual nightmares—more intense, more personal. He’d felt connected to Jackson’s suffering in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of his link to Voldemort, but this time the connection had carried something else: a pull out of Hogwarts.

Across the dormitory, Grover Underwood was sitting bolt upright in his own bed, his usually cheerful face pale with distress.

“Harry?” Grover whispered. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Was it about Perseus?”

Harry stared at him. “How did you—”

“Had the same dream, didn’t I?” Grover said, scrambling out of bed. “Bet Kallisto and Annabeth did too. We need to get to the Room of Requirement. Now.”

“What kind of dream?” Harry asked, though he was already pulling on his robes.

“The kind where someone you care about is getting the shit kicked out of them,” Grover said bluntly, and Harry caught something in his voice that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with such warnings.

They made their way through Hogwarts’s corridors as quietly as possible, using every shortcut Harry had learned over five years of midnight wandering. When they reached the Room of Requirement, Harry paced back and forth three times, thinking: We need somewhere to meet. We need to help Professor Jackson. We need answers.

The door appeared, and they slipped inside to find a circular room with comfortable seating arranged around a central fireplace. Kallisto and Annabeth were already there, both looking as though they’d dressed hastily and neither appearing entirely human in the flickering firelight.

“You had the dreams too,” Kallisto said the moment they walked in. Her dark hair was a mess and she looked like she’d thrown on the first clothes she could find.

“Dreams about Jackson being tortured?” Harry asked. “About him calling for help from somewhere underground?”

Annabeth rubbed her eyes tiredly. “That’s the one. Somewhere old.”

“I felt his pain,” Harry said reluctantly. “Through … through something. But I don’t know if it was real or just my brain being mental.”

“It was real,” Grover said firmly. “Trust me, normal nightmares don’t feel like that. This was different.”

“Different how?” Harry asked.

The other three glanced at each other—one of those looks that teenagers give when they’re deciding how much to tell the adults.

“Look,” Kallisto said finally, “we’re not exactly normal, all right? We get … warnings sometimes. When people we care about are in trouble.”

Before Harry could ask what that meant, footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Ron and Hermione appeared in the doorway, both looking concerned and slightly annoyed.

“Harry,” Hermione said sharply, “what are you doing wandering around at five in the morning? And why is your Galleon glowing like a Christmas ornament?”

Harry looked down at the coin, which was indeed pulsing with golden light. “I didn’t activate it.”

“I did,” Grover said, looking slightly guilty. “Emergency protocol. We need everyone here.”

“Everyone?” Ron asked, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “Mate, it’s five in the bloody morning. This better be life or death.”

“It might be,” Harry said seriously. “We have to go. Now. If Voldemort’s got him—”

“Wait,” Hermione interrupted, her voice sharp with concern. “Harry, think about this. What if it’s a trap? What if someone’s trying to lure you there?”

“It’s not a trap,” Harry said firmly. “I saw it, Hermione. Jackson was really there, really in pain. We can’t just leave him.”

“But Harry—”

“No!” Harry’s voice cracked slightly. “I’m not leaving him to be tortured because you think it might be a trick.”

Annabeth was studying both of them with worried grey eyes. “Hermione’s not wrong to be cautious. If someone wanted to lure us somewhere, showing us Perseus in danger would be the most effective method.”

“So what?” Kallisto shot back. “We just abandon him?”

“We verify first,” Annabeth said firmly. “Check if he’s actually missing. Gather information before we go charging in.”

“While Jackson suffers?” Harry demanded.

“While we think,” Hermione said, moving to stand beside Annabeth. “Harry, please. What if this is exactly what someone wants us to do?”

Harry clenched his fists, frustration warring with the small voice in his head that knew Hermione might be right. But the image of Jackson in chains, the sound of his pain, felt too real to ignore.

“Fine,” he said finally. “We check first. But if he’s really gone, we’re going after him.”

“Agreed,” Kallisto said immediately.

Annabeth and Hermione exchanged a look that suggested they weren’t entirely satisfied with this compromise, but Grover stepped forward.

“Then we’d better move quickly,” he said. “If this is a trap, they’ll be expecting us to waste time arguing.”

Within thirty minutes, the Room of Requirement had transformed into something resembling a war council. The circular seating had been replaced by a large central table surrounded by chairs, maps of the Ministry spread across its surface alongside detailed architectural drawings that Eddie Carmichael had somehow procured from the Ravenclaw common room’s extensive library.

Harry looked around at the assembled faces—nearly forty students from all four houses, their expressions grim but determined. It struck him how natural this felt now, how easily they’d fallen into their tactical units without needing instruction.

“Right,” he said, feeling the weight of their attention settle on him. “We need to assume Jackson’s been taken to the Department of Mysteries. But before we go charging in, we need intelligence.”

Within minutes, intelligence flowed in from all units: Alpha had siege tactics and ward rotation schedules, Beta had evacuation routes, Gamma reported old families activating panic protocols, and Delta mapped multiple extraction points.

The Twins have been working on diversionary tactics,” Ginny added, her eyes bright with the kind of dangerous enthusiasm that reminded Harry why Slytherins respected her despite her house. “Ways to keep Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad busy while we’re gone. Can’t have them noticing we’ve all disappeared.”

“Speaking of Umbridge,” Adrian Pucey said darkly, “she’s been … unstable since yesterday. Something’s got her rattled. She’s been muttering about oaths and consequences.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, feeling a surge of pride in what they’d all become. “So our approach is—”

“Hold on,” Hermione interrupted, her voice sharp with sudden realisation. “We’re missing something crucial. How do we actually get to the Department of Mysteries? The Floo networks will be monitored, Apparition is restricted, and walking in through the Atrium would be suicide.”

The room fell silent as the obvious problem hit them all at once.

Annabeth and Kallisto exchanged a meaningful look, some silent communication passing between them.

“There might be another way,” Annabeth said carefully. “But it would mean trusting us about something we haven’t told you yet.”

“What kind of something?” Hermione asked, her eyes narrowing.

Grover shifted uncomfortably. “It’s … complicated. And dangerous. More dangerous than anything you’ve trained for.”

“More dangerous than rescuing someone from You-Know-Who?” Ron asked sceptically.

“Different kind of dangerous,” Kallisto said. “The kind that involves very old magic and places that don’t follow normal rules.”

Harry studied the three students, noting the way they seemed to be having an internal debate without words. “You know a way to get to the Department of Mysteries without going through normal channels.”

“We know a way,” Annabeth admitted. “But using it means exposing you to things your world isn’t supposed to know about. Things Perseus has been protecting you from.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Kallisto said firmly. “If we want to reach him, we need to use every advantage we have.”

“And it means going somewhere else first,” Grover added quietly. “To … verify things.”

Harry looked around the room at faces that had become far too familiar with discussions of tactics and emergency procedures. A year ago, most of these students had been worried about OWLs and Quidditch matches. Now they were planning an assault on a government facility with the casual competence of trained soldiers.

Jackson would be proud, he thought, and wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

“Right,” he said finally. “We verify first. Then we follow whatever path you three know to get to him.”

“And if it is a trap?” Hermione asked one last time.

Harry met her eyes, thinking of Jackson in chains, of the pain he’d felt through their connection. “Then we spring it properly.”

The Room of Requirement’s transformation was more dramatic than usual. Where the war council table had been, now stood a door of black marble shot through with veins of silver. Strange symbols crawled across its surface—ancient writing that made Harry’s eyes water if he looked at it directly.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered. “That definitely doesn’t look like normal Hogwarts stonework.”

“Labyrinth entrance,” Grover confirmed, though his voice shook slightly. “Should get us to where we need to go. Though time gets a bit wonky inside, so we might arrive before we left, or after Perseus has been moved, or …”

“Or next bloody Tuesday,” Annabeth finished. “The Labyrinth doesn’t really care about normal time.”

“Brilliant,” Neville muttered. “Mental interdimensional travel to verify if our Defence teacher’s been kidnapped. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Pretty much everything,” Kallisto said with dark humour. “But we’ve done worse.”

As Kallisto pushed open the marble door, revealing a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity, Harry felt his scar give another painful twinge—as though something vast and malevolent had just taken notice of their intentions.

The corridor beyond was nothing like Harry had expected from something called a “labyrinth.” Instead of narrow stone passages, they found themselves walking through what appeared to be a medieval castle’s great hall. Tapestries hung from towering walls, depicting battles between heroes and creatures that seemed to shift and move when observed from the corner of one’s eye. Torches burned with cold, silver fire, casting shadows that danced independently of their flames.

“That’s definitely not inviting,” Ron observed, but his expression grew distant as he studied the portal. “Though … I can see through it. There’s a path that cuts straight through the maze’s tricks.”

“Clear Sight?” Annabeth asked.

“This is mental,” Ron muttered, his hand never leaving his wand. “How can a maze be this  … big?”

“The Labyrinth exists in the spaces between things,” Annabeth said, drawing a bronze knife that definitely hadn’t been visible moments before. “Between worlds, between times, between what is and what might be. Normal rules don’t really apply.”

“That’s deeply unhelpful,” Hermione said, though she was already taking notes in a small journal. “What sort of ‘spaces between’? Are we talking dimensional theory, or temporal displacement, or—”

“The kind that’ll drive you mad if you think about it too hard,” Grover interrupted, pulling out what looked suspiciously like a set of reed pipes. “Just accept that we’re somewhere that shouldn’t exist and try not to question it too much.”

They’d been walking for perhaps ten minutes when the first voice reached them—distant, echoing, and heartbreakingly familiar.

“Help … someone please … I can’t hold them off much longer …”

Harry’s head snapped up, his scar giving a painful twinge. “That’s Jackson!”

He started forward immediately, but Kallisto caught his arm with surprising strength.

“Don’t,” she said urgently. “That’s not really him.”

“What d’you mean it’s not him?” Harry demanded, trying to pull free. “I can hear him calling for help!”

“You can hear what the Labyrinth wants you to hear,” Annabeth said grimly. “It feeds on hope and desperation. It shows you what you most want to find, then leads you deeper until you’re completely lost.”

“But we can all hear it—”

“We can all hear something,” Grover corrected, his voice tense. “Doesn’t mean it’s real. Look, Ron—you’re Clear Sighted, right? What do you actually see down that corridor?”

Ron squinted in the direction the voice was coming from, his expression growing troubled. “Nothing. Just … darkness. The corridor just ends in a pit that goes down forever.”

The voice came again, closer this time, tinged with pain and desperation. “Please … they’re using me as bait … don’t trust your eyes … find the real path …”

Luna tilted her head, listening with the sort of dreamy attention she usually reserved for invisible creatures. “That’s interesting. The voice is warning us not to trust it.”

“Probably trying to be more convincing,” Hermione said, though she looked uncertain. “Reverse psychology.”

“Or maybe Jackson’s fighting back,” Harry said desperately. “Maybe he’s trying to warn us through whatever’s controlling the Labyrinth.”

“Maybe,” Kallisto said, but her voice carried no conviction. “But we’re not following that voice. Trust me on this—if we go down that path, we’ll never come back.”

“Then which way do we go?” Ginny asked, looking around at the multiple corridors that branched off from the great hall.

“The way that feels wrong,” Grover said with the sort of certainty that suggested experience. “The Labyrinth wants to confuse us, so the route that seems most dangerous is probably the one we need.”

He pointed towards a narrow archway that looked distinctly uninviting. Unlike the grand corridors around them, this passage was cramped, poorly lit, and seemed to radiate a sense of unease that made Harry’s skin crawl.

“That one,” Annabeth agreed. “Definitely that one.”

The narrow passage led them through a bewildering series of chambers that defied all logic. One moment they were walking through what appeared to be an ancient Egyptian temple, hieroglyphs glowing faintly on walls that seemed to breathe. The next, they found themselves in what looked like a medieval monastery, complete with rows of empty desks and the lingering scent of old parchment.

“This is doing my head in,” Ron complained as they passed through what looked like a 1920s speakeasy, jazz music echoing from hidden speakers. “How can all this fit in one place?”

“It doesn’t,” Annabeth explained, consulting what appeared to be a map drawn on ancient parchment. “The Labyrinth connects to anywhere that’s ever been lost or forgotten. Every abandoned building, every destroyed city, every place that time has swallowed up.”

They’d been walking for what felt like hours when the corridor ahead began to change. The eclectic architecture gave way to something that felt deliberately pleasant—a sunlit garden with flowers blooming in impossible colours. A gentle breeze carried the scent of home, and somewhere in the distance, Harry could hear the sound of children’s laughter.

“Oh, no,” Grover whispered. “Not good. Really, really not good.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Neville asked. “It’s just a garden.”

“That’s the problem,” Annabeth said, backing away from the entrance. “The Labyrinth doesn’t do ‘pleasant.’ If it’s showing us something beautiful, something that makes us want to stay …”

“It’s a trap,” Kallisto finished. “The worst kind. Come on, we need to find another route.”

But as they turned to leave, the sound of children’s laughter grew louder, more inviting. Harry felt an almost overwhelming urge to step into the garden, to rest for just a moment in a place that felt safe and warm.

“Harry,” Hermione said sharply. “Your eyes have gone funny.”

Harry blinked, realising he’d been walking towards the garden without conscious thought. “I … sorry. It just looks so …”

“I know,” Grover said sympathetically, playing a few soft notes on his pipes. The music seemed to clear Harry’s head, pushing back the garden’s influence. “That’s why it’s dangerous. The Labyrinth’s really good at showing you exactly what you need to see.”

They backtracked quickly, finding an alternative route through what appeared to be a series of office buildings from different decades. The fluorescent-lit corridors and stale coffee smell were deeply unpleasant, but at least they didn’t trigger any supernatural compulsions.

“How much further?” Luna asked as they passed through a section that looked distinctly like the Ministry of Magic, complete with purple memo aeroplanes swooping overhead.

“We’re getting close,” Annabeth said, checking her map again. “I can feel our destination’s magical signature. All that concentrated despair leaves quite an impression.”

The walls around them suddenly shuddered, and something roared in the distance—a sound that made Harry’s bones ache.

“That’s new,” Grover said nervously.

A section of wall exploded outward, showering them with stone fragments. Something massive and hairy pushed through the gap—not quite bear, not quite lion, with far too many teeth and eyes that glowed red in the dim light.

“Everyone down!” Annabeth shouted, but Kallisto was already moving, her bronze spear appearing in her hands as she charged the creature.

The beast swiped at her with claws the size of dinner plates, but she rolled under the attack and drove her spear deep into its flank. It roared again, this time with pain, and turned its attention fully on her.

“A little help here!” she called out, dancing backwards as the creature pursued her.

Harry raised his wand, but Grover was already playing his pipes in earnest. The music rose to an impossible volume, and suddenly the corridor was filled with grapevines that wrapped around the beast’s legs, slowing its charge.

“Nature magic,” Hermione breathed in amazement.

Annabeth had circled around behind the creature, her bronze knife flashing as she struck at what Harry assumed were vital points. The beast stumbled, then crashed to the ground with a final, pitiful whine, dissolving into golden dust.

“Is it dead?” Ron asked, his wand still trained on the pile of sparkling sand.

“Probably,” Kallisto said, retrieving her spear. “Though when it comes to these kinds of creatures, ‘dead’ is more of a guideline than a rule.”

“Right,” Harry said, trying to project more confidence than he felt. “Let’s keep moving before anything else decides to say hello.”

The final corridor opened onto what appeared to be a maintenance area deep within a fortress’s foundations. Bare stone walls, minimal lighting, and the ever-present sound of waves crashing against stone. Most importantly, there were voices ahead—human voices, speaking in the clipped tones of Ministry officials.

“—completely unprecedented situation,” someone was saying. “We’ve never had a prisoner simply announce they were leaving.”

“Did he actually leave?” another voice asked. “Or is he just … elsewhere in the fortress?”

“Oh, he left all right. Took off this morning after receiving some kind of message. Looked official, delivered by phoenix.”

Harry gestured for silence, and they crept closer to the voices. Around a corner, they could see two Aurors in official robes, both looking exhausted and more than a little shell-shocked.

Harry made the decision for all of them. Stepping around the corner, he cleared his throat loudly enough to get the Aurors’ attention.

“Excuse me,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We’re looking for Professor Jackson.”

The two Aurors spun around, hands going to their wands before taking in the group of teenagers in Hogwarts robes.

“Students?” The shorter one—his badge read ‘Mills’—looked baffled. “How in Merlin’s name did you get here?”

“That’s … complicated,” Harry said. “But we think Professor Jackson might be in danger, and we need to find him.”

The taller Auror—’Dawlish’ according to his badge—let out a bark of laughter that held no humour.

“Danger?” he said. “Son, I hate to break it to you, but Perseus Jackson is probably the most dangerous thing in the entire wizarding world right now. The question isn’t whether he’s in danger—it’s whether anyone else is safe from him.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, her analytical mind clearly working through the implications.

The two Aurors exchanged a look that suggested they’d been having a very long and very strange day.

“Come on then,” Mills said finally. “You’ve come this far, you might as well hear the whole story. But I warn you—nothing you learn today is going to make sense according to anything they teach you at Hogwarts.”

They followed the Aurors deeper into Azkaban’s administrative sections. The area looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Office furniture had been fused into abstract sculptures by incredible heat, filing cabinets had been turned inside-out by forces Harry couldn’t begin to understand, and the walls bore scorch marks that formed patterns too deliberate to be accidental.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, staring at what had once been a desk but was now more of a metallic flower. “What happened here?”

“Jackson happened,” Mills said dryly, leading them through the wreckage. “Turns out trying to confine someone with his particular … capabilities … doesn’t go as smoothly as Ministry protocol suggests.”

“He did all this?” Neville asked, his voice carrying a mixture of awe and concern.

“This was him being cooperative,” Dawlish said cheerfully. “You should see what the cells look like after he politely declined to stay in one.”

They reached what had once been an interview room but was now more of an impact crater with walls. A single desk sat in the centre, somehow untouched by whatever force had rearranged everything else. On it lay a stack of official-looking documents and what appeared to be a child’s drawing in crayon.

“We’ve been documenting everything,” Dawlish said, pulling out a battered notebook that looked like it had survived several minor explosions. “His abilities, his reactions, the things he’s told us about what’s been happening.”

“What sort of abilities?” Hermione asked carefully.

Mills settled into one of the few chairs that remained intact. “The sort that aren’t entirely human.”

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna all stared at him. Kallisto, Annabeth and Grover, however, remained suspiciously silent.

“Not entirely human,” Harry repeated slowly. “What do you mean?”

Dawlish consulted his notes. “I mean that Professor Perseus Jackson is, according to his own testimony, a three-thousand-year-old Greek god.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Harry could hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the fortress walls.

“A god,” Hermione said faintly.

“An honest-to-Merlin, reality-bending divine being,” Mills confirmed. “Specifically, Perseus, God of Heroes. Which explains quite a lot, actually.”

“You’re having us on,” Ron said weakly.

“I wish we were,” Dawlish replied. “But the evidence is rather compelling. Would you like to see the recording crystals from his interviews? Or perhaps the structural damage reports?”

Kallisto, Annabeth, and Grover were still saying nothing, but Harry noticed they didn’t look particularly surprised by these revelations.

“You three knew,” he said, turning to face them. “You bloody well knew he was a god.”

“We suspected,” Annabeth said carefully.

“Suspected?” Ginny’s voice rose. “You suspected our Defence teacher was an immortal divine being and you didn’t think to mention it?”

“It’s complicated,” Grover said weakly.

“Complicated how?” Neville demanded.

Another of those meaningful looks passed between the three others. Finally, Kallisto seemed to come to a decision.

“Because we’re not entirely human either,” she said quietly.

The silence returned with interest.

“So when you said Perseus was your father,” Harry said slowly, “you meant Perseus the actual god was your father.”

“That’s right.”

“And you,” he continued, looking at Annabeth, “are you related to any ancient deities?”

“Daughter of Athena,” Annabeth confirmed. “Goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said faintly. “And you?” He looked at Grover.

“Satyr,” Grover said, and suddenly his legs shifted beneath his robes, becoming distinctly goat-like. Small horns sprouted from his curly hair. “Nature spirit. Professional protector of demigods.”

“Right,” Harry said, sitting down heavily in the nearest available chair. “So our Defence teacher is a Greek god, three of our classmates are mythological beings, and we’ve just travelled through an interdimensional maze to reach a demon-infested prison. Just a normal Thursday at Hogwarts, then.”

“It’s actually Friday,” Luna pointed out helpfully.

Mills cleared his throat, his hand rubbing his temple as though fighting off a headache. “There’s more you need to know. Before Jackson left, he received what appeared to be an official message delivered by phoenix. After reading it, he said circumstances had changed and he couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Where did he go?” Kallisto asked, her voice tight with worry. She swayed slightly, one hand reaching out to steady herself against the wall.

“We’re … not entirely certain,” Dawlish said slowly, his eyes unfocused for a moment before sharpening again. “But given the official nature of the message and the timing …” He paused, wincing as though something was pressing against his thoughts.

“Did he say anything else?” Annabeth asked, studying the two Aurors with growing concern.

“Just that whatever’s been stirring in the deep places had finally made its move,” Mills said, his voice carrying an odd, distant quality. “He looked like a man walking into a trap he couldn’t avoid.”

Harry’s scar gave a sharp twinge, and suddenly the certainty flooded through him with overwhelming force. “The Department of Mysteries,” he said, his voice stronger than he felt. “That’s where my vision showed him being tortured. That’s where they’ve taken him.”

Kallisto nodded emphatically, though her face was pale. “Yes. I can … I can almost feel him there. He’s calling for help.”

“If that’s where your vision showed him, then that’s definitely where he’s gone,” Mills said with sudden conviction, though his expression remained strained. “But there’s something else. Before he left, Jackson mentioned the prophecy. Said someone was trying to use it as leverage.”

“What prophecy?” Hermione asked, though Harry noticed she was watching the Aurors and Kallisto with sharp, analytical eyes.

“The one about Harry and You-Know-Who,” Dawlish explained, his words coming faster now, as though driven by some external urgency. “Someone’s figured out that Perseus cares about Harry’s fate, and they’re using that connection to force him into a position where he has to choose.”

“Choose between what?” Neville asked.

“Between protecting Harry and protecting himself,” Annabeth said grimly. “It’s his fatal flaw—excessive loyalty. He’ll sacrifice anything, including himself, to protect the people he cares about.”

“Which means whoever’s behind this has been studying him,” Mills continued. “Learning his weaknesses, setting up the perfect trap.”

Harry explained the shared dream to the Aurors, watching as their expressions grew increasingly grim.

“Then we need to get to the Department of Mysteries,” Harry said. “Before it’s too late.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Mills warned. “The Department of Mysteries is one of the most secure locations in the wizarding world.”

“But not impossible,” Dawlish added. “Especially if you have inside help.”

“Inside help?” Ginny asked.

“Us,” Mills said simply. “We’re Aurors. We have access to Ministry buildings. And after everything we’ve learned, we’re not particularly inclined to follow normal protocol.”

“You’ll help us?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Perseus saved our lives,” Dawlish said seriously. “Whatever’s lurking in the corrupted places beneath this prison, it would have killed us if he hadn’t intervened. We owe him.”

“Plus,” Mills added, “if he’s right about ancient powers stirring and mythological threats targeting the wizarding world, this isn’t just about rescuing one man.”

“There’s one more thing,” Dawlish said quietly. “You probably felt the disturbance yesterday evening - the lightning and earthquake when Umbridge attacked Professor Tonks in the corridor.”

“We saw the lightning,” Harry said grimly. “And felt the earthquake.”

“That was a Styx oath breaking,” Dawlish explained. “When Umbridge tried to curse a pregnant woman under Perseus’s protection, she violated her part of the bargain. The oath that bound Perseus to stay here.”

“Which means?” Ron asked.

“Which means Dad is no longer bound to stay in Azkaban,” Kallisto said with grim satisfaction. “Which means he’s free to act. Which means …”

“Which means a very angry god is heading to the Department of Mysteries to settle some old scores,” Annabeth finished.

“And that’s a good thing?” Neville asked uncertainly.

“Depends on whether you’re on his side or not,” Grover said. “But given that someone’s been threatening his students, his daughter and his unborn child …”

“I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes,” Kallisto said with dark satisfaction.

“The question,” Dawlish said, “is whether we can reach him before he does something that can’t be undone.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Divine retribution tends to be rather … comprehensive,” Mills explained. “When gods lose their temper, the collateral damage can be significant.”

As they prepared to return to the Labyrinth entrance, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were about to walk into something far more complex and dangerous than a simple rescue mission. They were heading towards a confrontation that had been building for three thousand years, involving powers that predated the wizarding world itself.

And somewhere ahead of them, an angry god was preparing to settle old debts with interest.

The entrance to the Labyrinth looked different when approached from Azkaban’s side—less like a doorway and more like a wound in reality itself. The black marble seemed to pulse with its own inner light, and the symbols crawling across its surface moved more frantically than before, as though responding to some distant urgency.

“Right,” Harry said, trying to project confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “We need to get back to Hogwarts first. The others will be worried, and we need to plan properly before we do anything else.”

“Agreed,” Dawlish said, adjusting his Auror robes. “Rushing into the Department of Mysteries without proper intelligence would be suicide.”

“Plus,” Mills added, “we need to coordinate with whatever diversions your friends have been running. Can’t have them drawing attention whilst we’re trying to infiltrate the Ministry.”

Dawlish nodded grimly. “And we need to understand what we’re walking into. If Perseus really is in the Department of Mysteries, this won’t be a simple rescue.”

Grover stepped up to the marble door, placing his hands against its surface. “Back to Hogwarts,” he said firmly. “Room of Requirement.”

The symbols flared with silver light, and the door swung inward to reveal a corridor that looked nothing like their previous route. This time, the walls were lined with what appeared to be moving portraits—not the cheerful, gossipy paintings of Hogwarts, but grim-faced figures in ancient robes who watched their passage with suspicious eyes.

“This is new,” Annabeth observed, her bronze knife appearing in her hand.

“The Labyrinth’s getting more active,” Kallisto said grimly, hefting her spear. “Whatever’s been corrupting it, it’s gaining strength.”

They walked in tense formation, the Aurors flanking the students whilst the three demigods took point and rear guard. The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, filled with whispers in languages that predated human speech.

“Is it just me,” Ron said quietly, “or do those portraits look like they want to climb out of their frames and have a go at us?”

“It’s not just you,” Hermione replied, staying close to the centre of the group. “The magical signatures here are … unsettling.”

One of the painted figures—a stern-faced woman in Greek robes—turned to follow their progress, her lips moving in what might have been a warning or a curse.

“Don’t look at them directly,” Annabeth advised. “Some of these are probably memory echoes of people who died in the Labyrinth. They’re not entirely friendly to the living.”

Perseus’s voice echoed through the corridor again, distant but unmistakably real this time. “Help … please … they’re using the corruption against me … can’t hold them off …”

Kallisto’s steps faltered, her face twisting with anguish. “That’s him. I know it’s him.”

“Maybe,” Annabeth said quietly, “but even if it is, following that voice won’t help him. We need to be smarter than that.”

The voice came again, closer and more urgent: “The prophecy … they want the prophecy … don’t let them use you …”

“He’s warning us,” Harry said suddenly. “About the prophecy. About being used.”

“Or something wants us to think he’s warning us,” Hermione pointed out.

But before anyone could speculate further, the corridor around them began to shift and change. The portraits faded, the stone walls became familiar Hogwarts architecture, and suddenly they were stepping through a tapestry into the familiar warmth of the Room of Requirement.

The room was still configured as The Unbound’s meeting space, but it was noticeably emptier than when they’d left. Only about half the original group remained, and they looked like they’d been through several small wars.

“Harry!” Susan Bones called out in relief, rushing over from where Beta Team was huddled around what appeared to be a strategic map. “Thank Merlin you’re back. Things have got complicated.”

“How complicated?” Harry asked, though given the scorch marks on several students’ robes and the fact that someone had obviously been crying, he suspected he didn’t want to know.

“Umbridge went mental,” Adrian Pucey reported from Alpha Team’s position. “Absolutely barking. Started accusing random students of sedition, got Filch to bring out some old corporal-punishment-type warrants after the Weasley Twins unleashed hell. Luckily they flew away before she could get her hands on them because she looked positively aroused by it.”

“Corporal punishment?” Mills said incredulously.

“That’s illegal,” said Dawlish.

“Yeah, well, apparently she’s decided normal rules don’t apply to her anymore,” Ginny said, appearing at Harry’s shoulder. “We managed to stop her, but it wasn’t pretty.”

“How did you stop her?” Hermione asked.

“Applied chaos theory,” Blaise said with satisfaction. “Exactly like Jackson taught us. Coordinated disruption across multiple fronts until she couldn’t keep track of what was happening where.”

“The diversions worked, then?” Ron asked.

“Better than expected,” Susan confirmed. “Though we may have accidentally flooded the third floor, turned all the suits of armour into musical instruments, and convinced the ghosts to start a protest about working conditions.”

“Accidentally?” Luna asked with interest.

“Mostly accidentally,” Adrian admitted. “Some of it was definitely on purpose.”

Harry looked around the room, taking in the determined but exhausted faces of his fellow students. “Where is everyone else?”

“Evacuation protocols,” Susan explained. “When Umbridge started with the torture devices, we activated Code Seven. Non-essential personnel withdrawn to safe positions, core teams maintained for emergency response.”

“Smart,” Dawlish said approvingly. “You’ve been well trained.”

“Jackson’s influence,” Neville said with obvious pride. “We’ve learned to think tactically.”

“Speaking of Jackson,” Harry said, “we need to debrief everyone on what we learned. And we need to plan our next move carefully.”

“What did you learn?” Eddie asked.

Harry glanced at Kallisto, Annabeth, and Grover, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“That our Defence teacher isn’t entirely human,” Harry said simply. “And that we’re dealing with threats that are older and more dangerous than anything in our textbooks.”

The silence that followed was broken by Adrian’s dry observation: “Well, that explains quite a lot.”

“There’s more,” Hermione said. “But it’s complicated, and we need to plan our approach to the Department of Mysteries before—”

“Department of Mysteries?” Susan interrupted. “Why are we going there?”

“Because that’s where Perseus is,” Kallisto said firmly. “And because someone’s been setting a trap that’s three thousand years in the making.”

Harry settled into one of the room’s comfortable chairs, feeling the weight of what they were about to attempt. “Right. Let’s start from the beginning. And this time, we’re going to plan this properly.”

As The Unbound gathered around to hear their report, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were preparing for something far more significant than a simple rescue mission. They were about to walk into a confrontation that would determine not just Percy’s fate, but the future of everyone they cared about.

The real battle was still ahead of them.

But for the first time since this had all begun, Harry felt genuinely prepared for what was coming. They had allies, they had intelligence, and most importantly, they had each other.

Percy had taught them well. Now it was time to prove it.