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Chapter Text

They had gotten to London via international Portkey more than an hour ago, and he still felt like he had left his stomach behind in New York. His mom had hauled him up off the flagstones with a firm reminder that they had an important appointment and that the goblins were not known to be forgiving if you were late.

That was how Percy and his mom ended up trudging up the gold-inlaid steps of Gringotts, heaving Percy’s school trunk between them. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, per se, to lug a trunk around Diagon Alley—loads of Muggleborns needed supplies too—but it did draw stares once people realized exactly who was walking through the crowd. A few even tried to approach, but Sally smoothly blocked them, swapping sides with Percy under the pretense that her hand was tired, or swinging the trunk just enough to break their path while pointing out some random storefront and keeping herself between Percy and eager witches and wizards.

He loved his mom.

They entered the marble foyer, nodding to the armored goblin guards as they passed. Percy offered, “May you bite off your enemies’ fingers and use them as bookmarks for all your Gringotts ledgers.” That earned him a very sharp, very toothy grin and a bark of laughter that startled a nearby wizard so badly he backed away at speed. Percy took great pride in that.

They joined the queue for a familiar-looking goblin from the Grip-clan and inched forward until they reached the counter. They let the trunk drop with a thud.

“Greetings, Master Griptooth. May your coffers never empty,” Sally said with a kind smile. “I believe we have a meeting with Master Gripcutter today.”

“Mrs. Jackson.” The goblin inclined his head. “May your enemies fall at your behest.” He checked a large ledger and rattled off something in harsh, guttural Gobbledygook that to Percy sounded like grunts and gravel. A much younger goblin appeared through the side doors and strode toward them. “Ah. Please follow Gripclaw. He will take you back.”

“Thank you,” Sally said, giving a shallow bow before turning to go. Percy hefted the trunk to follow, then hesitated and glanced back.

“May your enemies’ bones shatter like glass beneath your boots, and may their screams echo for generations in the tunnels of their shame,” Percy offered.

Griptooth’s smile cut wide. As Percy dragged the trunk after his mom, he heard a snap behind him; the trunk shrank neatly to pocket size. He grinned and slipped it away.

Sure, the goblins were decidedly deadly, but it wasn’t that hard to get on their good side.

Gripcutter was waiting when they reached his office. He stood in front of his desk, his crest-engraved vambrace gleaming. He barely reached Percy’s hip, but Percy bowed anyway. “Greetings, Gripcutter. May your enemies’ heads be shrink-wrapped, labeled by offense, and displayed alphabetically.”

Gripcutter chuckled, eyes glinting. “Greetings, Mr. Potter. May your vaults overflow with gold and your enemies fall by your blade.”

“Thank you,” Percy said, grinning back.

“Now, for today’s visit,” Gripcutter said, businesslike. “I will personally escort you to Potter Manor, open the wards to admit you, and guide you to take custody of the ward stone. Are you ready?”

Percy nodded. Gripcutter produced a small leather band and extended it to both of them. “Hold this and say ‘Griffin.’ I will meet you there.”

They arrived on a grassy hilltop. Rolling fields stretched in every direction except one, where the land dropped sharply into a cliff edge that overlooked water running to the horizon. Long grasses shivered in the wind, and the cool breeze brushed across Percy’s face. He drew in a deep breath. The land smelled earthy and wild. It carried the faint scent of salt from the sea below, mingled with the sharp bite of heather and the light sweetness of blooming clover. It wasn’t like the city or the countryside he’d known. It felt raw and alive, and the magic prickled faintly against his skin.

His mom stood beside him, smiling as she took in the sweep of land. “It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” he answered, voice softer than he intended.

The only problem was the lack of any house in sight. Percy frowned. “Why would Gripcutter send us here if there’s nothing—”

A loud pop behind them made them both turn. Gripcutter appeared out of thin air, took a quick, appraising look around, and seemed thoroughly unimpressed by the view.

“It has been some time since I personally visited the House of Potter,” he said. “Come. This way.”

“Uh, sir,” Percy asked as they started after him. “Where is the house?”

Gripcutter glanced back with a smirk, clearly amused. “The house is Unplottable and protected by heavy wards. I set them myself at your grandfather’s request.”

“Why would he need wards that strong?” Percy asked, curiosity pushing him along in a direction that only seemed to make sense to the goblin.

“At the time,” Gripcutter said, “your kind was in the middle of a war. The first one, not the most recent.”

“There was another wizarding war?” Sally asked. She had read plenty about the last year, but this was new.

Gripcutter hummed, more rasp than note. “I do not keep details. Wars are inconsequential if they neither last a century nor involve us. Now—” He stopped so abruptly that Percy nearly walked into him. “Here.”

Percy looked around. The magic felt thicker here, like the air had weight, but all he saw were rolling hills swaying in the breeze. “I don’t understand. What is here?”

“You must apply blood to the land wards to open them,” Gripcutter said. “But you will remain here for the moment, Mrs. Jackson. Until Mr. Potter takes the ward stone, only he and I may enter.”

Sally nodded. “Thank you, Master Gripcutter.” She patted Percy’s shoulder, a small nudge forward. “You’ve got this.”

Percy patted his pockets, already knowing he had nothing sharp. “I—I don’t have anything to poke myself with,” he admitted, flushing.

Gripcutter huffed, then drew a slim dagger from the sheath strapped along his forearm. “You should carry a blade. I am of a warrior race and honor-bound to bear arms. You are a wizard, Mr. Potter—a powerful one—but your magic sticks will not always save you.”

Percy took the dagger carefully and nicked his palm. Blood welled fast, stinging. Sally grimaced but stayed quiet. Percy wiped the blade on his trouser leg, handed it back, and stood there with his bleeding hand raised. “Now what?”

“Hold your palm to the wards in front of you,” Gripcutter instructed.

Percy did, and he probably looked as silly as he felt, but his thoughts vanished the instant his palm met not air, but a solid wall of magic. It was thick and unyielding, humming against his skin. The magic didn’t just touch him—it acknowledged him. It smoothed across his palm, knitting the cut closed with deliberate care. It wasn’t neutral or cold. It felt calm and joyful, a welcome he hadn’t known he was missing. Warmth curled into him, insistent and sure, calling him home to a place he hadn’t known was waiting.

The wall shifted from flat barrier to dense depth. His hand sank in, then his forearm. Weight pressed on every inch of him. Panic flashed and he tried to pull back, but the magic tugged him forward, steady and irresistible.

“Do not fight it, Mr. Potter,” the goblin said behind him. “Let it draw you in. I will follow.”

Percy swallowed, forced himself to be still, and glanced back at his mom. Her eyes were steady. He nodded once and gave in.

The magic closed around him, warm against his skin and settling deeper, sliding into his chest as if it were checking the beat of his heart. It whispered in a language he didn’t know but somehow understood—soft, welcoming, protective. He held his breath as it pulled him through, then stumbled forward when it let go.

He blinked—and stopped dead.

A manor stood at the crest of the hill, its stone walls weathered gray and soft brown. A wide porch wrapped across the front with clean white railings. Tall chimneys rose from a slate roof, a faint thread of smoke curling as if a fire had been tended not long ago. Tall, paned windows caught the light. For all its size, it didn’t feel like a fortress. It felt lived in. It felt steady.

The grounds stretched wild and wide, the green of the Highlands rolling out in waves. A narrow, uneven stone path wound up from the base of the hill, the kind of path worn by generations. The porch looked like a place meant for quiet mornings and unhurried evenings. Everything spoke of care and permanence.

Percy couldn’t stop staring. His throat tightened, his chest aching in a way he couldn’t name. He had never been here, hadn’t even known it existed before today, but standing in its shadow felt inevitable—like something lost had just been returned.

Home pressed hard against his thoughts, and he dragged in a shaky breath.

“That is the magic accepting you, Mr. Potter,” Gripcutter said. “It welcomes you as Potter in blood and power. The feeling will pass.”

Percy only nodded, eyes fixed on the house. He hadn’t felt truly tied to the family until this moment, until the Potter magic met him and held fast.

“Come,” Gripcutter said.

Percy followed him inside, trying to keep up with the goblin’s quick stride while taking in everything at once. They passed rooms with comfortable furniture and thick rugs, long corridors with bright windows and sleeping portraits, and at one turn Percy caught a glimpse, far off through glass, of a half-sized Quidditch pitch. His heart kicked, excitement sparking even through the flood of everything else.

The house seemed larger within than its footprint suggested. Magic did that. Percy accepted it without argument.

At last Gripcutter paused at a heavy wooden door carved with an intricate griffin. He pushed it open to reveal a large office. A dark wooden desk faced tall windows; it was tidy but worn, its surface marked with scratches and nicks from years of use. A high-backed chair sat behind it, with two comfortable armchairs opposite. A deep, auburn rug covered most of the floor. One wall held a tall bookcase crammed with old volumes that smelled like the Hogwarts Library. In a corner, a light-colored settee made a small reading nook that brightened the room’s darker tones.

A tapestry dominated the long wall. Small roundels, each bearing a face, were connected by red lines that braided and forked. The figures did not move like portrait subjects; they were fixed, names stitched below them in gold thread. Percy stepped closer and realized what it was—the Potter family tree. It filled the wall, beginning with only a few at the top, spreading wide through the middle, then tapering in recent generations until only a few remained.

Sadness pricked. A great family, full of lives and voices, had narrowed to a single point—him. Guilt gnawed at him for reasons that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t born a Potter. He shared their blood and magic now, but the feeling still sat crooked, even though he knew the parents he barely remembered had loved him as their own.

He traced the top with his gaze. Fleamont Potter married to Euphemia—stitching worn soft with time. Below them, James Potter, younger than most on the cloth, rectangular glasses and untidy hair, bound by a red line to Lily Evans, bright hair and green eyes that seemed to glow even without motion. Beneath, an oval place marked Harry Potter sat grayed out where a moving portrait would have been.

Of course the house will list me as Harry, Percy thought. He lifted his hand and skimmed his fingertips over the fabric, stopping over his mother’s stitched name. His chest tightened.

Gripcutter cleared his throat, and Percy jumped, suddenly remembering he wasn’t alone. “This way,” the goblin said. He rose onto his toes to pull a green leather volume from the bookcase. The book tilted; a soft click sounded; the entire case swung inward.

“A ward stone is vital to wizarding families,” Gripcutter said, appraising Percy before stepping aside. “A family home is a heart. It is where a family’s magic gathers and where its members are strongest. The ward stone is the tie to all of it. Established when your line rose in power, the house has grown around it. It links the family, pools its magic, and defends the home. Only the lord or the accepted heir may approach. Any other is obliterated.”

He gestured toward the hidden doorway. “I cannot accompany you further. The ward stone must accept you before you take custody of the home and wards. Place your hand on the stone. You will know the rest. Do you understand?”

Percy nodded, throat dry.

Gripcutter stepped aside. The magic tugged at Percy’s skin, lively and expectant. Percy swallowed, then took a hesitant step into the passage. The sensation swelled—joyous, if magic could be called that—and he found the nerve to take another step, and another.

Before he knew it he was through the door and meeting denser wards. They thinned around him as he moved, warming his skin. The air went stifling, and his breath shortened as he reached the chamber.

This room was plain compared to the rest of the house. Circular stone walls held the chill of age. In the center, a marble dais was carved with intricate markings—runes etched deep and precise, humming faintly with power. Percy didn’t know their meanings, but instinct told him they mattered. He wanted someone to stand here and explain, but the silence felt intentional, like the room was waiting.

Floating above the dais, a deep mahogany-red stone hovered on a steady axis, casting a low glow. Its surface was smooth and polished to a mirror sheen, yet there was a pulse beneath the gloss, a sense of contained force. Percy couldn’t look away.

The magic thickened, pressing in waves until every breath rasped. His skin tingled. His heart climbed. He stepped closer without deciding to. His hand lifted and pressed to the stone.

The world shifted.

Heat flooded his skin and surged through his veins. Pressure blew outward, then rushed back and wrapped around him like the house itself had inhaled. Something deep and old stirred. Percy felt it in the floor, in the walls, and far above, where the outer wards kept their watch. For a beat he couldn’t tell where he ended and the magic began.

It wasn’t painful or frightening. It was overwhelming in a way that tightened his chest and burned his eyes. The warmth pressed deeper until it settled into bone. He felt anchored, claimed, set.

Then came the knowing.

He couldn’t explain it. One moment his palm was on the stone; the next he could sense the world inside the boundary. He knew the air outside was damp with drifting mist. He knew the wards stretched in layered circles well beyond the hill, interlaced like catchlines. He knew a bird perched on the porch railing, wings twitching awake, and that the gravel path was empty but expectant.

Details hummed at the edges of awareness, not as thoughts or pictures, but as if the house spoke to him, reminding him what belonged here. The manor’s quiet was gone. It was awake. Magic ran through it like circulation, filling corners, stirring the boundaries, pushing outward with intent.

Percy dragged in a sharp breath. His heart ached with something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just power or knowledge. It was connection—solid and complete. For the first time in his life, he felt he belonged to something larger than himself, and that it belonged to him in return.

Everything went a bit too quickly for Percy to follow after that. He was still trying to come to terms with the overwhelming magic that had overtaken him and now clung to him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He vaguely remembered leaving the ward chamber and meeting Gripcutter in the hall. The goblin had smiled at him—surprisingly gentle for someone with teeth that looked like they could cut stone. Percy thought he had nodded or said something polite in return, but the words slipped away as quickly as they came. The next thing he remembered clearly was his mom’s hand guiding him down a hallway and into a sitting room.

She pushed him onto a wide, comfortable couch. The cushions sank and held him like they had been waiting. The room smelled faintly of smoke and polish, with shelves of books along one wall and a low fire glowing in the hearth. A silver tea set rested neatly on a table, as if placed there that morning, it was empty though, which suggested that wasn’t the case.

“Mom?” Percy asked. His voice sounded scratchy to his own ears. His eyes focused on her slowly, as though he had to remember who he was looking at.

“Hey, starfish,” she said softly. She brushed his messy bangs off his forehead, her hand lingering at his temple. “You back with me?”

He blinked, then nodded. “Yeah.” He looked around again, his vision settling more firmly now. The fireplace gave off steady warmth. Dark wood panels lined the walls. Curtains hung open to the slope of land outside. The place didn’t feel empty. It felt aware, like the walls were paying attention to him. He swallowed and said the first thing that came to mind. “I really like the house.”

Sally chuckled quietly. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’m glad you like it.” She leaned down and kissed his head, then pulled back to meet his eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Percy.”

Something warm and sharp rose in his chest. He grinned without thinking. “Thanks, Mom.”

A sharp pop cracked the air. Percy flinched. Sally was on her feet at once, placing herself between him and the sound.

Percy shifted to look past her. Three small figures stood in the center of the room, their large eyes fixed on him. Their ears stretched wide and pointed, their limbs thin but strong, and their hands wrung or twisted at their uniforms. One wore black trousers and a red vest with the Potter crest stitched over the heart. Two wore red dresses with white aprons, the same crest neat on the bodice.

Sally’s voice cut cleanly through the silence. “What are you?” She didn’t raise her voice, but it carried enough weight that even Percy straightened.

The smaller of the female elves burst into tears, her apron crumpled in her fists. “Oh, what a wondrous day!” she squeaked. “Master has returned to us, Dolly is seeing him with her own eyes!”

“What?” Percy blurted, his confusion tightening into unease. “Who are you?”

The male elf stepped forward and bowed deeply, back straight, voice steady. “We is the Potter house-elves. We is at your service, Heir Potter.”

Percy’s mouth opened, then closed again. “House-elves? What are house-elves?”

“We is servants to the Potter family,” the elf said. “We has been serving many generations.”

“Servants?” Percy repeated, the word sour in his throat. “You mean like slaves?”

The elf shook his head, calm and sure. “No, young master. We is not slaves. We is bound to the house, yes, but it is no cruel bond. We is giving our service and care, and the house is giving us strength. It is mutual.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. “So… you live off the family’s magic?”

“Not living off,” the elf said, mouth quirked. “Sharing. A house-elf tied to a family is stronger than a free elf. Our magic grows when the bond is strong. A cruel family weakens us. A kind family strengthens us.”

The kitchen elf wrung her apron. “We is fearing the worst, young master. When Master Jamie and Mistress Lily is dying, and no one is coming home, we is fearing the Potter line is gone. We is fearing we would fade. But then…” She drew a deep breath. “We is feeling the wards stir again. We is knowing Heir is alive. And now, Heir is here.”

Percy’s throat was dry. He didn’t know what to say. “What are your names?”

The male elf bowed again. “Snick, head of the Potter elves. Peaches is kitchens. Dolly is cleaning and mending. She is young, but she is loyal and hard working.”

Dolly sniffled and wiped her cheeks, eyes bright. “It is nice to meet you, Master Harry. We is so happy you is back.”

Percy’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. “I’m Harry,” he said, the name coming automatically in this world. “This is my mom, Sally.”

Sally’s voice softened, though her shoulders were still tight. “It’s very nice to meet you all.”

They bowed their heads together. Percy wanted to ask more questions, but the weight in his body grew heavier by the second. His thoughts still buzzed too loudly.

Sally noticed first. “That’s enough for now. He needs rest.”

Snick nodded. “The Heir will use the master’s chamber. He is the next in line for the lordship and there is no sitting lord.”

“No,” Percy said at once. It came sharper than he meant. He shook his head and pushed himself a little straighter. He wasn’t the lord yet. He didn’t want that just yet. “That doesn’t feel right.”

Snick did not argue, he stared at Percy for a moment. “He will stay in the Heir’s room, then. It is ready.”

Peaches gave a small curtsy with one last smile at Percy. “Peaches be making dinner now.” She vanished with another pop.

Dolly straightened. “Dolly be putting fresh linens on the bed.” She disappeared as well.

Snick gestured toward the hallway. “If Heir and Mistress will follow, I will show the way.”

Percy stood carefully, his legs heavier than he liked, and his mom slipped an arm under his just enough to steady him. He let her. Snick led them down a long corridor lined with sconces that brightened as they passed. Portraits hung evenly along the walls, painted eyes tracking them. Some figures nodded. Percy’s stomach tightened at the sight of a young man with messy dark hair grinning from a frame, elbow slung around a friend. He kept walking, pulse loud in his ears.

Snick stopped at a door near the end of the corridor and pushed it open. Inside was a spacious bedroom paneled in dark wood, with a tall four-poster bed made up in white linens and dark blue accents. A rug stretched across the floor, woven in rich red and gold patterns.

Percy stepped inside, breath catching. Gryffindor memorabilia dotted the space. A broom hung mounted on the wall, its handle smooth from years of use. A pair of trophies glinted on a shelf, their bases etched with small engravings. A red-and-gold scarf hung over a chair back, threads slightly frayed at one end. Framed photographs rested on the dresser, the figures inside them moving lazily, smiling and waving as if waiting for him to notice.

“This be Master Jamie’s old room,” Snick said quietly. “Before he moved into the master chambers when the late master and mistress passed. Before he and Mistress Lily went into hiding. It be yours now.”

Percy swallowed hard and stepped farther in, eyes moving from object to object. He wanted to touch everything, to hold the details of who his father had been, but his arms felt heavy and his legs unsteady. Gratitude, sorrow, longing, and pride pressed together until he couldn’t tell them apart.

Sally brushed her hand over his shoulder. “Bed, Percy,” she said softly.

He wanted to argue, to say he wasn’t done looking, but his body betrayed him. His eyelids felt like weights. She nudged him toward the bed, and he sank onto it without a word. The sheets were cool and crisp under his hands. Sally pulled the blanket up and smoothed it down, her movements calm and steady.

Percy’s eyes drifted to the photographs one last time. He wanted to memorize them, but the room blurred as exhaustion dragged him under. His last thought before sleep took him was that, for the first time, the word home didn’t feel wrong.

When Percy woke a few hours later, the room was dim, the last of the afternoon light slipping through the tall windows. His stomach growled loud enough to echo. He pushed himself up, blinking against the haze of sleep, pulled on his socks, and padded out of the bedroom. The hallway stretched quiet, sconces glowing faintly, the portraits along the walls watching him with polite interest.

He descended the stairs carefully, trailing a hand along the polished banister. The faint hum of magic followed him like a steady pulse. The manor didn’t feel empty—it felt like it was waiting.

He found his mom in the sitting room, curled on a chaise. Her shoes were kicked to the side, socked feet tucked up as a heavy book lay open in her lap. One arm was tucked behind her head. She read with the same focus she had in library stacks.

Percy smirked. He circled behind her and dropped onto the chaise, leaning into her side without warning.

She raised her arm automatically to make room. “Hey, starfish,” she murmured, brushing the corner of the page with her thumb so she didn’t lose her place. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice still rough. His eyes drifted to the books stacked on the low table. They smelled of ink and old parchment. He picked one up and squinted. The pages were handwritten in looping letters that shifted the longer he stared. He frowned and rubbed his temple. Even with his dyslexia glasses, the words tumbled. “What are you reading?”

“Gripcutter recommended a few books on magical houses and ward stones,” she said, flipping a page. “He said he saw them in the study while he was waiting for you.”

Percy tried to make out a line, failed, and set the book down with a sigh. “Anything interesting so far?”

She huffed softly. “It’s all a bit stuffy,” she admitted, thumbing back through, “but there’s some fascinating material tucked in. Did you know the ward stone can only be activated by the lord or the heir of a house?”

Percy leaned back, eyes closing for a beat. “Yeah. Gripcutter mentioned that earlier.”

Sally gave him a look, then tapped the page. “Did you know that when someone who hasn’t been permitted onto the grounds tries to break in, the ward stone automatically raises the war wards and alerts the entire family that the house is under attack?”

His eyes snapped open. “I didn’t know that.”

She nodded, pleased. “It’s very interesting.”

He groaned and let his head tip back. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my break reading. I’m going to be doing enough of that when school starts.”

She chuckled and closed the book. “Fair enough. Peaches said there’s still an hour before dinner. Want to check out the house?”

Percy perked up. “That sounds amazing.”

They started outside, moving through the back doors onto the sloping grounds. The air was cooler here, with the faint smell of grass after rain. To the right stood a cluster of greenhouses, their glass panes fogged and streaked with time. Vines pressed against the glass, some thorned, others giving off a faint glow. The magic around them was sharp, wild, and restless, humming against Percy’s skin. He shifted uneasily at the curl of movement from a plant that looked far too alive for comfort.

“Let’s… not go in there,” Percy said quickly, lifting a hand as his mom started toward the nearest door. “I don’t know what any of those plants are, but they don’t look friendly.”

Sally studied the tangle and nodded. “Fair point. We can ask someone who knows later.”

“I can ask Neville when I see him,” Percy said. “He likes Herbology.”

“That’s a good idea, starfish.”

They left the greenhouses and followed a stone path curving down the slope. It opened onto a wide clearing where a half-sized Quidditch pitch stood. The grass was uneven but still marked, with three tall hoops at one end. Even as a half pitch, it was one of the best things Percy had ever seen.

Excitement rushed up and split his face into a grin. He walked out onto the grass and tilted his head back to stare at the hoops. “This is—wow. This is actually ours?”

Sally’s eyes softened at his smile. “Looks that way.”

His stomach flipped. He could imagine flying here, broom braced under his hands, air cold in his lungs. The thought alone made his palms itch.

They circled back toward the house and entered through a side door into a stone corridor. From there, they stepped into an old potions lab. The room was long, with heavy worktables scored by knives and acid, and shelves lined with dusty glass jars. The air smelled faintly of herbs and something metallic that hadn’t faded. Several cauldrons stood along the far wall, rusted but upright, and notes in a firm hand were pinned to a corkboard, yellowed with age.

“Do you think someone in my family was a Potions master?” Percy asked, curious rather than daunted.

“It looks like it,” Sally said. “We’ll ask the elves later.”

Next, they wandered into a small sitting room tucked between larger corridors. Percy froze on the threshold. The mantel and walls were lined with photographs. Some showed his parents, younger and smiling with friends. His dad stood in several frames with four other boys—grinning, leaning into each other, caught mid-laughter. Every photo was full of light. Other pictures showed his dad with his grandparents: formal portraits that carried pride and warmth.

Percy stepped closer, throat dry. Sally lingered by the doorway, giving him space. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The faces weighed on him, and the feeling was bittersweet. He had so much of their history in this house and none of their voices. He walked the room, taking in the photos and the soft wear on the furniture. He could imagine his father and grandparents seated here on a quiet night, or his father and friends filling the room with noise and jokes. He could see his mom curled on the sofa, book open, shoulder against James’s.

When he finished the circuit, he stopped in front of Sally. She opened her arms without a word, and Percy stepped into them. She held him, accepting the quiet sadness, pressing a few soft kisses into his hair.

“Let’s eat some dinner and go to bed, darling,” she said after a while. “We’ve had a long day.”

Percy nodded against her shoulder.

“We can come back whenever you want,” she added. “We’ll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and you’ll head off with the Weasleys, but we can return here any time. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course, starfish. I love you,” she said quietly.

“I love you too.”

They stood like that a moment longer, the house breathing around them. The fire in the sitting room snapped somewhere behind the wall, and the floorboards held steady under their weight. Percy felt the wards murmur in the back of his mind, a slow, even pulse that matched the rhythm of his mom’s breath. For the first time in a long time, the quiet did not feel like an empty space he had to fill. It felt held. It felt like the two of them belonged here and that the house knew it.

Percy lay in his dad’s old bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep even though exhaustion pressed on every inch of his body. His limbs were heavy, his eyes burned, but his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts circled like they were caught in a whirlpool—too many to focus on, too loud to ignore.

Dinner had been wonderful, better than anything Percy could remember eating at Hogwarts, though the company had been stranger than he liked. He and his mom had begged the house-elves to sit with them, but they had refused so vehemently that it almost became an argument. Dolly had burst into tears, overwhelmed at being called kind by her “new masters,” but even she had shaken her head furiously. Something about proper house-elf care, Snick had explained. It left Percy unsettled, though he tried not to show it at the table.

After dinner, Sally had hugged him for a long time, murmuring soft reassurances into his hair, then sent him up to bed alone. Snick had shown her to her own rooms. Percy had taken his time before climbing into bed, wandering around the heir’s room to look more closely at the things he hadn’t noticed earlier.

The space had clearly been cleaned out after his dad moved into the master’s chambers, but there were still fragments of his life here. A Gryffindor scarf with an older design lay tossed across a chair, its wool faded but still soft. Percy had crouched to find a matching beanie shoved under the bed, the same rough wool that smelled faintly of dust. He had pressed it against his face for a moment before tossing both into his trunk with the thought of bringing them to Hogwarts. It felt important—like a connection, even if it was only to fabric.

The photos had been harder. Frames held images of James Potter as a boy, James and Lily after Hogwarts, and even a few of his grandparents. Percy had stared until his chest ached. He wasn’t supposed to look like them—he wasn’t their biological child, no matter what anyone said—but staring at those photos, he saw the resemblance so clearly it was impossible to deny. The hair, the angles of his face, and, when he looked into Lily’s eyes, the exact shade of green he saw in the mirror.

The wizarding world hadn’t been exaggerating. The resemblance was real, and Percy didn’t know what to do with the ache it left behind.

Now he lay awake, thinking of that, thinking of Hogwarts, thinking of his friends. If they’re still my friends, he corrected bitterly. He hadn’t heard from any of them. Not Ron, not Hermione, not even Susan. The silence gnawed at him. What if things had changed? What if he was the only one who still cared?

A loud pop yanked him from his thoughts.

Percy shot upright, heart pounding. He expected Snick or Dolly checking in on him again—something they had already done twice since dinner. But the elf standing at the end of his bed wasn’t familiar.

This one was younger than Snick and Peaches but older than Dolly. His skin was smoother, his eyes wide and anxious. And unlike the Potter elves, he wasn’t dressed in neat uniforms. Instead, he wore what looked like a dirty pillowcase with ragged holes for his arms and legs.

“Er—hello,” Percy said cautiously, frowning. “Can I help you?”

The elf gasped, eyes going impossibly wider. “Harry Potter!” His voice was high and shrill. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… such an honor it is…”

Percy blinked, startled. “I—I don’t… Th-thank you?” It came out more like a question. He pushed the blankets off and sat fully upright. “Who are you?”

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Percy said automatically. His mind raced, trying to place the name. “Are you a Potter elf?” Because surely Snick would have introduced him if he was.

Dobby shook his head violently, ears flapping. “No—no, Harry Potter, sir.” His excitement dimmed into nervousness. His hands twisted together, and his body hunched in on itself.

Percy’s brows drew together. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh yes, sir,” Dobby said earnestly, his voice quivering. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…” His words trailed off as he wrung his fingers harder, trembling with each breath.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Percy said politely, patting the mattress beside him.

To his horror, Dobby burst into noisy tears. “S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never… never ever…”

“It’s okay!” Percy said quickly, leaning forward. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“Offend Dobby!” the elf choked, tears streaming down his face. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard—like an equal—”

Dobby collapsed onto the bed, face pressed into the blankets near Percy’s knee, sobbing as if his heart had split. Percy froze, then awkwardly patted his back. His mind spun. Snick had told him elves grew stronger when treated with care, but this… this was something else. Did that mean there were elves who weren’t treated well at all?

At last, Dobby lifted his head, his great eyes swimming with adoration.

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” Percy said softly, trying to cheer him.

Dobby shook his head miserably. Then, without warning, he leapt up and slammed his forehead into the bedpost.

“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” he wailed.

“Don’t—what are you doing?” Percy yelped, scrambling to grab him. He pulled Dobby back, horrified. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” the elf panted, his eyes slightly crossed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir…”

Percy’s stomach twisted. Finally, answers. “Your family?”

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir.”

“Who are they? Do they know you’re here?” Percy pressed.

Dobby shuddered violently. “Oh no, sir, no… Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir—”

Percy’s throat clenched. “Why do you have to punish yourself? Why would your family make you do that? Do they know you… shut your ears in an oven door?”

Dobby nodded solemnly. “Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds Dobby to do extra punishments…”

Percy recoiled. His chest burned with anger he didn’t know where to put. “That’s horrible!” he cried. “Why don’t you leave them? You could come work here, if you want—”

That only made Dobby sob harder. “Harry Potter is so kind!” he cried. “But Dobby can’t. A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free. Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir…”

The words dropped like stones in Percy’s stomach. He had worried about his friends, about fitting in, about the letters he hadn’t received—but all of that seemed small now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, because it was all he could offer.

Dobby sniffed and wiped his face with the corner of his pillowcase. “Dobby has heard of Harry Potter’s greatness, but he has not heard of his goodness.”

Percy shook his head. “I don’t—I didn’t do anything.”

But Dobby’s eyes glowed with reverence. “Harry Potter is humble and modest. Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—”

“I didn’t even—” Percy tried to cut in, but Dobby barreled over him.

“Dobby heard tell that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago… that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”

“That wasn’t—” Percy gave up. The elf wasn’t going to let him explain.

“Ah, sir,” Dobby gasped, dabbing at his eyes. “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he must shut his ears in the oven door later. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

Percy froze. His heart gave a hard thud. “W-what?” he stammered. “Why?”

“Harry Potter is in danger, sir,” Dobby said, tugging at his ears nervously. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

Percy’s hands curled into the blankets. “Why?” he asked again, his voice sharper.

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts this year.” Dobby trembled from head to toe. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

“What’s going to happen?” Percy pressed. “Who’s plotting it?”

Dobby made a choking sound and banged his head against the bedpost again.

“All right!” Percy grabbed him firmly, pulling him back. “You can’t tell me. Fine. But why are you warning me at all?”

“Dobby must protect Harry Potter, sir. He will not be safe if he goes back.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “Dobby… will I be in danger, or will everyone at Hogwarts be in danger?”

Dobby looked up, his voice trembling. “Everyone, sir.”

Percy let out a slow breath. His decision was instant. “Then I have to go back. There’s no other option.”

“No!” Dobby wailed, tugging his ears again. Percy caught his wrists to stop him.

“Dobby, stop! I have to. My friends are in danger too! I can’t just sit here while they’re at risk.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby said bitterly. His frustration was clear.

Percy frowned. “I don’t know why—wait.” His suspicion sharpened. “How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet, looking guilty. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best—”

Percy’s eyes narrowed further. “Have you been stopping my letters?”

“Dobby has them here, sir.” Dobby pulled a thick wad of envelopes from inside his filthy pillowcase. Percy’s heart lurched as he recognized Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s messy scrawl, and even Susan’s curly script.

Percy stared at the stack of envelopes, his heart thudding against his ribs. Then the anger hit him.

“You—” His voice cracked, and he surged to his feet. “You’ve been stealing my mail?” His hands clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms. “ I thought they all forgot about me! I thought—” His chest heaved. “I thought I didn’t have any friends. I thought I had done something so terrible that they didn’t want to be friends with me anymore!”

Dobby flinched, dropping the letters back onto the floor as if they burned him. His wide eyes shimmered with panic. “Harry Potter must not be angry—Dobby did it for the best—Dobby wanted to protect Harry Potter!”

“Protect me?” Percy snapped. His voice rose, sharp and shaking. “From what? From my friends caring about me? From me knowing that people actually give a damn?” His throat was tight, words spilling too fast. “Do you even know what it feels like to sit here for weeks, wondering why no one cares enough to write back? To second guess every single friendship I’ve made?”

Dobby stumbled backward until his bony shoulders hit the bedframe. “Dobby is sorry! Dobby never wanted Harry Potter to feel forgotten!” His ears drooped, and his voice dropped into a whimper. “Dobby only wanted to keep him safe…”

“Safe?” Percy barked, his anger bubbling over into raw frustration. “You made me miserable! You don’t get to decide what’s safe for me!”

The elf’s hands flew up, wringing together frantically. He looked ready to punish himself again, to slam his head against the post until he cracked his skull open.

Percy tried to breathe, tried to reel himself back in, but it was no use. His voice softened only slightly, still sharp at the edges. “Everyone says Hogwarts is the safest place in the world. Dumbledore is there, he’s the greatest wizard in the world, he would stop whatever plot you are talking about. If I don’t go, wouldn’t I be in more danger? Wouldn’t I just be giving up the only protection I’ve got?”

Dobby froze. His huge eyes went rounder still, as if Percy had just spoken a forbidden truth. He began to shake, his body trembling so hard it rattled the frame of the bed. “No… no, no… Harry Potter mustn’t say such things…” He banged his head once against the wood with a hollow thud, then again harder.

“Stop!” Percy lunged forward, grabbing the elf by the arms. “Dobby, stop it! I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m just—just—”

But Dobby wrenched free, his sobs rising to a pitch. “Harry Potter must not go back! He must not!”

Before Percy could get another word in, the elf’s fingers twitched, his head jerked up, and with a sharp pop he was gone.

The room fell silent, the stack of envelopes scattered across the floor where Dobby had dropped them.

Percy stared at the spot for a long moment, chest heaving, his anger still fizzing through him. Then his gaze dropped to the letters. His knees buckled, and he sank down, scooping them up with shaking hands. Hermione’s neat writing. Ron’s messy scrawl. Susan’s looping script. Even Neville had sent a letter or two. All of it was real, not an imagined friendship.

Relief washed through him so suddenly it stole his breath. He hadn’t been forgotten. He hadn’t been ignored. They had been writing all along.

He tore open the first letter with fumbling fingers, reading through them. They didn’t hate him. They all were asking about his summer, and telling him about theirs. Some of the more recent ones were asking if he was okay, saying his letter just sounded weird and asking why he wasn’t answering any of his questions. Apparently they had been getting his letters, Hedwig was just too good of an owl to be stopped by a house elf, but he hadn’t gotten their letters and it made him sound uninterested. They were worried. 

Percy clutched the letters to his chest, his anger finally ebbing into something quieter. The ache of the past weeks wasn’t gone, but at least he knew now—his friends hadn’t abandoned him. They had been reaching out all along.

For the first time since summer began, Percy lay back down and let himself breathe. The house felt less heavy around him, as if it too understood the relief flooding through him.

Chapter Text

To say Percy was a bit nervous would be an understatement. Sure, now he knew his friends hadn’t abandoned him. Relief had hit him hard when he saw their letters in his hands last night. But now new thoughts took root, and his chest was tight with worry over his own silence in return—months of unanswered mail that made him look careless at best, ungrateful at worst. Still, excitement kept breaking through. The idea of seeing Ron and Hermione again gave him a restless energy he couldn’t tamp down, and somewhere under it all was hope. Hope that all wasn’t lost.

By the time his mom tugged him toward the Floo the next morning, he was practically bouncing off the walls. Snick had given them detailed instructions on how not to get stuck or lost, and Percy repeated them in his head like a mantra as his mom pulled him close. Together they huddled into the fireplace. Percy took a pinch of Floo powder, threw it down, and shouted as clearly as he could, “Diagon Alley!”

The fire roared green, and a heartbeat later Percy felt the awful squeeze, like he’d been crammed into a narrow tube and shot forward. He stumbled out of the other side, his mom tripping beside him. They almost slammed into a tall wizard waiting near the grate.

The man scowled, his eyes flicking over their Muggle clothes before he sneered. “Watch where you’re going,” he muttered, turning sharply on his heel and stalking away.

Percy blinked after him, already scowling, but his mom only rolled her eyes and shook her head. “C’mon, starfish,” she said, brushing ash off her sweater and giving him a grin. “We’ve got an hour before we’re supposed to meet them. Let’s go get you refitted for your school robes.”

Percy groaned loudly. “Do we have to? Last year’s still fit fine.”

“They’ll fit fine for now,” Sally said, sliding her hand onto his shoulder and giving him a gentle push toward the seamstress’s shop down the street. “But your sleeves are already too short. By Christmas you’ll look like you’re waiting for a flood.”

“What I’m hearing,” Percy tried to argue, turning to give her his best pleading look, “is that we could wait until Christmas break.”

“You’re not getting out of it, Percy.” Her voice was firm but her eyes were fond. She wrapped her arm tighter around his shoulders and practically steered him down the cobblestones. “Besides, what else are you going to do for an hour?”

“We could go look at the Quidditch shop,” Percy muttered, half to himself. He knew it wouldn’t change anything. Once Sally Jackson set her mind to something, no force on earth could move her.

She only rolled her eyes and ignored his grumbling.

Far too long later—at least in Percy’s opinion—he stepped briskly out of the shop, his mom following behind with the promise that they’d pick up his robes later that afternoon.

“Now that wasn’t so bad,” she said brightly, brushing ash and lint from her trousers.

Percy grimaced but didn’t bother disagreeing. He wasn’t giving her the satisfaction.

“Can we head over to Fortescue’s now?” he asked instead, trying to sound casual but failing to hide his eagerness.

Sally checked her watch. “Yeah. It’s about that time.”

“Great! Let’s go.” Percy grabbed her hand and tugged her back down the street. He pushed through the growing crowd, head down, making sure his hair covered his scar. Even so, there was a spring in his step he couldn’t suppress. Seeing his friends again after all these months—that thought alone sent his heart racing.

Fortescue’s ice cream shop was busy, the air warm and sweet with sugar and magic. Percy scanned the tables, eyes darting for a flash of Weasley red hair or Hermione’s brown curls.

He didn’t spot them before someone plowed into him from behind, thin arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.

“Harry!” Hermione’s squeal rang in his ear.

All his doubts vanished at once. He laughed, turning as much as her grip allowed. She barely loosened her arms before tightening them again, hugging him so fiercely he could hardly breathe. Percy hugged her back without hesitation.

“Hello, Hermione,” he said, brushing curls out of his mouth. “I missed you too.”

“Harry! I was so worried. All your letters were strange the last few weeks—I didn’t know what happened.”

“Yeah,” Percy said as she finally pulled back. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I can explain later. I haven’t been getting your letters.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“It’s a long story. Forget about that for now. I want to hear about your summer.”

Her whole face brightened, her smile stretching wide and her eyes lighting with excitement.

“Well, you knew my parents were taking me to France, I told you before we left. And you did respond to my letter about the Vatican and the Louvre, and the artwork was absolutely stunning. I especially liked the Mona Lisa, which is a rendition by Leonardo da Vinci and speaks to the Renaissance ideas of proportion and mystery and all those theories about her smile. But did you know the Louvre has a magical side? My parents and I toured it too, and all the paintings move there. I did some research and apparently there were artists throughout history who were witches or wizards—like Botticelli and Artemisia Gentileschi—and they did both Muggle and magical paintings. Some even made two versions of the same piece, so it was amazing to see something famous come alive, like The Birth of Venus, where the waves actually crash and the fabric blows in the wind. Also, did you know Nicolas Flamel himself is supposed to have donated a few magical manuscripts to the French Ministry archives that are hidden beneath the museum? Anyway, after France we went to Italy where we saw the Colosseum and Pompeii, and the magic still lingers in Pompeii. You can feel it in the air—like the eruption sealed it in. Did you know th—”

“Hermione.” A voice cut across hers, firm and disappointed. Her father, walking up behind her, frowned. “It’s rude to only speak about yourself.”

Hermione froze, face going bright red.

“Excuse her,” Mrs. Granger added quickly, offering Sally and Percy a smile that wavered on the edge of apology. “She can ramble when she’s excited. Sometimes we just have to remind her that not everyone can keep up.”

Hermione’s eyes dropped, her embarrassment written plain on her face. Percy felt a sharp twist in his chest. He liked hearing her ramble—her energy was infectious after weeks of silence.

“That’s okay, Dr. Granger,” Percy said before he could stop himself. “Hermione’s heard all about my summer from my letters. It’s nice to hear hers in person.”

Both parents blinked at him, surprised. Mrs. Granger’s expression softened with something that looked a lot like relief.

Before Percy could figure it out, Hermione’s bushy hair filled his vision again. She hugged him tighter than before, whispering, “Thank you, Harry.”

“Anytime,” Percy whispered back. “I really did miss you. You and your rambles.”

“Oi, I’m feeling left out,” came a familiar voice.

Percy looked up as Ron joined them, hands in his pockets and his ears already pink. Hermione spun so fast she nearly knocked Percy off balance, still clinging to him as she grabbed Ron too.

“Ron!” she shouted, pulling him into the hug and half choking them both.

Percy laughed over her shoulder at his red-haired friend. Ron had shot up taller over the summer, but his grin was as familiar as ever, even if his blush nearly matched his hair.

“Hello, Hermione,” Ron mumbled cheerfully. Then to Percy: “Hello, mate.”

For a heartbeat, nerves prickled in Percy’s chest. But Ron’s next words chased them off. “Been worried about you. Your letters went strange this summer. Figured I’d ask when I saw you.”

“Yeah,” Percy said, his grin spreading. “It’s a long story, but I haven’t been getting anyone’s letters since July.”

Ron tilted his head, curious, while Hermione finally eased her crushing grip. Still, she kept her arms looped through theirs, refusing to let go completely.

“I’ll tell you later,” Percy promised. He had no intention of letting Dobby ruin this reunion. “Right now I just want to hear what you two have been up to.”

That was all the prompting Ron needed. He launched into a rant about his brothers and Ginny driving him mad, with Hermione adding sharp comments of her own. Percy listened, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

They were interrupted only when his mom approached. “So, where to first?” she asked.

Percy and Ron exchanged a glance over Hermione’s head and said together, grinning, “Quidditch.”

Hermione huffed loudly and rolled her eyes so hard Percy thought they might get stuck.

Ron nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t worry. We’ll stop at the bookstore last. That way you don’t have to lug twenty new books all over Diagon Alley.”

Hermione’s glare could have felled a giant, but Percy only laughed.

The Weasleys had joined them by the time they finished at the apothecary and gathered their potions supplies. Fred and George swept Percy into a pair of thumping pats on the back—hard enough to sting but good-natured all the same—and immediately started talking Quidditch with him and Ron.

Ron’s little sister, Ginny, had darted one look at Percy, flushed bright red, and ducked behind her dad. Every so often she peeked out, cheeks blazing, until Percy caught her and waved with a crooked grin.

“She couldn’t shut up about you all summer,” Ron muttered under his breath. “Figures the second she sees you, she can’t even speak.”

Percy only shook his head in amusement.

Percy Weasley was buried in a book, but he gave Percy a polite nod. Even that made Ron gape.

Finally, Mrs. Weasley swept him into a hug that nearly cracked ribs, then pulled back, her voice bright and warm enough to fill the whole street. Percy grinned. For the first time all summer, he felt like things might really be okay again.

Together they made their way towards the last stop on the list, drawing many wizards’ and witches’ attention to the large group of people walking through the street. Half of them were boisterous, loud, and as eye-catching as their shock of red hair, while the other half stood out just as much for being clearly Muggle or at least Muggle-adjacent, their clothing marking them as “strange” by wizarding standards.

They entered Flourish and Blotts and were immediately greeted by a very large crowd. Sure, it was the last week before classes began again, so the Alley was expected to be busy, but this was practically ridiculous. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder inside the shop, shuffling through like packed sardines. The noise was a constant blend of voices, the thud of books being stacked, and the occasional squeal from someone catching sight of a familiar face.

They pulled up short at the entrance, though the Weasleys seemed entirely unfazed. Mrs. Weasley called out to her family, her voice carrying easily above the chatter and drawing a few extra glances from nearby witches and wizards.

“It’s probably best that we split up!” she yelled. Then she turned to her husband. “I’ll take Ron and Ginny to find their books. You take Fred, George, and Percy!”

Mr. Weasley nodded, already gripping the twins’ shoulders in what looked like an attempt to keep them from wandering — though Percy couldn’t tell if it was for their sake or for the safety of the other patrons. Percy Weasley trailed behind them with his nose still in a book, ignoring the chaos.

Mrs. Weasley set her hands on her youngest children’s shoulders. “Ron, you first! Where’s your list?” She marched them into the crowd, Percy catching Ron’s helpless shrug before Mrs. Weasley’s exasperated “Ron!” faded into the noise.

“Hermione!” Mrs. Granger called, much quieter than Mrs. Weasley but still sharp enough to cut through the chatter. “Take the coins, dear. You know this store better than we do. Your father and I are going to wait outside and get out of the crowd!”

“That’s fine, Mom!” Hermione yelled back. “I’ll meet you out there when we’re done.”

“Stay with Mrs. Jackson and Harry, please!” Mrs. Granger’s eyes flicked toward Sally, a question in them. When Sally gave a reassuring nod, both Grangers quickly made their exit, leaving less risk of being trampled in the press of witches and wizards.

Percy turned to his mom, waiting for instruction.

“Well, let’s see the list,” she said, holding out her hand.

Percy dug into his pocket and fished out the parchment he had received by owl a week earlier. He handed it over and leaned over her shoulder to read along.

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart
Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart
Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart
Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart

“Who’s Lockhart?” Percy asked Hermione. She flushed slightly at the question, shifting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.

“He’s a famous wizard,” she explained quickly, her voice carrying the tone of someone repeating facts she’d memorized. “He goes around saving people and then writes books about his adventures. He must be amazing for the new professor to want us to get all of his books!” Her eyes went a little starry, and Percy felt his frown deepen.

He must have been something if he’d managed to get Hermione’s attention like that. Then again, maybe it was just admiration for an author. She did love books.

“Well, either way,” Sally cut in before Percy could tease, “we best start searching for all the books or we’ll never get out of here.”

And it did take them a while. The combination of pushing through the ever-growing crowd — which now included a line forming in the center of the shop, away from the pay station for reasons Percy couldn’t figure out — and the terrible organization of the shelves left them circling the store multiple times. It was exhausting, but eventually they had gathered every book on the list and returned to the counter to queue again.

As they waited, Percy’s attention kept drifting back to the odd line forming in the middle of the store. His confusion cleared when they moved closer to the entrance and a sign appeared at the front:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

And it had just turned one o’clock.

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed, bouncing on her toes. “I mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!”

Percy winced at the pitch of her excitement. The crowd forming for the signing seemed made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley’s age, their chatter shrill with anticipation.

A harassed-looking wizard stood near the door, trying to calm them. “Calmly, please, ladies… don’t push, there… mind the books, now…”

Percy craned his neck and finally caught sight of the man who had whipped the shop into such chaos.

Gilderoy Lockhart sat at a table, quills scratching as he signed book after book, the line wrapped around the shelves and still growing. Behind him, posters of his own face winked and flashed bright smiles. The real Lockhart wore robes of forget-me-not blue, perfectly matching his eyes. His pointed hat tilted at a jaunty angle over thick, wavy blond hair. A short, sour-looking photographer bustled about with a large camera that popped with purple smoke every time it flashed.

Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and Ginny were near the front of the line, inching forward. Ron looked absolutely miserable, shifting from foot to foot as if hoping the floor might swallow him whole. Mrs. Weasley’s expression mirrored Hermione’s dreamy look, her eyes fixed on the author. Ginny, however, seemed far more interested in looking anywhere else, her gaze darting nervously until it landed on Percy. She flushed crimson and ducked behind her mother’s robes.

That snapped Mrs. Weasley out of her daze. “Oh, there you are, good,” she said, catching sight of Percy and Sally. She sounded breathless and kept fussing with her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute…”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron muttered under his breath as Percy drew closer. “I am so glad you’re here. Please save me.”

“Sorry, man. You’re a lost cause,” Percy teased back. “What are you doing anyway?”

Ron grimaced. “We were looking for my books, then Mum saw Lockhart was signing. She practically has a crush on the bloke, so…” He gestured miserably at the line.

“Yeah. Definitely a lost cause,” Percy said solemnly trying to keep a straight face. “I’ll always remember you, Ron.”

Ron groaned dramatically, throwing his head back, only to yelp when someone shoved him aside, stomping on his foot.

“Out of the way, there,” the photographer snapped, backing up for a better angle. “This is for the Daily Prophet—”

“Big deal,” Ron muttered, rubbing his foot.

Lockhart looked up, his quill freezing. His gaze swept the line, landing on Ron… then on Percy.

His smile stretched impossibly wide. He sprang to his feet and practically shouted, “It can’t be Harry Potter?”

The crowd parted at once. Whispers spread in waves, no longer just about Lockhart but also about Harry Potter.

Percy shrank back as dozens of eyes turned on him, the press of attention thick and suffocating.

Lockhart strode toward him, that perfect white smile gleaming. Percy flinched when the man’s hand reached for his forehead, aiming to sweep back his hair.

Sally stepped forward at once, blocking Percy from view with her practiced smile, bright and dazzling enough to hold most people at bay. But Percy heard the steel in her voice when she asked, “Can we help you?”

“Ah, yes!” Lockhart said, not deterred in the slightest. “If you could just step aside, ma’am. I’ll get a few photos with young Harry here, then sign a picture of myself for you. I’m sure this is quite exciting, especially for a…” His eyes flicked over her clothes recognizing that she wasn’t a witch. “…for a Muggle. But we must all wait our turn, yes? Step aside, please.”

And then he grabbed her arm and pushed her aside into the many bodies surrounding them. It was too fast for Percy to react. He couldn’t see her as she disappeared into the crush of bodies pressing closer.

Rage boiled up in Percy, his hands clenching at his sides. He wanted to shove everyone out of the way, get to his mom. He turned to do just that but before he could act, Lockhart seized his shoulder and yanked him backwards, pulling him against his chest. Percy stumbled, caught off guard, and an uncomfortable surprise flooded him with a sharp edge of fear.

“Nice big smile, Harry,” Lockhart whispered, teeth gleaming as he leaned so close Percy felt his hot breath on his ear. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”

Percy jerked forward, desperate to get away, but Lockhart’s hand clamped harder on his shoulder, thumb pressing firmly against his pulse point. To the crowd, it looked like a friendly pose. Percy knew better.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Lockhart boomed, shaking Percy lightly. “What an extraordinary moment! The perfect opportunity for a little announcement…”

The crowd cheered. Percy tried to pull free, but the grip only shifted, Lockhart’s thumb sliding lower, brushing against the back of his neck, right along the spine, hidden from sight. Percy’s stomach turned.

“Yes, young Harry here came in just for my autobiography — which I now present to him free of charge!”

Lockheart gestured to one of his assistants, still at the table he had just been seated at. The next thing he knew, books were dumped into Percy’s arms, so many he nearly dropped them.

“But he didn’t know,” Lockhart continued smoothly, “that he’d also be getting the real Magical Me! Because I have the great honor of announcing that I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts!”

The store erupted in applause.

Lockhart leaned down again, voice pitched for Percy alone. His eyes raked over him with an unsettling gleam. “I look forward to teaching you this year, Harry. You should come to my office for… private lessons. I have so much to show you.” His thumb dipped under Percy’s collar, brushing lower against his neck and shoulder. He shivered in disgust.

Yeah that was enough of that. Revulsion jolted Percy into action. He tore himself free, wrenching away hard enough to make Lockhart stumble forward, almost falling onto the floor. Percy glanced back at the man, watching as he pulled his hand to his chest, attempting to cover the grimace with another blinding smile. Good Percy hoped he broke the wrist when Percy pulled away. It would serve the man right. But Lockheart onluy laughed it off, covering the slip with another blinding smile for the crowd.

Percy shoved his way through the crowd, books clutched tight, not caring who he knocked aside. His skin crawled with the memory of that touch, his neck burning where the thumb had pressed.

Behind him, Lockhart’s voice rang out, smooth as ever: “Poor boy’s just shy of the spotlight! But don’t worry, I’ll tutor him myself!”

Percy didn’t stop until he crashed straight into his mom’s arms. The books fell to the floor with a heavy thud as he buried himself against her.

“Percy,” she breathed, holding him tightly, pressing kisses into his hair. “Are you okay?”

“I—I’m fine,” he stammered, though he didn’t sound it.

“Are you hurt? Did he—”

“I’m fine,” she said firmly, cutting him off, though her arms tightened around him. “I was more worried about you. I could see you, but I couldn’t get through the crowd.”

“Can we leave?” Percy whispered, shivering at the phantom feel of that hand gripping his shoulder, that thumb on his neck. “Please.”

“Of course. The Weasleys are by the door, and the Grangers are outside already.”

His mom scooped the books back into his arms, then wrapped one arm protectively around his shoulders, guiding him toward the front while keeping him tucked close to her side.

They reached the Weasleys, a sea of red hair filling the corner of the shop. Percy slipped from his mom’s grip. He marched straight up to Ginny, who was clutching her slightly dented cauldron. It looked like they hadn’t gotten Ginny’s books yet in all the ruckus. Good.

He glanced down, then tipped the stack of Lockhart’s works into it. “You have these,” he said, watching her go redder than ever. “I already bought my own.”

Truthfully, Percy felt he would’ve burned the books before keeping them for himself. But he also knew the Weasleys didn’t have much to spare, and this way Ginny got a new set without her family worrying.

Ginny’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. She made no sound, just gaped at him, scarlet from ear to ear.

Percy gave a small, reassuring smile. “Consider it thanks—for putting up with Ron all summer. You probably deserve it.”

Her blush deepened, but her lips curved faintly, and Percy felt the knot in his chest loosen.

He was going to ask her something else but, they were interrupted. 

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?”

Percy had no trouble recognizing the voice — the usual sharp tone full of superiority. He straightened quickly and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, who wore his trademark sneer as though it was carved into his face.

“Famous Harry Potter,” Malfoy said loudly enough for those nearby to hear. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” Ginny snapped. Her voice trembled at first, but she forced it out, glaring at Malfoy with more courage than Percy had ever seen her show. It was the first time she had spoken in front of him, and it surprised him enough that he blinked.

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” Malfoy drawled, smirking nastily.

Ginny went scarlet, her hands twisting in the hem of her robes. Percy’s own frown deepened.

“Jealous, Malfoy?” Percy asked before he could stop himself.

Draco faltered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish before he snapped, “Why in Merlin’s name would I be jealous of a blood traitor?”

The insult burned Percy’s ears, and he hated the way Malfoy spat the word. Still, his mind snagged on what had slipped out in the heat of the moment.

He tried to swallow his laugh but failed, a snort escaping. “So you’re jealous of Ginny then? Not me?” Percy said, tilting his head innocently.

Malfoy flushed a color nearly identical to Ginny’s hair. Ginny’s shock cracked into bright laughter, the sound carrying across the shop. Percy grinned, his own mood lightening just a fraction, and behind them the rest of the Weasley children caught on. Fred and George howled, Ron barked out a laugh, and even Percy Weasley smirked from behind his book.

Draco’s face burned brighter, and his sneer faltered.

“Leave him be, boys,” Mr. Weasley interrupted, his usual jovial expression pulled tighter, his tone sharper than normal. Percy knew there was bad blood between the elder Weasley and Draco’s father, though he didn’t know the details. Still, Arthur Weasley was not about to lower himself to fighting with a twelve-year-old. “Let’s go. It’s too crowded in here — let’s head outside.”

He had barely taken a step when another voice cut in, smooth and just as obnoxious as Draco’s.

“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”

Lucius Malfoy appeared, one pale hand resting on Draco’s shoulder. His sneer matched his son’s almost perfectly.

“Lucius,” Arthur replied coldly, giving the smallest of nods.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Lucius said, his words dripping with disdain. “All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

His hand darted suddenly into Ginny’s cauldron. From amid the glossy Lockhart books, he extracted a battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. He turned it in his hand as though it were something filthy.

“Obviously not,” Malfoy sneered. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Arthur flushed dark red, his jaw tightening. “We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy.”

“Clearly,” Lucius said, his pale eyes drifting to the Grangers, who hovered nearby, tense and uneasy. “The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower—”

There was a sudden thud as Ginny’s cauldron went flying, books scattering across the floor. Mr. Weasley had launched himself at Malfoy, knocking him into a towering bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks rained down in a thunderous crash.

“Get him, Dad!” one of the twins yelled gleefully.

Percy staggered back, his mom yanking him by the arm and shoving him behind her, shielding him from the brawl in case wands were drawn. His pulse hammered in his ears as the crowd shrieked and pressed back, knocking into shelves and sending even more books tumbling.

Mrs. Weasley’s shrill cry rang over the chaos. “No, Arthur, no!”

“Gentlemen, please — please!” the store assistant begged.

But it was Hagrid’s booming voice that finally cut through everything. “Break it up, there, gents, break it up—”

The half-giant waded forward, hauling both men apart as though they were misbehaving children. Arthur’s lip was split, blood trickling down his chin, while Malfoy’s eye had swollen where a copy of Encyclopedia of Toadstools had clocked him.

Still clutching Ginny’s battered book, Lucius thrust it at her with venom in his gaze. “Here, girl — take your book. It’s the best your father can give you.”

Then he wrenched himself out of Hagrid’s grasp, beckoned to Draco, and swept out of the store with his robes billowing behind him.

“You should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” Hagrid rumbled, straightening Mr. Weasley’s robes almost gently despite his size. Arthur muttered something back, but Percy didn’t catch it. His mom was already steering him out of the shop, away from the mess of fallen books and muttering witches.

“Such children,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as they emerged into the street. “Men. All of them. Every single one.”

“Hey!” Percy said, more indignant out of reflex than anything.

She looped her arm around his shoulders as they walked toward a quieter corner. “Especially you,” she teased with a grin, her shoulders finally relaxing as she sighed.

She guided him toward a bench a little way down the street. Once they sat, her hand slipped from his shoulder to grip his arm firmly. “Percy,” she began, her voice suddenly serious, “are you sure you want to go to the Weasleys’? You and I could camp out in Potter Manor until the train leaves.”

Percy hesitated, frowning. The thought of staying with Ron had him excited — he wanted to see the Burrow, to experience all the stories Ron had told him. But it had been such a long, exhausting day already, and the idea of a few more days with just his mom was tempting. He didn’t want to disappoint Ron, though. Not after getting his friends back.

“I’m sure,” he said finally, though the sigh that came with it betrayed his conflict.

Sally studied him, then smiled, her expression soft with understanding. “I’m proud of you, starfish. And I’m going to miss you so much this year.” She pulled him into her side and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I’m going to miss you too, Mom,” Percy murmured, leaning into her warmth.

They sat quietly for a moment, their little bubble of peace a welcome contrast to the chaos inside the shop. Then Sally straightened, turning fully toward him, her eyes sharper now. Percy mirrored her, his brows furrowing.

“Percy.” she started. Her tone hard, leaving no room for argument. “You will not be alone with Lockheart. Do you understand?” 

Percy frowned in confusion, tilting his head to the side slightly. Sure Lockheart made him very uncomfortable, and honestly he didn’t want to be alone with that man either. But why was it so important that his mom had to say something.

“Why?” he asked. 

“Just-” his mom hesitated, closing her mouth as she thought for a moment, her brows drawn together as she stared into his eyes. 

“A mother knows these things.” she finally decided to say. “Do not ever allow yourself to be alone with that man. I don’t like him. I don’t have any proof, and no wizard would ever side with a muggle over a feeling or else I would make sure that man never worked at Hogwarts, but I can’t.” 

She took a deep breath before she continued. “I can’t keep you from his class. But you will never be alone with him. If he tries anything to get you alone with him, you go find another professor and you tell them that I didn’t want you near him.” 

Percy opened his mouth to argue. To say he really didn’t have much say if a professor gave him a detention but his mom cut him off. 

“No. Listen to me. I don’t care what you have to do, you stay away from him. And if he ever corners you—” her face hardened, shadows deepening her expression until she looked fierce, dangerous — “you make him hurt. Then you run. And you write to me. I’ll storm the castle if I have to. Do you understand?” 

All Percy could do was nod. 

“Good.” His mom took a deep breath, rubbing her hands over her eyes and loosening up again. “Good.” she said again. 

She tugged him into her side again pulling him into her chest and kissing his temple again. 

All Percy could do was nod, throat tight.

“Good.” She exhaled, rubbing her eyes with her palms before tugging him back into her embrace. She kissed his temple again. 

“You are my life, Percy.” she said. “I love you so much.” 

Percy dipped his head into her shoulder. Taking a breath of her fresh sea and lavender scent. “I love you too mom.”

It wasn’t long before the Weasleys spilled out of the shop, a chaotic cluster of red hair and loud voices. Fred and George were already reenacting the brawl in exaggerated slow motion, much to Ron and Ginny’s delight. Mrs. Weasley scolded her husband even as she fussed over his split lip, while Percy Weasley trailed with his book, looking embarrassed to belong to the group.

They crossed to the Grangers, who were sitting outside a bakery, and together began making their way toward Percy and his mom. Sally stood when they approached, tugging Percy up with her.

“Oh, Sally! I’m so dreadfully sorry you had to see that,” Mrs. Weasley cried at once. “I promise Arthur isn’t always that bullheaded, but the Malfoys bring out the worst in him.”

Arthur stood sheepishly behind her shuffling nervously from foot to foot. “I do apologize,” he said gruffly.

Sally waved it off with a smile. “It’s fine, Arthur. You were defending your daughter and your family. I can only hope that protectiveness extends to my son when he’s in your care.”

Arthur straightened immediately, pride stiffening his posture. “Of course. You have my word.”

“Well, best be going home then, before another fight breaks out,” Mrs. Weasley declared, ushering her brood down the street.

Percy and his mom made to follow, but Hermione’s mom called out, “Harry? Wait just a moment. I want to speak with you.”

Hermione was already heading toward the Floo, her dad in tow, leaving Dr. Granger to linger. Sally gave Percy a nod. “I’ll wait right here, sweetheart.”

Percy stepped closer politely. “Ma’am?”

“I wanted to say thank you,” Dr. Granger said, her tone earnest.

Percy frowned. “For what?”

““For being such a good friend to my daughter. You see, Robert and I have been so worried that she was okay at school. She’s always struggled to make friends, and sometimes she doesn’t quite realize when someone who is just being friendly gets tired of her questions and passion for books. And it's hurt her in the past.” She paused, her eyes going a bit glassy. 

“And then, she came home from Hogwarts this summer and I’ve never seen her so happy, talking about all the friends she made, but specifically you. And Ron of course, but mostly you. I’m honestly a bit disappointed in myself for assuming that it was just another mistaken friendly person who didn’t truly care for my daughter.” 

Dr. Granger took Percy’s hand in her own as she finished. “I’m so glad that I was wrong. So, thank you for caring about my daughter. For being a true friend.””

Percy squeezed back firmly. “Hermione is my best friend. She’s a genius and quirky and a bit crazy at times with her schoolwork. But she’s one of my most favorite people. And I couldn’t ask for a better friend.” 

Percy finally let go of her hand with one last squeeze. “Dr. Granger,” he said, drawing her attention again. “I can see how much you love Hermione. And how proud of her you are. I think you should tell her more often though.” 

Dr. Granger's lips pressed into a thin smile as she nodded. “I will. Thank you, Harry.”

Percy gave her hand one last squeeze before jogging back to Sally, who was waiting patiently. He grabbed her hand, and together they followed the path the Weasleys had taken, ready to face whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The Burrow itself was nothing like Potter Manor. It leaned and tilted as though it had been built in fits and starts over generations, each addition stacked on top of the last until it looked like the whole thing ought to collapse under its own weight. Yet it held strong, wrapped in a steady, homely magic that Percy felt the moment he stepped inside. Unlike the heavy, overwhelming power of the Potter wards that had pressed against his skin and claimed him as their own, the Burrow’s magic was gentler. It brushed against him in passing, like a warm draft through a doorway, acknowledging him as a guest rather than family. He could tell it knew he was an outsider, but there was no malice in it. The house was cozy, welcoming, content to let him stay so long as he respected the life that thrived within its walls.

The days at the Burrow slipped by quickly, each one filled with a kind of warmth Percy hadn’t realized he had been craving until it was suddenly everywhere around him. Life with the Weasleys was noisy and bustling, the house itself alive with chatter and movement. There always seemed to be a door banging shut upstairs, or someone laughing in the kitchen, or the twins chasing each other across the garden while Mrs. Weasley shouted half‑hearted warnings about breaking her dishes. It was chaos, but it was good chaos, and Percy fit into it easier than he’d expected.

Most afternoons were spent outside, flying until their arms ached. Fred and George were ruthless with the Quaffle, darting in from either side and nearly knocking Percy off his broom more than once. Percy Weasley—the older one—sometimes came out to referee if the noise got too much for him to ignore, though he always looked like he’d rather be back upstairs in his room with a book. Ginny hovered at the edge of the garden whenever they played, not joining in but not missing a single second either. Percy often felt her eyes on him, though whenever he caught her gaze, she ducked quickly behind her hair or turned her attention to tying knots in the grass.

Ron was his constant companion. They stayed up late every night, lying on their backs in Ron’s room, staring at the sloped ceiling while they whispered about Quidditch teams, homework they didn’t want to do, and what second year might be like. Percy slept on a mattress tucked against the wall, and though it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his bed back at the manor, he thought it was better. He had never really had a sleepover before—not one that counted, anyway—and the simple joy of falling asleep to the sound of Ron’s soft snores was something he hadn’t known he could miss. Gabe’s awful pig‑like snoring back home had been so loud and choking it had shaken the apartment walls, and Percy had hated every minute of it. Ron’s quiet breathing, steady and untroubled, was strangely comforting.

Mr. Weasley was gone most of the day, off to work at the Ministry, but when he returned he always had a terrible joke waiting for them. Percy remembered one in particular, something about a cauldron that walked into a pub and asked for a pint. The punchline hadn’t made sense, but the man’s grin had been so earnest that Percy found himself laughing anyway. Mrs. Weasley made up for her husband’s absences by fussing over Percy as though he had been hers all along. She always seemed to appear just when he was beginning to feel hungry, pressing a buttered scone or a handful of homemade biscuits into his hands before he could even think of refusing. Meals at the Burrow were loud and crowded, the table groaning under the weight of food, and Percy had never once been allowed to leave it without feeling like he’d eaten more than he could possibly hold.

Everything about life at the Burrow was wonderful. The house itself seemed to hum with warmth, and the air was always full of laughter, teasing, and the kind of noise that came from a family too big to ever be quiet for long. Percy honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much. It felt constant here, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And at night, when Ron had finally drifted off to sleep with his soft snores, or in the early mornings when Ron was still curled up and snoring louder, Percy would find himself staring at the ceiling and wondering what it would be like to have this kind of family for himself. Him and his mom, and a dad who cared, and siblings who drove him crazy but who he would give anything for. A big family in a house like this, overflowing with life. The thought ached in his chest, but it was a good ache, one he almost wanted to hold onto.

The morning before he and the Weasley brood were set to leave for Hogwarts, Percy finally dragged himself out of bed and trudged toward the kitchen. The faint clatter of pots and pans told him Mrs. Weasley was already awake, well into her daily routine of preparing breakfast. Ron, unsurprisingly, was still asleep—he always took advantage of the mornings to sleep in before school started. At first, Percy had tried to wait in bed until Ron woke up too, awkwardly lying there with nothing to do. He was so used to waking up early with his mom, helping her get ready before leaving their apartment. But one morning he’d gotten up to use the bathroom, only to be intercepted by Fred and George, who dragged him down to the kitchen and dumped him at the table. Mrs. Weasley had only smiled, placing a platter of breakfast in front of him without a word. After that, Percy just came down each morning on his own. Sometimes he even lingered to watch Mrs. Weasley cook or helped her when she started baking. It was simple, but it felt nice.

On his way down that morning, Percy slowed when he spotted Ginny in the living room. She was perched on the sofa, hunched over a small book in her lap. It looked old, bound in black leather that had clearly seen better days, the corners worn and soft from use. Her quill scratched furiously across the page, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Percy hesitated, watching from the edge of the doorway. Ginny hadn’t spoken to him much since he’d arrived—barely more than a few stammered sentences here and there. He had started to wonder if she didn’t like him. Maybe it was just because he was older and she didn’t know what to say, or maybe she was nervous around him for some reason.

Every now and then, though, she glanced up at him. Percy felt her eyes on him even before he looked her way, and when their gazes met she went scarlet, ducked her head, and started scribbling furiously in her book again. It was… kind of unsettling. He didn’t get close enough to see what she was writing, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Still, curiosity prickled at the back of his mind. What could she possibly be filling that journal with? He only hoped it wasn’t him.

After breakfast, Percy lingered in the kitchen a little longer than usual, finishing the last crumbs of toast while Mrs. Weasley bustled around tidying dishes. Ron was still dead asleep upstairs, no doubt drooling on his pillow, and Percy half considered sneaking back to bed himself.

He didn’t get the chance.

Two sets of identical hands clamped down on his shoulders.

“There he is!” Fred’s voice sing‑songed in one ear.

“Our favorite guest!” George finished in the other.

Before Percy could protest, the twins were hauling him out of his chair, half dragging, half steering him toward the crooked staircase. “Oi—wait—what are you doing?” Percy sputtered, trying not to trip as his socks slid on the wooden steps.

“Top secret business,” George said solemnly.

“Highly classified,” Fred added, eyes sparkling.

“That usually means trouble,” Percy muttered, though he didn’t fight them too hard. Something about the way they cackled in unison made it impossible not to be curious.

They shoved him through the doorway into their bedroom, a chaotic explosion of papers, quills, and strange contraptions. Percy’s eyes darted across the mess: stacked cauldrons in the corner, a pile of charred feathers, and something that looked like it had once been a teapot but now had legs.

“Sit, sit, sit,” Fred urged, pushing him onto the edge of a bed.

George flopped onto the other mattress and reached under it. With a flourish, he pulled out a small glass vial filled with a shimmering, metallic blue liquid. It glowed faintly in the morning light.

Percy eyed it warily. “That looks… dangerous.”

“That’s because it is,” George said cheerfully.

“But in a fun way,” Fred added, shaking the vial so the potion sloshed and glittered. “We’ve been perfecting it all week.”

“Perfecting what exactly?” Percy asked, leaning back slightly in case it exploded.

Fred and George grinned at each other before saying in perfect sync: “Operation Stick‑It.”

“…Stick‑It?” Percy repeated slowly.

George leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Pour this beautiful concoction on someone and whatever they touch—bam!—sticks right to them. Plates, books, cauldrons, cats—”

“—you name it!” Fred cut in. “They won’t be able to shake it off until the spell wears out. Hilarious, right?”

Percy blinked at them. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Terrible ideas lead to the most fun,” George said, waving a hand.

Fred nodded sagely, silently agreeing with his twin.

Percy crossed his arms. “Why are you telling me about this? Shouldn’t you be testing it yourselves?”

“Oh, we will,” Fred promised.

“Eventually,” George added.

“But you, Harry my lad, you’ve got the element of surprise.” Fred wagged his eyebrows. “No one expects the guest to strike.”

“Exactly!” George chimed in. “Percy hasn’t let us come near him since we got his eyes to cross whenever he looked at a book earlier this summer. But you, my friend, he would never expect you. Percy would never see it coming.”

Percy stared at them, suspicious. “And what’s in it for me?”

George clutched his chest, feigning injury. “You wound us. The honor of being involved in one of our most brilliant inventions isn’t enough?”

Fred nodded dramatically. “Future generations will sing songs about Harry Potter, co‑conspirator to the greatest pranksters Hogwarts has ever known.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “Uh‑huh.” He couldn’t help the twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth though. The twins were ridiculous. Still, a small voice in his head warned him that anything involving Percy Weasley, pranks, and him in the middle was going to blow up in his face.

Fred leaned closer, lowering his voice to a mock whisper. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. And think of it this way—Ron’ll never forgive us if you don’t at least try one prank before term starts.”

George tilted his head, giving Percy a mischievous grin. “And besides, aren’t you curious?” He shook the vial again. The potion swirled hypnotically, glowing brighter as it caught the light.

Percy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Curious, yes. Suicidal? Not so much.”

“Details, details,” Fred said breezily. “So what do you say? For science?”

“For chaos,” George corrected.

They both leaned in, twin grins wide and expectant. Percy looked between them, feeling the weight of their identical stares. He groaned. “This is going to get me killed, isn’t it?”

Fred clapped him on the back hard enough to make him cough. “That’s the spirit!”

Percy sighed. “What do I have to do?”

George’s smile widened, but it wasn’t his bright winning smile; there was a deviousness there that wasn’t usually present. It might even look cruel in certain lighting. “All you have to do is get Percy to walk out of his room and onto the landing between the staircases. Forge and I will be on the next landing and we’ll pour it on top of him.”

Percy glanced between them a few times. “Alright,” he huffed.

Fred twirled the vial between his fingers, the metallic‑blue potion catching the light in a swirl. “Easy as pie. You distract, we drop, hilarity ensues.”

The twins whooped in victory, Fred tossing the vial to George, who pocketed it with a grin. “This is going to be legendary.”

“Truly historic,” George added as they ushered Percy out the door.

Percy took his place on the creaky wooden landing a floor below Percy Weasley’s room. He could already hear the twins sneaking up the next flight, whispering and giggling like overgrown children. The whole Burrow seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the disaster that was about to unfold.

He rubbed his hands together nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He could do it—just knock, distract, step aside. That was all they’d asked of him. Easy.

But as he stared at Percy Weasley’s door, unease prickled at his chest. Percy Weasley had been… kind this summer. He had grumbled about sharing his owl, but he’d let Ron send letters when the family owl couldn’t manage. For all his pompous airs, Percy Weasley wasn’t half bad when you caught him alone.

And getting on a prefect’s bad side? That seemed like a terrible idea.

Still, the twins were waiting. He couldn’t back out now, but he could do something about the prank.

He took a breath and knocked.

The door creaked open a moment later. Percy Weasley peered out, his glasses slipping a little down his nose. He was a bit disheveled and still in his pajamas, and he looked mildly annoyed, but not unkind. “Harry? Can I help you?”

Percy smiled. “Good morning. Mrs. Weasley made breakfast and asked me to fetch you.”

Percy Weasley frowned, confused. He knew Mrs. Weasley never sent anyone to wake them when there wasn’t a schedule to keep. Percy let his eyes flick upward—just for a second, subtle as he could manage—toward the landing above where Fred and George were crouched in the shadows.

“You’d better hurry, though,” Percy added lightly, lifting his chin toward the next flight with less subtlety. “Fred and George might beat you to it.”

Percy Weasley’s eyes followed the gesture, sharp behind the lenses. His expression didn’t change, but Percy caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” Percy Weasley said smoothly. “I see.”

Before Percy could react, Percy Weasley stepped fully into the doorway. He stretched lazily, adjusted his glasses, then shifted to one side—just out of the splash zone.

“Funny thing, Harry,” he said conversationally, “you can always tell when Fred and George are up to something because they can’t stop snickering.”

“Oi!” came a muffled hiss from above.

There was a scrape of movement, a whispered “Wait—don’t—” and then the sound of liquid splashing.

Fred yelped.

George swore.

Percy looked up just in time to see the metallic‑blue potion pouring straight onto the twins themselves. It soaked their shirts and dripped down their fronts as they crouched on the landing.

With a loud squelch, Fred’s arm glued itself to George’s shoulder.

“WHAT—” Fred yanked, but his hand stuck harder.

George flailed, smacking his palm against Fred’s forearm, where it immediately latched on. “No, no, no—this is not how it was supposed to go!”

Percy clapped a hand over his mouth to smother a laugh. Percy Weasley’s lips twitched, the closest Percy had ever seen him come to outright amusement.

The twins struggled, trying to pry themselves apart, but every tug only glued them tighter. They staggered down the stairs, a tangled mess of limbs, shouting accusations at each other.

“You dropped it!”

“You elbowed me!”

“You’re elbowing me now!”

Percy burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. The sight was too much—the proud pranksters caught in their own trap.

“Oi!” one of them cried, noticing Percy’s laughter. “Don’t think I didn’t see you warn him, you little—”

“This means war!” George declared.

Percy’s laughter sputtered into stunned silence. “What?”

“A prank war,” George clarified, scowling though his mouth twitched like he was holding back a grin.

Fred nodded gravely. “We’ll get you back, Potter—when you least expect it. You and our dear brother here.” He jerked his head toward Percy Weasley, who looked more affronted at being included than anything else.

“You’re declaring a prank war on a prefect?” Percy asked, half amused, half horrified.

Fred grinned, wicked and unbothered. “All’s fair in love and pranks.”

“And you’ve officially chosen your side,” George added with mock solemnity.

Percy groaned. But deep down, he couldn’t help the spark of excitement curling in his stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad way to spend the school year after all.

Ron finally wandered into the kitchen around ten that morning, his hair sticking up at odd angles and his pajamas rumpled. He flopped into his chair with a grunt, blinking blearily at the sight of Fred and George still glued together by the shoulder. Percy couldn’t help snickering every time he looked over at them, earning himself a series of baleful glares. Even so, their light‑hearted annoyance kept flickering into amusement as they tried to come up with excuses for their mother.

“What in Merlin’s name happened to you two?” Ron asked, reaching automatically for toast.

“Your dear friend Harry happened,” Fred muttered, tugging at his sleeve as though that might finally free him from George.

“Correction,” George said darkly. “Our traitorous friend Harry warned Percy of our brilliance.”

Ron choked on his toast, laughing. “You tried to prank Percy and he outsmarted you? That’s brilliant!”

“It’s treason,” Fred grumbled. “Absolute treason.”

“Funny,” Percy Weasley’s voice floated from the corner where he sat with his tea, one eyebrow raised, “I thought it was common sense.” He didn’t even look up from the Daily Prophet, but the smirk on his lips gave him away.

Mrs. Weasley swept by, setting a stack of plates on the counter with a sharp clatter. “If you boys don’t stop dragging Harry into your ridiculous schemes, I’ll make sure you two stay stuck together until school starts,” she warned.

George slumped against Fred dramatically. “Mother doesn’t understand us,” he sighed.

“Never has,” Fred agreed, equally solemn.

Ron snorted into his porridge.

Arthur Weasley chose that exact moment to shuffle into the kitchen, glasses perched on his nose, hair more disheveled than usual. It appeared Ron took after him when it came to sleeping in on a Saturday without work. He sat down in his usual chair at the head of the table, but his attention immediately went to his twin sons. “What’s all this, then?” he asked cheerfully, voice warm even as his eyes widened at the sight of their predicament.

Fred perked up. “Dad! Do you have anything in your shed that might help us with… this?” He gestured to their stuck shoulders with his free hand.

Arthur paused, considering. “Depends,” he said slowly, rubbing at his ear. “What exactly did you use to make this mess?”

The twins glanced at each other. “A potion,” George admitted reluctantly.

“Brilliant, of course,” Fred added, trying to salvage some pride.

Arthur hummed thoughtfully, already moving toward the door. “Well, come along, then. Let’s see if we can sort you out.”

The twins scrambled to their feet, dragging each other along as they followed. Ron hesitated, then pushed away his half‑finished breakfast. “C’mon, Harry. Let’s go watch them try to get out of this one.” He grinned.

Percy didn’t hesitate. He’d heard plenty about Mr. Weasley’s shed, and curiosity tugged at him. The shed wasn’t far—just past the chicken coop—but stepping inside was like stepping into another world. It was cluttered to the brim with Muggle objects, stacked on shelves or half‑taken apart on workbenches. A bicycle wheel leaned against the wall beside a boxy old radio, and an entire pile of plugs and wires sat in a bin labeled TO BE STUDIED. The smell of oil and dust filled the air, oddly comforting in a way.

Arthur’s face lit up as he stepped inside. He pulled a battered old toaster off a shelf and held it out proudly. “Now, Harry, you’re from the Muggle world, aren’t you? Tell me, what exactly does this do?”

Percy blinked. “It… toasts bread?”

Arthur beamed as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Marvelous! Bread, you say. Does it use fire, or is it all this clever wiring?” He ran his fingers along the cord with a sort of reverent fascination.

Fred leaned toward George, stage‑whispering, “You think we could toast Percy’s prefect badge?”

Arthur gave them both a sharp look, though his lips twitched. “Boys,” he warned. There was a subtle, curious glint in his eye at the idea of toasting something other than bread.

Ron laughed, leaning against the workbench while his dad rooted through a drawer. Percy caught the moment when Arthur reached out to ruffle Ron’s hair in passing, casual and affectionate. Ron ducked away with a groan, but there was no hiding the small smile on his face.

Something twisted deep in Percy’s chest. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. More like a hollow ache, the kind that whispered this was what he could have had if things had been different. Arthur wasn’t loud about it, and he wasn’t dramatic like Mrs. Weasley, but every action spoke volumes. The way he laughed at the twins’ antics even as he tried to scold them. The way he glanced at his wife when he thought no one was looking, soft pride in his eyes. Even the way he unfolded his paper at breakfast and, with a perfectly straight face, made a comment about Mrs. Weasley being “scarier than any dragon before her first cup of tea,” earning himself a sharp swat with a dish towel. She had huffed, lips pressed tight to hide her smile, while Arthur grinned like a schoolboy who’d gotten away with something.

Percy had never had a dad like that. Gabe certainly wasn’t anything like that.

Arthur finally pulled out a battered tin and placed it on the workbench. “Now, let’s see,” he said, unscrewing the lid. “I’ve got something that should break down binding agents. No guarantees on side effects, mind you, but it won’t blow your arms off.”

“That’s reassuring,” Ron muttered.

Arthur winked at him, then scooped out a small amount of the powder inside. He sprinkled it carefully over the seam of fabric between Fred and George. There was a faint fizz, then a soft pop, and suddenly the twins stumbled apart, free at last.

“Yes!” Fred pumped his fist in triumph.

George rubbed his shoulder. “Victory!”

Arthur chuckled, sliding the tin back into its place. “Just remember, boys. If anyone asks, you didn’t get this from me. Deal?”

The twins exchanged a glance, then nodded together. “Deal.”

Arthur clapped them both on the back, firm but affectionate. “Good lads.”

Later that afternoon, Percy stretched out on the thin mattress in Ron’s room, Hedwig perched comfortably on his knee. Her feathers were soft under his fingers, and she leaned into his touch with a little hoot of contentment. Percy smiled at the sound, stroking her neck in slow, careful motions. He still couldn’t believe she was his—loyal, sharp‑eyed, always waiting for him like she understood more than she should.

Ron sprawled across his own bed, hands behind his head, feet dangling off the end. “Chudley Cannons are going to take the Cup this year. I can feel it,” he declared with a grin that was far too hopeful for a team that hadn’t won in decades.

Percy smirked, glancing up from Hedwig. “Didn’t they finish last place the past three years?”

Ron groaned, rolling onto his side. “That’s not the point! They’re due a comeback. You’ll see. They’ve got new Chasers and their Seeker’s been training nonstop over the summer. The Cannons are going to shock everyone this year.”

“If you say so,” Percy teased. He kept his tone light, not cruel, because the excitement in Ron’s voice was genuine. He liked that about Ron—the way he clung to hope, even when it was almost impossible. “Guess I’ll root for them with you, then.”

Ron brightened immediately, his ears going pink. “Yeah? You mean it?”

“Sure. Doesn’t hurt to back an underdog.” Percy gave Hedwig a final pat before she nipped affectionately at his sleeve and fluttered over to her cage.

Ron sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “Oh no.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“My Charms homework!” Ron scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet as he dug frantically through the mess on the floor. Old socks, Chocolate Frog wrappers, and parchment scraps went flying until he pulled out a crumpled worksheet. “I completely forgot. Harry—you’ve got to help me. Please. I’ll owe you.”

Percy raised an eyebrow, half amused by Ron’s panic. “You’re asking me for the answers?”

Ron thrust the parchment toward him, cheeks red. “Just this once! Come on, you’re brilliant at Charms. If I don’t turn this in, Flitwick’ll have my head before we even get back to Hogwarts.”

Percy sighed, reaching out to take the sheet. “Alright, alright. I’ll give you the answers, but you’re writing them yourself.” He pointed a finger at Ron. “And if you get caught, you’re taking the blame, got it?”

“Deal!” Ron plopped back onto his bed, quill already in hand, grinning in relief.

As Percy leaned over the parchment, he couldn’t help but shake his head with a smile.

Dinner that night was loud, warm, and chaotic in the way Percy was beginning to expect from the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley made all of Percy’s favorites and kept piling food on his plate no matter how many times he insisted he was full.

By the time dessert plates were cleared away, Mrs. Weasley was shooing them all upstairs with firm instructions. “Early day tomorrow,” she said. “You’ll be off to Hogwarts! Everyone in bed, no arguments!” The protests were loud but short‑lived, and soon the whole house was creaking with the sound of people settling in.

Percy had just started drifting off on the mattress in Ron’s room when the door creaked open and two identical shadows slipped inside. “Oi, Harry. Ron,” Fred whispered, far too excited to be innocent. “C’mon, you two. And be quiet about it.”

Ron groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “Go away.”

“Not a chance,” George murmured, already crouched beside Percy’s mattress. He gave it a sharp shake that nearly toppled Percy off. “Up you get, Potter. You’ll want to see this.”

Percy blinked, suspicious. “If this is another prank—”

“Truce,” Fred said, holding up both hands solemnly, though his grin ruined the effect. “No pranks, we promise.”

“Until we get back to Hogwarts,” George added with a wink.

Ron shoved his blanket aside, curiosity overcoming his sleepiness. “What is it?”

The twins exchanged a look that could only mean trouble. “You’re coming with us to see Dad’s car,” Fred said proudly.

Percy sat up straighter. “The car? What’s so special about a car?”

“That would be spoiling, dear Harrykins,” George said, grinning. “Dad showed us how to work it. Just a quick test run. Mum will never know.”

Ron’s eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

“As death.” Fred tugged Ron’s sleeve. “C’mon, it’ll be brilliant.”

Percy hesitated, his stomach already twisting.

George rolled his eyes. “Come on, Potter. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

Percy huffed, knowing he wouldn’t hear the end of it otherwise. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

They crept through the dark house, down the back stairs and out the door into the cool night air; doubt crept in as they circled the garden. Still, curiosity—and the stubborn pride that came with not wanting to look weak—kept him following. The Ford Anglia sat just beyond the hedge, its pale blue paint catching the moonlight until it almost seemed to glow. Percy wasn’t sure what was so special about a car.

Fred patted the hood affectionately. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Dad said it just needed a little tweaking,” George said. “Perfect time for a test drive.”

Ron’s excitement drowned out any nerves. “I can’t believe this actually works.” His voice cracked halfway through as he scrambled into the back seat before Percy could object. Obviously he already knew what was special about it. Or maybe, to wizarding kids, a car was special simply because it was a car.

The twins turned to Percy expectantly. “Backseat for you, Harry,” Fred said, gesturing grandly.

Percy swallowed hard but forced himself to climb in. The interior smelled faintly of petrol and something metallic, and the cracked leather seats squeaked under his weight. 

“Here we go,” George announced, twisting the key. The engine sputtered to life with a rumble that vibrated up through Percy’s shoes, and then—without ceremony—the car lifted off the ground.

It was a flying car. Of course it was.

At first, Percy’s heart jumped in a rush of adrenaline. The Burrow shrank below them, its crooked chimney glowing faintly with firelight. For half a breath, it was almost thrilling. Then the car lurched higher, and the world tilted away beneath him.

Percy’s breath caught. His stomach dropped so hard he thought he might be sick right there. This wasn’t like a broom. On a broom, he felt the magic steady him, keep him upright, keep him connected to the air. Here, the metal shell pressed him in on all sides, cutting him off. His magic wasn’t flowing with the motion—it was recoiling drawing itslef towards him protectively, ready to strike outward like a snake. And something else... something he couldn't name that resonated in him and felt more like instinct than anything else slammed against his ribs as though screaming to get out. Instinct howled that this was wrong, that he should not be this far off the ground. All he could think was that every part of him was telling him to get down.

He gripped the back of George’s seat so hard his knuckles went white. “Fred,” he said, his voice already hoarse. “Go down.”

Ron twisted in his seat, eyes wide. “Harry, you don’t look so good…”

Percy shook his head quickly, the motion making him even dizzier. “I’m serious. Land. Now.”

Fred and George shared an uncertain look. “We just got up here,” Fred argued weakly, though his smile faltered when he saw Percy’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Fred asked, sounding more worried than Percy had ever heard him.

“I don’t know. I—I just don’t like being up this high.”

George hesitated, still holding the wheel steady. “You flew on a broom last year, didn’t you? You were brilliant at it. Why’s this different?”

Percy wanted to answer but couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. Something clawed at him in waves that prickled across his skin like he was about to burst. His chest ached, and his heart hammered so violently it almost drowned out the hum of the engine.

“It’s not the same. I—I don’t—” Percy forced out. “I don’t know.” He gagged on the words and pressed a hand to his mouth, certain he was about to be sick. “Just—down!”

That was enough. George yanked the wheel, and the car dipped sharply. Ron yelped and clutched the dashboard as they dropped lower, the ground rushing up to meet them. Percy didn’t even care that his teeth rattled from the sudden descent; all he could think about was the pull in his chest loosening, the awful weight in his gut lifting with every foot closer to the earth.

The moment the tires touched grass again, Percy slumped back against the seat, drenched in cold sweat. His magic settled instantly, curling back against him like it was relieved too. He sucked in a shaky breath, pressing both hands hard against his knees to stop them from shaking.

“Blimey,” Ron whispered, twisting around to stare. “Harry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Percy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I told you… it’s not the same as a broom.” His voice cracked with exhaustion. “Don’t ask me to explain it, but I can’t—up there, it feels wrong. Like I’m about to die.”

Fred’s grin was gone, replaced with genuine concern. “We weren’t trying to—look, we didn’t think you would react like that.”

George nodded quickly. “You’re green as a Slytherin scarf, mate. We thought you would enjoy flying, but we’ll keep her on the ground.”

Percy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to steady his breathing. His pride wanted him to snap something sarcastic, but the truth was he was too shaken. The images still replayed in his mind—the yawning distance between him and the ground, the way his magic had screamed at him.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Maybe it’s just… I dunno. The car, not you. Maybe you don’t like not being in charge of it?”

Percy nodded faintly, grateful for the excuse even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it.” He sat up straighter, forcing his voice steady. “Let’s just go back before we wake your mum. I don’t want to test it again.”

Fred and George didn’t argue. For once, their mischievous grins didn’t return. They exchanged a look—half guilty, half disappointed—and drove the car quietly back into its spot.

The four of them crept back inside, the old floorboards groaning under their feet. By the time they slipped into Ron’s room again, Percy collapsed onto his mattress with relief, pulling the blanket over himself even though he was still clammy with sweat.

He told himself it was just the car. Just being out of control. But deep down, Percy knew it was more than that. His magic had never reacted like that before, and the memory of it twisting painfully in his chest left him unsettled long after he finally closed his eyes.

The Burrow was chaos the next morning. It reminded Percy of the way his mom always gathered herself for a long day at work, but multiplied by ten and infused with magic. Mrs. Weasley’s voice echoed up and down the house as she shooed children into clothes, snatched forgotten books from the floor, and shoved bacon sandwiches into waiting hands all at once. The twins dashed in and out of rooms, Ron moaned about not finding his socks, and Ginny clutched her brand‑new cauldron like it might vanish if she set it down. Percy Weasley seemed to be the only one fully ready; he waited at the table with his nose in another book. Mr. Weasley was only marginally more helpful, tripping over one of the chickens on the way out the door while assuring everyone that they had “loads of time, loads.”

By the time they piled into the Ministry cars and rattled toward King’s Cross—after the third time they had to turn around, this time to get Ginny’s diary—Percy thought the noise might actually be louder than a Quidditch match. Everyone shouted over one another, someone’s owl screeched the entire way, and the twins kept elbowing each other until Mrs. Weasley threatened to hex them bald. Percy had to admit, though, he didn’t mind it. It was exhausting and overwhelming, but it was also warm, alive.

At the station, the family spilled out of the cars in a wave of trunks, pets, and clattering cauldrons. Mrs. Weasley divided them into pairs and began ushering them toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten, herding them with surprising efficiency for someone wrangling seven children plus two extras.

“Right, through you go—quickly now!” she urged, giving Ginny’s shoulder a little push before she disappeared through the barrier right behind the twins.

Ron turned to Percy with an eager grin. “C’mon, Harry. Let’s go together.”

Percy grinned back and pushed his trolley forward, lining up with Ron. They broke into a jog, aiming for the solid barrier. Percy braced himself for the familiar slide of magic letting him through—only to slam his trolley to a stop inches from the wall. His shoulder throbbed from the sudden jolt.

Hedwig screeched in her overturned cage. Percy immediately righted her, trying to soothe her through the bars, and was promptly nipped for his effort.

“What—?” Ron pulled back his own trolley and glared at the barrier. “That’s not right. Did we… did we run at the wrong one?”

Percy frowned, pressing a palm against the bricks. Solid. No hum of magic, no invisible slipstream tugging him through. “This is the right one. It should’ve worked.”

They tried again. Nothing. The barrier stayed as stubborn and ordinary as ever.

Ron swore under his breath, glancing up at the clock. 10:58. The train left at eleven. “We’re going to miss it.” He turned wide eyes on Percy. “What do we do?”

Percy looked around, searching for any other wizarding family running late, but there were none. A few Muggles were staring at them now—two boys who had just tried to ram a pillar twice while an owl shrieked in outrage.

“Maybe we should go wait by the car for your parents to get back?” Percy suggested, trying to keep calm.

Ron hesitated. “We could use the car—”

“No.” Percy’s voice came out sharper than he intended. The memory of last night—his magic screaming, his stomach twisting, the suffocating panic—rushed back so strongly he almost gagged. “No car. Not happening.”

Ron blinked. “But if we don’t—”

“They’ll notice we’re gone,” Percy cut in, keeping his voice even. “Your parents, the teachers—they’ll realize we didn’t get through and they’ll come back for us. Or we can send a letter. There’s no reason to—” His throat closed as he pictured the car lifting off again. He shook his head firmly. “I’m not doing that again. Not ever.”

Before Ron could argue, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley reappeared from the other side of the barrier, faces tight with worry. Mrs. Weasley’s voice carried across the platform.

“Boys? What are you doing out here? You should have gone through ages ago! The train has already left.”

“We tried!” Ron insisted, pointing helplessly at the wall. “It wouldn’t let us through!”

Mrs. Weasley’s brows furrowed, suspicion flickering across her face. “Are you certain you ran at the right barrier? It’s not difficult—”

“It was the right one. I know it was,” Percy said, trying to emphasize that it wasn’t their fault.

Mr. Weasley crouched by the wall, running his hand over the bricks thoughtfully, his eyes alighting with curiosity. “Strange… very strange. I've never heard of this happening before.” He straightened, giving the boys a sympathetic smile. “Well, no use worrying. You’ll just have to get to school another way.”

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips, clearly fighting the urge to scold them further. At last, she sighed. “All right. We’ll sort this out. Try to go back through now, and we'll go from there.”

Mr. Weasley directed them to line up in front of him, helping them straighten their luggage carts and giving them a slight shove forward. 

Percy clenched his eyes shut this time as he ran towards the wall. He expected to hit the wall again, and almost stumbled as the magical barrier caressed him, letting them through. They pulled up before they could hit any of the lingering wizards and witches talking after the train had already left. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stopped when they reached them as well. 

"Mum, I don't know why it wasn't letting us through. We tried the same thing we just did, but it didn't work." Ron said, glancing between his parents.

"It's fine Ron. It's like your father said. No use worrying about it now, even if it wasn't very responsible of you both." she muttered the last part more to herself than them. 

"Molly." Mr. Weasley said, drawing her back to herself. "It's fine."

"Right." she said. "Let's get this sorted, why don't we. I'll write to Minerva."

Eventually, the decision was made: Percy and Ron would Floo directly to Hogwarts. It wasn’t ideal, but Mrs. Weasley assured them it was safer than risking anything else. She drew a small jar from her bag—always prepared, apparently—pinched a measure of powder and herded the boys toward the nearest Floo‑connected grate in the station.

Ron swallowed hard, gripping his trunk. “Straight to Hogwarts, then?”

“Straight to Professor McGonagall’s office,” Mrs. Weasley corrected. She brushed a hand over Ron’s shoulder and then Percy’s, her voice gentler now. “She’ll be expecting you. Don’t dawdle when you get there. And behave yourselves.”

Percy tried to nod, though his stomach squirmed with nerves. Floo travel wasn’t his favorite, but compared to the car, it felt like bliss. He took a pinch of powder, stepped into the grate, and called out clearly, “Professor McGonagall’s office, Hogwarts!”

The world spun green around him, soot and fire licking at his ears, before he stumbled out of another fireplace. He barely caught himself on the hearth before falling flat on his face.

“Potter. Weasley.”

Percy’s head snapped up. Professor McGonagall stood at her desk; papers spread in neat piles around her. She looked exactly the same as last year—stern mouth, hair pulled tight in its bun, spectacles perched precisely on her nose—but there was no anger in her eyes, just the faintest flicker of relief.

Ron tumbled out behind Percy, coughing and brushing soot off his robes. “Professor—we missed the train. The barrier—it wouldn’t let us through, and we missed the train.”

McGonagall raised a hand, silencing him. “I know, Mr. Weasley. Your parents explained. You are not the first students to have missed the train, and you will not be the last. If you were delayed, it is unfortunate, but hardly catastrophic.”

Ron flushed, mumbling, “But we didn't mean to be late, it just—”

“We don’t know why the wall didn't let us through.” Percy said quickly. His nerves made his words sharper than intended. “It should’ve worked, but it didn’t.”

McGonagall studied them both for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. Percy felt as though she could see straight through him, weighing the truth in his words. Finally, she gave a short nod.

“Regardless, you are here now. You will wait in the Gryffindor dorms until the rest of the students arrive. You may not wander the grounds and please do your very best to not cause trouble. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused.

McGonagall’s expression softened by a fraction. “Good. I will notify the headmaster of your arrival.” She returned to her desk, quill scratching briskly against parchment, clearly finished with the conversation.

Percy and Ron made their way quickly up to their dorms. His pulse was still racing from the scare at the barrier, but relief settled in his chest now that they were safely at Hogwarts, his second home. He glanced sideways at Ron, who was trudging up to the dorms next to him, muttering about how unfair it was that they had the entire castle to themselves and couldn't leave the dorms. Percy didn’t disagree, but at least they hadn’t taken the car to get there.

That would have been awful.

Chapter Text

Harry and Ron made it to the Great Hall just in time, slipping inside seconds before the line of first years. Professor McGonagall was already pulling open the doors, her sharp eyes narrowing the moment she spotted them. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing, merely ushering the new students forward with her usual stern grace. Percy let out a quiet breath of relief, though he could practically feel the weight of her disapproval on the back of his neck as he and Ron hurried toward the Gryffindor table.

They slid into the bench across from Hermione. She was already seated with her hands folded primly in her lap, her back straight, and her brows drawn together in a deep furrow. The slight glare she shot them promised an interrogation as soon as she was able to get a word in. Percy didn’t even need her to say anything; her whole face spoke volumes—curiosity, worry, and just a pinch of irritation.

The three of them fell quiet as the Sorting Ceremony began. First years trailed in behind McGonagall, single file, their faces pale and wide-eyed as they craned their necks to take in the enchanted ceiling and glittering candles. Percy’s gaze snagged on the end of the line, where a head of long, bright red hair stood out like a beacon. Ginny walked stiffly, her head bent toward the floor, fingers pulling nervously at her cuticles.

Percy shifted, remembering his own first time walking that long aisle toward the Sorting Hat. He wondered if he had looked that nervous, and the thought dragged him down a winding path he’d tread more than once—what would it have been like if the hat had placed him somewhere else? Hufflepuff had been on the table, he knew that. But if he’d gone there, would Ron and Hermione have still been his friends? Would he have ended up on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, chasing after a different kind of glory? Would he have been dragged into all the chaos of last year—Quirrell, the Stone, Voldemort? Or would he have lived in relative peace?

The questions twisted in his head, endless possibilities branching off into paths he’d never walk. And yet, they didn’t matter. The choice had already been made, and he was here. Shaking the thoughts away, Percy focused as McGonagall set the Sorting Hat on its stool. He half-expected it to sing again, like it had last year, and though it didn’t, he still found himself watching closely as each first year was called, the hat dropped onto their heads, and their fates sealed with a single shouted word.

The sorting went by quickly. Gryffindor gained eight new members, all of them grinning from ear to ear as they were greeted with cheers, claps on the back, and shouted welcomes. One boy in particular—a small blond with round glasses—had nearly toppled over when he caught sight of Percy.

“That’s Harry Potter,” the boy whispered, awestruck, his mouth hanging open.

Percy gave him an awkward little nod, unsure what else to do. The boy’s friend tugged him down the bench before he could actually faint, though Percy suspected that was a near thing.

When Ginny’s name was called and the hat shouted “Gryffindor!” the table erupted louder than ever before. Fred and George set off miniature fireworks that burst into shimmering gold and scarlet sparks, earning whoops and laughter that echoed across the hall. Even McGonagall struggled to restore order, her stern voice nearly drowned out by the noise. Ginny flushed bright red, but her grin was wide as she hurried over to sit beside her brothers.

Percy, meanwhile, found his leg bouncing under the table. His fingers drummed restlessly against the wood, his nerves showing even though he couldn’t have said why. He tried to still himself, but the energy refused to settle. Hermione’s hand slid across the table and closed firmly around his, her eyes soft with concern. He glanced up to find her watching him, her brows pinched together, and he gave her a small smile in return. She released him after a moment, retreating just before Dumbledore rose to give his usual welcome.

The headmaster’s words washed over Percy without much impact. He caught fragments—reminders about rules, something odd about Quidditch regulations—but none of it stuck. He knew if there was anything important, Hermione would fill him in later anyway. His mind was elsewhere, caught between the restless hum of the hall and the knot in his stomach that wouldn’t quite go away.

Then, with a clap of Dumbledore’s hands, the feast appeared. Food filled the tables in a rush—platters of roast chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, towers of treacle tart. The noise level doubled as everyone reached forward, plates clattering and voices overlapping. Ron, predictably, had already heaped food onto his plate and was halfway through stuffing it into his mouth when Hermione pounced.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp. The glare she gave him wasn’t furious, just insistent, her eyes gleaming with the need to know. “You weren’t on the train. Fred and George swore you were right behind them at King’s Cross.”

Percy rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s… kind of a long story.”

Hermione leaned forward, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and worry. “Well?”

Ron, still chewing, jumped in. “It’s true, ‘Mione—”

Hermione’s face twisted in disgust. “Ron! Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s revolting.”

He rolled his eyes but swallowed obediently before trying again. “Harry and I couldn’t get through the barrier. We tried—twice—but we bounced right off. By the time we realized it wasn’t working, the train had already gone.”

Percy nodded in agreement, finally reaching for food himself. “Your mum contacted McGonagall. She had us Floo straight to her office.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, curiosity overtaking her irritation. “You got to Floo to Hogwarts?”

“Don’t sound so excited,” Ron muttered. “McGonagall stuck us in the dorms and told us not to leave until the feast. It wasn’t that great.”

Hermione ignored him, practically glowing with envy. “Still! You could have had the entire day in the library. Imagine all the time I could have spent reading.”

Ron groaned, shaking his head as if the idea were the worst thing in the world. “Only you would wish for that.”

Percy smirked at her, softening his tone. “Never change, Mione.”

Her answering grin lit up her whole face, bright and genuine, and Percy felt some of the tension ease from his chest.

By the time the last crumbs of treacle tart vanished from the plates and Dumbledore dismissed them with his usual cheerful send-off, Percy felt the pleasant heaviness of good food and exhaustion settle over him. The chatter of the hall spilled out into the corridors as the Gryffindors made their way upstairs in a jumbled crowd, lanterns flickering to life along the staircases as the night deepened.

Percy trailed along with Ron and Hermione, his bag slung over his shoulder, listening to Ron complain about their timetable already and Hermione firing back with how she couldn’t wait to start classes. The climb to the tower felt longer than usual after the long day, and by the time the portrait swung open, Percy was more than ready to collapse into bed.

The common room was buzzing with first years still wide-eyed from their sorting, but Percy barely glanced at them as he followed the steady stream of students toward the dormitory stairs. Upstairs, the second-year boys’ room was dimly lit, trunks scattered about as everyone settled back into familiar spaces. Percy’s eyes caught on Neville, who sat on the edge of his bed fiddling nervously with Trevor’s little cage.

Ignoring his own bed and the trunk waiting for him, Percy crossed the room. “Hey, Neville,” he said gently, keeping his tone easy, like he was stepping into familiar ground. “How’ve you been?”

Neville’s head lifted at once. His smile was small and a little hesitant, but it was real. “Eh,” he said after a pause, shrugging one shoulder. “I’ve been okay.”

Percy tilted his head, grin fading into concern. “Just okay?” He eased down onto the end of the bed across from him. “Did you have a good summer at least?”

Neville’s eyes darted away. He picked at his fingers, thumbs worrying over a loose bit of skin. “It was fine,” he answered too quickly, the word clipped and dismissive. “I’m just glad to be back.”

That prickled at Percy’s instincts. He knew the tone—he’d used it often enough himself when someone asked about Gabe. Deflecting, smoothing things over. Alarm bells went off in his head, but he kept his voice casual. “Yeah? Anything interesting happen?”

Neville hesitated again, then seized on a safer subject like it was a lifeline. “Not much. I did get to work in the greenhouses a bit though. That was fun.”

Percy recognized the change immediately, but he knew better than to push. If Neville didn’t want to talk about home, forcing him wouldn’t do any good. Instead he leaned back a little and said, “Yeah? What plants did you work on?”

That did it. Neville’s whole face brightened, his nervous frown melting away. He sat up straighter, eyes wide with genuine enthusiasm. “I got a subspecies of Mimbulus mimbletonia for my birthday! They’re magical plants that can excrete this stuff called Stinksap—it’s brilliant. And the one I got needs exactly nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds of light a day. No more, no less.” His words tumbled over each other as he gestured with his hands, miming little bursts of light. “I managed to get it to bloom right before school started, and now it’ll go dormant until next summer. It was incredible.”

Percy blinked, not entirely following the science of it, but grinning anyway. He couldn’t remember the last time Neville had looked so animated. “That’s cool, Nev,” he said honestly.

The excitement in Neville’s face lingered as Percy leaned forward. “Hey, you know what? I visited Potter Manor for the first time this summer. There’s this old greenhouse in the garden, all overgrown. Honestly, I think if I went in there on my own, it’d eat me alive. Herbology’s not exactly my strength.” He smiled sheepishly. “Would you know anyone I could ask for help with that?”

Neville’s eyes widened like Percy had just offered him a treasure chest. He tried to school his features, but the eagerness practically buzzed out of him. “That sounds… really interesting, Harry. If it’s the original greenhouse, there could be loads of rare plants in there. Expensive, even endangered ones. Did you know Euphemia Potter—your grandmother—was famous for growing ingredients for Fleamont Potter’s potions business?”

Percy blinked. A vague memory surfaced—him and his mom sitting in front of old parchment contracts with names written in flowing ink. Those names. His grandparents. “My grandfather was a potion master?”

Neville nodded, still looking surprised. “Yeah. One of the more famous ones, actually. He invented things. He’s best known for Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.”

Percy’s throat tightened. It hit him harder than he expected—hearing about his grandparents from Neville of all people. Wanting to know more about them, but realizing other people seemed to know them better than he ever would. Grief curled heavy in his chest, and he grit his teeth, forcing an awkward smile. “That’s… that’s cool, Nev.”

The silence stretched for a beat. Neville’s smile dimmed, and he must have noticed the flicker in Percy’s face because he quickly shifted the subject. “You know, Harry… if you wanted, I—I could help. With the greenhouse, I mean. I know my way around most magical plants.”

Percy’s mood lifted instantly, warmth flooding through him. “That would be awesome,” he said, grin spreading. “You could come over next summer, help me sort it out. Heck, if your gran lets you, maybe even during Yule break.”

Neville’s eyes lit up, all but glowing in the lamplight. “That would be wicked.”

Percy finally pushed to his feet, stretching a little. He hesitated, then glanced back at Neville. “Oh, and Nev? I wanted to apologize for not writing back this summer. I wasn’t ignoring you. I just… had a few issues with mail. By the time I got all my letters, we were going to be at Hogwarts the next week.”

Neville’s smile was gentle, forgiving. “That’s okay, Harry. I’m just glad to see you again.”

Something in Percy’s chest loosened at that, and he gave his friend a firm nod before heading back to his own bed.

Breakfast the next morning carried the same rhythm Percy remembered from the year before: the clang of cutlery against plates, the rumble of conversation filling the Great Hall, and the rustle of owls swooping down with letters and packages. It was comforting in its familiarity, though no less overwhelming with hundreds of students gathered in one place.

Across the table, Ginny startled when a letter dropped neatly onto her plate. The moment her fingers touched the envelope, it burst open with a crack of magic, streaming red and gold ribbons that curled through the air like miniature fireworks. Students craned their necks to watch, laughing and applauding. Percy caught a glimpse of Mrs. Weasley’s neat handwriting on the parchment inside before the glittering mess nearly blinded him. Judging by the proud, beaming smile spreading across Ginny’s face, it had been a very good letter indeed.

Ron groaned dramatically. “I never got a letter when I made Gryffindor.”

Before Ginny could retort, Fred and George toppled onto the bench beside her, one snatching the letter out of her hands. Fred cleared his throat, puffing up his chest as he put on a high, wobbly imitation of Mrs. Weasley’s voice: “Oh, my dearest daughter, the light of my life—”

Ginny went scarlet, eyes flashing. She punched Fred squarely in the stomach, snatched the letter back, and stomped away from the table. George wheezed with laughter while Fred pretended to cough his lungs out.

Percy shook his head, hiding his grin behind his pumpkin juice. It was obvious where the twins got their flair for theatrics: a mixture of their father’s mischief and their mother’s energy, rolled into chaos.

By the time McGonagall made her rounds with the fall schedules, the noise had only just settled. Percy took his slip of parchment and frowned. Herbology. First thing on a Monday morning. He groaned aloud, earning a raised eyebrow from Hermione.

Still, when he, Ron, and Hermione crossed the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses, Percy’s curiosity began to outweigh his reluctance. His attention snagged on the crowd of students already waiting outside. The sight of black and yellow scarves told him that the Hufflepuffs would be sharing the class this term. And that meant—

His eyes landed on Susan Bones, standing beside Hannah Abbott.

Percy hesitated only a second before breaking off from Ron and Hermione. He raised a hand in greeting, forcing his voice into something bright and casual. “Hello, Susan!”

Susan stiffened. She glanced at him once, lips tightening, before deliberately turning her back and continuing her conversation with Hannah. They were mid-discussion about something academic—Percy caught the words “Transfiguration essay” and “footnotes”—but Susan’s tone had an edge to it.

Hannah turned her head just enough to glare at him over Susan’s shoulder. It wasn’t a sharp glare, not like Malfoy would give, but it was enough to sting. Percy froze in place, confused, until realization began to gnaw at him.

He cleared his throat. “Susan? What’s wrong?”

Hannah crossed her arms. “You know what you did, Potter.”

Percy blinked. “No, I really don’t.” His voice was honest, not defensive. His chest tightened. He hated when people were upset with him and he didn’t know why.

Susan finally turned. She wasn’t crying, but the frustration in her face was clear—creased brow, lips pressed together until she let the words tumble out. “Your letters after I came to New York were short. Stilted. You barely said anything, and then you just stopped writing altogether toward the end of summer.”

Percy’s heart sank. “Oh.” The realization struck hard. That was what she thought? “Oh—I can explain.”

Susan huffed, dragging her hands down her face. Then she turned to Hannah. “Can you give us a moment?”

Hannah gave Percy one last warning glance before stepping back to join a knot of Hufflepuffs further down the line. Susan crossed her arms, eyes fixed on him. “Well?”

The words blurted out before Percy could soften them. “All my mail was stolen by a rogue house-elf.”

Susan’s brows shot up. She blinked at him, startled. “What?”

Percy shifted his weight from foot to foot, heat rising in his cheeks. “I wasn’t getting any mail. For weeks, I thought everyone had just… forgotten about me. Then, about a week before school, I went to Potter Manor and this house-elf popped in and confessed he’d been stealing everything.”

Susan stared like she wasn’t sure if he was serious. “Why would a house-elf steal your mail?”

“I don’t really know,” Percy admitted, frustrated by the lack of answers. “He kept saying he didn’t want me to go back to Hogwarts. But he never explained why.”

Her frown deepened. “Do you know where he came from?”

Percy shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. Just that his masters wouldn’t like him being there. And he kept—” Percy swallowed, recalling the ugly scene. “He kept hitting himself. Said his masters would want him to, for disobeying.”

Susan’s lips pressed together tightly, and her eyes grew somber. “If he was doing that, then he probably came from a pure-blood family that still thinks house-elves are beneath wizards.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. “Do you have any idea who?”

Susan shook her head slowly. “Not really. A lot of pure-blood families believe that. Some half-bloods, too. There’d be too many to narrow it down.”

Percy looked away, staring at the glass panes of the greenhouse, mind churning with all the unanswered questions about Dobby. His throat felt tight, like a knot he couldn’t untangle.

Susan’s voice pulled him back. She was softer now, almost hopeful. “So you really weren’t ignoring me?”

Percy’s head snapped back toward her. His answer was immediate. “No. Of course not. I thought you were ignoring me.”

Her lips parted, and then she gave a small, relieved laugh. “Well… I’m glad.” she hesitated a moment, a smile still on her face. “Do you want to work together during Herbology.”

Percy grinned brightly at her in return. “That would be great. Though, you should know that I’m not very good with plants.”

“That’s okay. I’m pretty good with plants so I think we’ll be okay.” Susan replied, waving off his concerns.

They were drawn out of their conversation by the quieting of their classmates surrounding them. Percy glanced up to see the reason why. Professor Sprout came striding across the lawn, her squat figure purposeful as ever. Dirt clung to her robes and even streaked her cheek, and the earthy smell of soil seemed to follow her like a cloud.

Beside her, however, swept Gilderoy Lockhart.

Percy winced on instinct. Even from a distance, Lockhart gleamed. His robes were immaculate, a violent shade of turquoise with gold embroidery that caught the sunlight. His golden curls shone almost unnaturally, and a matching hat sat at just the right angle on his head, like he’d spent hours making sure it tilted exactly so.

The sight of him made Percy’s skin prickle. His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, and before he knew what he was doing, he ducked behind Susan, using her as a shield. “Oh, crap. Hide me,” he muttered, gripping her arm.

Susan startled, turning halfway to look at him in confusion. “What? Why?” She tried to twist around to see his face, but Percy’s grip tightened as he nudged her squarely between himself and Lockhart.

“I don’t like that guy,” Percy said in a low voice, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “He’s… creepy.” His throat tightened, memory flashing back to the library in Diagon Alley—the way Lockhart had leaned in too close, the way his grin had felt wrong.

Susan frowned, then peeked over at the approaching man. Her expression softened almost instantly, her voice going dreamy in a way that made Percy’s stomach drop further. “But it’s Gilderoy Lockhart. He’s a hero.” Her tone mirrored the same dopey look Hermione sometimes wore when she gushed about him.

Percy bit back a groan. Of course.

The professors reached the waiting students, Lockhart beaming like the sun. “Oh, hello there!” he sang, spreading his arms as though he were about to embrace the whole class. “I’ve just been showing Professor Sprout the proper way to handle Venomous Tentacular! Don’t worry, I won’t let you run away with the idea that I’m better at Herbology than she is. I’ve just had the pleasure of encountering those nasty buggers on my travels…”

Around Percy, several girls gasped and whispered excitedly, their eyes practically glowing. Even a few boys leaned forward with interest. Percy clenched his jaw.

Sprout’s mouth pulled into a thin line, her shoulders stiff. Percy thought she looked about as disgruntled as he’d ever seen her, though she bit back whatever she wanted to say. At last, she cut him off briskly. “Greenhouse Three today, chaps!” she barked.

Percy could have kissed her.

He immediately fell back in line, trying to wedge himself into the middle of the crowd, as far from Lockhart as possible. He hunched his shoulders, willing himself to go unnoticed.

It didn’t work.

“Harry!” Lockhart’s voice rang out like a spell. Heads turned. Percy froze. “I’ve been wanting a word—Professor Sprout, you don’t mind if he’s a few minutes late, do you?”

Sprout’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she could answer, Percy forced his voice out in a rush. “Actually, Professor, I wouldn’t want to miss any part of the lesson. The start’s the most important bit.” He was well aware he was babbling nonsense, but his mom’s warning echoed in his ears: Don’t let him corner you.

“Nonsense, Harry,” Lockhart cut in smoothly, his smile widening. “Your friends can catch you up in no time. This will only take a moment.”

Percy’s feet felt like lead as he shuffled forward with the others. Sprout stood at the door of the greenhouse, ushering students inside with sharp waves of her hand. But Lockhart positioned himself right there beside her. Percy couldn’t avoid the man’s reach.

A hand clamped down hard on his shoulder. Percy’s stomach dropped. He jerked instinctively, wrenching free, but Lockhart only chuckled, his smile sharpening in a way no one else seemed to notice.

“Just between us, Harry,” Lockhart murmured, low enough for Percy alone. The tone sent a shiver crawling down his spine. “You need guidance. Publicity training. Fame can be such a burden for the young if they’re not shown how to embrace it properly.” His eyes flicked over Percy—too slow, too deliberate—before snapping back to his face. “And who better than me to teach you?”

Percy’s breath stuttered. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sprout pause as the last student entered the greenhouse. Her gaze cut sharply to where Lockhart leaned over him. Her jaw tightened; her eyes narrowed. Percy swallowed hard, the tension in her face telling him she noticed something—though what, she didn’t say.

Perhaps realizing her stare, Lockhart straightened at once, his voice booming louder and more theatrical. “Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s internationally famous already!’ But when I was twelve, I was even more of a nobody than you are, Harry! At least you’ve had your little adventure with You-Know-Who! I had nothing—” He gestured broadly, his grin flashing. “Still, I won Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row. A start, Harry, a start! You should come to my office after classes, and we’ll talk more.”

He punctuated it with a hearty wink before striding off up the hill, robes flaring dramatically behind him.

Percy exhaled shakily. His skin crawled where Lockhart’s hand had gripped him. He knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going anywhere near that man’s office. He’d scrub Snape’s cauldrons for a week before he volunteered for that.

Professor Sprout was still glaring after Lockhart when she turned back. She sighed heavily and looked up at Percy. “All right, lad?” she asked quietly.

Percy nodded mutely, throat too tight to trust his voice.

“Man’s an idiot,” she muttered, almost to herself, though her eyes softened when they flicked back to him. She patted his shoulder firmly, her touch grounding. “Mr. Potter,” she said more clearly, catching his gaze. “If you ever need an ear—about anything—my door is open. Anytime.”

The words sank deep, warmer than he expected. Percy nodded quickly, grateful. “Thank you, Professor.”

The following day of classes proved… interesting. Susan hadn’t exaggerated when she said she was good at it. She had handled the Mandrakes with a calm ease that impressed even Professor Sprout. Percy, on the other hand, hated every second of it. The screams of the baby Mandrakes were like nails being dragged down the inside of his skull, rattling his teeth and shaking something in his chest. He had shoved his earmuffs down tighter and focused on not passing out. It was safe to say Herbology wasn’t climbing up his list of favorite subjects.

Still, the class had gone well enough. He met a Hufflepuff boy—Justin Finch-Fletchley—who was polite, enthusiastic, and apparently determined to befriend him on the spot. The boy had nearly fallen over himself introducing his entire family history before gushing about Lockhart’s many adventures. Percy had tuned him out the best he could, nodding politely when it seemed appropriate, but in truth he wanted to jam the Mandrake leaves into his ears to block out the name Gilderoy Lockhart. Nice enough kid, but Percy had zero patience for more Lockhart worship.

McGonagall started the year strong, diving straight into new material without much review. The class came easier to Percy this time, his magic guiding his wand as he tried to turn a beetle into a button. He only managed a lopsided button with twitching beetle legs, but it was still better than what most of the class produced. The only one who did better was Hermione, who had apparently studied the spell on the train and managed a proper button after just a few tries.

And then came Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Percy should have been excited. It was the one class he’d really enjoyed last year, even with Quirrell’s constant stammering and nervousness. Percy had done well—second in the year, right behind Hermione. Defense was supposed to be practical, hands-on, the sort of class where he could actually test himself. Instead, dread gnawed at his stomach as they headed toward the classroom. Lockhart’s classroom.

Ron stomped beside him, muttering under his breath. “Bloke’s an idiot. Don’t know why anyone acts like he’s the next Merlin.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, her cheeks suspiciously pink. “He’s not an idiot, Ron. He’s written actual books. And he’s famous for a reason.”

“Yeah—for his teeth,” Ron shot back.

Percy stayed quiet, watching them bicker. He’d already noticed the way Hermione’s eyes lit up whenever Lockhart appeared, the way she sat up straighter, the faint blush on her cheeks. It wasn’t like her. If even Hermione was falling for his spell, Percy didn’t have much hope for the rest of the school.

When they entered the classroom, Percy made a beeline for the back row. He didn’t want Lockhart anywhere near him. Hermione hesitated in the aisle, her gaze fixed on the empty desk in the very front row. She chewed her lip, torn, before sighing and sliding into the seat next to Percy instead.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered as she unpacked her quill.

“Nothing,” Percy muttered. “Just… not looking forward to this class.”

Hermione frowned. “Why? You love Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Percy tilted his head toward the front, where Lockhart’s smiling face grinned down from multiple framed portraits already hanging on the walls. “Not overly confident in the professor this year.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, smirking. “See? Harry gets it. Guy’s a self-centered loon.”

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. “You’re both wrong. Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn’t hire someone incompetent.”

“He hired Quirrell,” Ron said flatly.

Hermione faltered. “Well—that was different. Quirrell was qualified on paper. Dumbledore couldn’t have known—”

Percy tuned out the rest, focusing instead on the unease twisting in his chest. He wanted to argue more, but before he could, the door banged open. Lockhart swept in, turquoise robes billowing, hair gleaming, smile so wide it nearly blinded Percy.

And from there, the class went exactly how Percy feared.

First, there was the quiz. It wasn’t even on anything remotely useful. No, Lockhart wanted them to regurgitate the details of his own life. His favorite color. His secret ambition. What gift he’d given his mother on her birthday. Percy stared at the parchment, incredulous. Hermione bent over her quiz furiously, quill scratching, while Ron made loud huffing noises and doodled across the margins. Percy put his name on top and left the rest blank. He wasn’t wasting brain space on that rubbish.

Then came the pixies. Lockhart had released them with a flourish, talking up his ability to “handle the little devils.” Within seconds, chaos erupted. Neville went flying across the room, his robes shredded as the pixies yanked at him by the ears. And when the rest of the class made for the door, the man followed. He left he, Ron, and Hermione behind to capture the pixies again.

That was it for Percy. He wasn’t sticking around to clean up Lockhart’s disaster. Grabbing Ron with one hand and Hermione with the other, he dragged them toward the door.

“Harry! We should help—” Hermione protested, twisting in his grip.

“No,” Percy snapped, more harshly than he meant. His chest tightened. No more of his friends were getting hurt because a professor couldn’t do his job. “We’re not staying.”

And with that, he yanked them out into the corridor and slammed the door shut behind them. The muffled shrieks of pixies echoed even through the thick wood.

Percy leaned against the wall, his breath coming fast, anger pounding through his veins. He’d dreaded this class, and it turned out worse than he imagined. Lockhart wasn’t just an idiot—he was dangerous in all the wrong ways.

As Percy stalked down the corridor, dragging his friends along, one thought looped bitterly through his head: he hoped the pixies tore Lockhart’s robes to shreds before he found the courage to open that door again.

Over the next several days, anytime Percy heard Lockheart's booming voice bragging about his accomplishment coming around the corner, Percy turned and went the other way. The magic of the castle eventually began to help as well. He’s exited the dorms, ready to go to class or the great hall and he’d start walking down the hallway with the shortest trip, just to be tugged in the opposite direction. Percy was happy to listen to the magic. Taking a longer route and avoiding even coming in contact with the man. 

He did his best to time his entrances to class just as the lesson would begin, avoid making eye contact with Lockheart the entire class, often ignoring him whenever he was called on, and then booking it out of the room as soon as they were dismissed. 

He did get great satisfaction seeing Lockheart with a scratch on his cheek the morning after that first class. Pity it didn’t scar. 

There was also another developing nuisance that Percy was doing his best to avoid. That small, blond-haired boy who had stopped to gawk at him during the opening feast, yes well. He was certainly a fan. His name was Colin Creevy.

He would try to corner Percy every chance he could to snap a photo with his camera. And he would constantly get underfoot asking questions like “How are you Harry?” Or “Harry, where are you headed?” and “What are you doing Harry?” 

Percy wishes he would take the hint when Percy only really gave one word answers, but the kid just didn’t get it.

On the first Saturday of the school year, he was shaken awake and greeted by the grinning face of Oliver Wood. 

“Wha-” Percy asked.

“Quidditch Practice!” 

Percy promptly rolled over. He might have been an early bird, but even this was too early for him. 

Oliver gripped the edge of his blankets and tugged them completely off the bed, earning a groan from Percy. 

“Oliver,” Percy croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.” 

“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,” said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have started training yet; we’re going to be first off the mark this year —” 

Yawning and shivering slightly, Percy climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes. “Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.” 

When Percy was walking out to the quidditch pitch with his Nimbus 2000 thrown over his shoulder, he internally groaned at the sight of Colin. 

“Harry!” he cried as he ran over. “Where are you going?”

“Quidditch.” Percy grunted, sliding past the boy. 

“Oh wow! Can I come? I’ve never seen a Quidditch match. I don’t know much about it. Can I get a picture of you?” he babbeled. 

“No.” Percy stated firmly, but it didn’t seem to deter Colin, who was following behind at his heels. 

“That’s okay. It would be much better as an action shot anyway. I’ll just wait in the stands.” He said, excitedly. 

Perc sighed, but he didn’t want to deal with this at the moment. Not this early in the day. So Percy just trudged down to the pitch, the cool air nipping at his ears. 

The team was half asleep when he walked into the Gryffindor locker rooms. Percy eyed the twins who were snoring leaning against each other. He half expected them to jump out as he entered, ready with some kind of prank. But it seemed even their insane minds weren’t awake this early in the morning. 

The next two hours were some of the most boring in his life. Percy’s foot taped on the floor until Angelina Johnson literally stepped on his foot, keeping it on the ground. Then he proceeded to tap his fingers on his thigh to which Katie Bell grabbed his hand and held it tightly with her own. 

By the time Oliver finished, Percy was practically banging his head back against the wall. So when Oliver said “Is that clear? Any questions?” 

Percy bounded up out of his seat, dislodging both Katie and Angelina. “Yes. Finally!” and just short of sprinting exiting the room. 

Behind him, he could hear good natured grumbling from George mumbling about how this entire conversation could have happened yesterday. 

Percy entered the pitch already tired, though not from flying. His legs ached from all the drills Wood had made them run before even letting anyone off the ground. Spotting Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands with toast and marmalade in hand made him groan.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Ron called down, incredulous.

“Haven’t even started,” Percy muttered back, his stomach twisting with jealousy at the sight of food. “Wood’s been lecturing us on new maneuvers.”

Hermione offered him a sympathetic wave. Percy just shook his head and mounted his broom. The second he kicked off the ground, the cool morning air whipped against his face, clearing the fog of Wood’s endless chatter. Whatever else he thought about Hogwarts, the Quidditch pitch always felt like home. He pushed his broom into a wide arc, speeding around the stadium with Fred and George at his sides, the three of them daring each other to go faster.

A sharp clicking sound followed him. Fred craned his neck mid-dive. “What’s that noise?”

Percy groaned before even looking. Sure enough, Colin Creevey sat high in the stands, his camera flashing, his little voice carrying oddly well in the empty space. “Look this way, Harry! Just one more!”

“Great,” Percy muttered under his breath. He tried to put distance between them, hoping maybe the kid would get bored if he couldn’t get a good shot.

“What’s going on?” Oliver skimmed toward them, his frown deep. “Why’s a first-year taking photos? He could be a spy. Slytherins would love to know what we’re practicing.”

“He’s Gryffindor,” Percy said quickly. If Oliver started throwing Colin off the stands in suspicion, Percy wasn’t sure he’d stop him.

“And besides,” George added dryly, “the Slytherins don’t need a spy.”

“What do you mean?” Oliver demanded.

“Because they’re here,” George pointed.

Percy turned. His jaw tightened immediately. A line of green-robed figures strode onto the pitch, brooms glinting in the sun.

“I don’t believe this,” Oliver hissed. He dove hard, landing in a stagger that showed exactly how furious he was. Percy followed close behind, heart already pounding.

“Flint!” Oliver barked, storming toward the Slytherin captain. “This is our time! Clear off!”

Marcus Flint sneered down at him, all buck teeth and trollish bulk. “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”

Oliver’s face was red with rage. “I booked this pitch! Don’t pretend you don’t know it!”

“Funny thing.” Flint pulled a slip of parchment from his robes. “Got special permission. Professor Snape himself signed off. Said we needed the practice for our new Seeker.”

Percy felt his stomach drop, even before he saw the smirking blond step forward from behind Flint.

Of course. Malfoy.

Draco looked so proud of himself he might float without a broom. “Surprised, Potter?” he drawled, pale eyes glittering.

Percy folded his arms, sneering right back. “Surprised Snape let you out of his pocket long enough to play.”

Malfoy’s smirk wavered, though only for a second.

“Father thought it was time I had a proper broom,” he announced instead, his voice carrying as the entire Slytherin team held up sleek new broomsticks. The gold lettering shimmered in the light: Nimbus 2001.

Percy’s gut twisted. They were the finest brooms out there. Even he had to admit that. But the fact that Draco had probably whined his way into them? That just made Percy hate the sight of them more.

Fred swore under his breath. George muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“They only came out last month,” Flint said smugly. “Outstrips the old series by a mile. Blows your Cleansweep Fives straight off the board.”

Draco smirked wider, looking Percy dead in the eye. “Pity, Potter. I’d say you’ve got no chance of keeping up. Then again—” he gave a mock-thoughtful shrug—“I suppose you could beg your fans to buy you one. Merlin knows you’re used to riding on fame.”

Percy’s fists clenched around his broom handle, but he forced a crooked smile. “Funny. You’ve got all the best equipment money can buy, Malfoy, but it still won’t fix your lack of talent. I’ve seen you fly Malfoy, You being the seeker has practically guaranteed our victory- better brooms or not.”

That earned him a glare sharp enough to kill as the Gryffindors behind him snickered. 

By then Ron and Hermione had crossed the pitch, Ron looking bewildered as his eyes swept over the new brooms. “What’s going on? Why’s he—” his voice caught as he pointed at Malfoy. “—why’s he wearing Slytherin robes?”

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy, smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my father’s bought our team.” 

Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him. 

“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.” The Slytherin team howled with laughter. 

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure talent.” 

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered. “No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he spat.

Percy wasn’t entirely sure what Malfoy had just called Hermione, but judging by the way everyone reacted, it was bad. Really bad. Hermione flinched back as though she’d been slapped, her breath catching sharp in her throat. Alicia let out an outraged shriek of “How dare you!” while Fred and George surged forward, murder in their eyes, only to be blocked by Flint, who stepped in front of Malfoy like a living wall.

The air shifted in an instant, tense and volatile. Oliver Wood, always quick-tempered when it came to Slytherins, lost his restraint altogether and swung a fist at the nearest beater. The punch landed with a meaty crack, and suddenly the two teams were colliding, shoving, shouting, and throwing punches like a Quidditch match gone feral.

Percy barely had time to register the chaos before Ron, red-faced with fury, yanked his wand out of his robes. “You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!” he shouted, his voice cracking with rage.

“Ron—!” Percy tried to grab his arm, but it was too late.

The spell shot across the pitch with a blinding flash, striking Malfoy square in the stomach. There was a deafening bang, loud enough to silence the fight mid-swing. The Slytherins pulled back, blinking through the smoke, and Malfoy staggered to his knees with a groan.

For a moment Percy thought Ron had actually hurt him badly. Malfoy’s face was twisted in pain, his skin draining of color until it turned an ugly, sickly green. Then, with a choked gag, he clapped both hands over his mouth—

—and something wet and horrible burst through his fingers.

A slug. A fat, slimy, grey slug the size of Percy’s fingers splattered onto the grass.

The sound that followed was worse. A retching, wet choke, and then another slug spilled out, hitting the ground with a sickening plop. Malfoy looked utterly horrified, tears streaming down his pale cheeks as he gagged again, slugs forcing their way up his throat and onto the pitch.

The entire group—Gryffindors and Slytherins alike—stared in frozen disgust. Even Fred and George, who had been ready to murder him moments ago, stepped back with grimaces.

“Oh, Merlin,” Percy muttered, his stomach flipping as he watched the slimy creatures wriggle in the dirt. He turned wide eyes on Ron, who still had his wand raised, looking just as shocked as everyone else. “Ron… what did you do?” he whispered, his voice thin.

“I— I don’t know!” Ron stammered, lowering his wand with trembling fingers. His freckles stood out stark against his ashen skin as he stared in disbelief at Malfoy, who was still choking up slugs like some nightmarish fountain.

Percy felt a mix of horror and something darker curling in his chest. Part of him was sickened—Malfoy’s gags echoed in his ears, and the slimy mess pooling on the ground was revolting—but another part of him thought it was poetic justice. The boy had spat something vile at Hermione, and the universe had answered by making him puke filth.

Malfoy’s eyes met his for the briefest second, wide and glassy with panic, his lips trembling around another gag. Another slug forced its way free, dropping onto the pile with a wet smack, and he let out a keening sound of despair.

Nobody moved. The fight had evaporated, replaced by uneasy silence broken only by Malfoy’s retching and the grotesque squelch of slugs hitting the grass.

Then a Scottish voice cut across the pitch like a whip.

“WHAT d’ye think yer doin?!”

Every head snapped toward the stands, where Professor McGonagall was storming down onto the field. Her usual composure was gone, her tartan robes billowing behind her, her expression thunderous.

Percy’s stomach dropped like a stone. He knew instantly: the school year had barely started, and they were already in deep trouble.

Chapter Text

“What d’ye think yer doin’?”

Professor McGonagall’s voice cut across the pitch like a lash. Her tartan robes snapped at her ankles as she strode into the mess of Gryffindors and Slytherins. The air around her felt charged, heavy enough that Percy’s ears popped. He couldn’t tell if it was her magic straining against her temper or her preparing to pull the whole lot of them apart by force. Either way, no one mistook the danger in it.

“Well?”

The single word made nearly every student flinch. Her jaw was set so tightly the muscle jumped, and her eyes blazed behind her square spectacles.

The uneasy silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of Malfoy gagging, another slug forcing its way out onto the grass.

“He cursed Malfoy!” Adrian Pucey shouted, pointing at Ron with a hand that trembled more with eagerness to blame than actual fear.

McGonagall pivoted sharply, eyes narrowing on Ron. He turned scarlet, stumbling over half-formed excuses. “I—well—I didn’t—he said—”

“Professor, they started it!” Oliver cut across him, voice raised.

“No we didn’t!” a Slytherin bellowed back.

That set off a wave of shouting. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike hurled accusations across the trampled grass. Oliver was already back in Flint’s face, spittle flying as he yelled. Angelina had both hands braced on Oliver’s chest trying to hold him back, but Flint only sneered, looking eager for another swing.

The tension spiked so suddenly that Percy’s hair prickled. Then, with one flick of McGonagall’s wand, Flint and Oliver froze in place, arms pinned to their sides by invisible binds. Another flick, and the entire field went quiet. Their mouths still moved, but no sound came out.

It took a few seconds for everyone to notice, and one by one the students’ voices died off. All eyes went to the Deputy Headmistress.

“That is enough,” she said, her tone cold and sharp. She fixed her gaze on one Slytherin. “Mr. Montague. You will escort Mr. Malfoy to Madam Pomfrey. Then you will report to my classroom immediately. Do not dawdle.”

Montague’s face paled, but he nodded. He hauled Malfoy up by the arm. Draco sagged limply, his expression twisted in horror as another slug forced its way out between his fingers. Montague grimaced, turning his head away in disgust as he dragged him toward the castle.

“Everyone else will follow me. We will discuss what happened.”

The silencing wards stayed in place as she marched them across the grounds. Percy noticed how people cleared a path as they entered the castle, professors and students alike stepping back when they saw McGonagall’s thunderous expression and the trail of two hostile teams behind her. The Slytherins wore smug looks as though they were enjoying the spectacle. The Gryffindors mostly stared at the floor, shoulders tight with the shame of it.

McGonagall swept into her classroom and flung the door open. She jabbed a finger toward the desks, and they all ducked inside quickly. There was a clear split in the room, Slytherins on one side, Gryffindors on the other.

“I have seen many skirmishes in my years at Hogwarts,” McGonagall said once they were seated, her voice as sharp as the snap of a whip. “But never have I seen two entire teams brawl on the pitch like common hooligans.”

She pressed her hand over her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling slowly. When it fell away, her face was once again carved from stone. “Wood. Flint. My office.”

The two captains rose. Wood’s jaw was tight with frustration, but his shoulders slumped as he passed. Flint stalked stiffly, his scowl deep. Behind McGonagall’s back, Wood gave Flint a rude gesture. Flint’s mouth twisted as though he wanted to hurl an insult, but the silencing wards made him look like a furious fish gasping for air.

“The rest of you will remain here while I determine exactly what happened,” she said, sweeping into her office and shutting the door behind her.

Percy sat stiffly at his desk. The silence was eerie—he could hear chairs creak as students shifted in their seats, but not a single breath or word could be heard from the students. He turned his head toward Ron.

Ron’s face was buried in his folded arms, his ears glowing red. He didn’t move, but the tension in his shoulders said enough. He knew he’d gone too far.

Percy wanted to ask him what in the world Malfoy had called Hermione. He still didn’t understand why everyone reacted the way they did to that word. Mudblood. It had been spat with venom and the reaction from his team alone meant something, but Percy didn’t know what made it worse than any other insult. He glanced at Hermione for answers.

She was hunched in her seat, fists tight in her lap. Her eyes were swollen, rimmed red, and her curls frizzed as though her magic itself was sparking from strand to strand. Her lips trembled, and she blinked quickly, refusing to let tears fall.

Percy slid his hand across the desk to Ron’s shoulder, squeezing it once. He stretched his other arm toward Hermione, offering it quietly. She hesitated, then turned into him, pressing her face against his shoulder so no one else could see her shudder. He tightened his arm around her shoulders, glaring across the aisle at the sneering Slytherins. If he could have spoken, he would have told them exactly what he thought.

After several long minutes, the door opened again. Montague entered alone, his nose wrinkled as though Malfoy’s stench had followed him all the way back. Montague didn’t say a word—couldn’t, under the silence charm—but he slumped into a chair, his expression stern as he stared straight ahead, ignoring everyone else around him.

Half an hour dragged by. The room was restless with fidgeting, but no one dared make noise. Finally, the door to McGonagall’s office opened again. Wood and Flint returned, both red-cheeked and eyes downcast but Oliver’s had a scowl crossing his face and the glare he shot Flint as they moved past each other was murderous. Flint’s jaw worked as if he were still chewing on his own fury.

Professor McGonagall stepped back into the classroom. With a wave of her wand, the silencing charms lifted. The sudden sound of twenty people exhaling at once filled the air. Still, no one spoke.

“Your captains have explained what occurred,” McGonagall said, her eyes sweeping the room. She let the silence hang for several beats, her disappointment heavier than shouting. “I am deeply ashamed. You represent this school, your Houses, and your fellow students. To see you resort to brawling and curses is disgraceful.” She used that same tone of voice as when He, Hermione, and Neville had gotten caught after curfew the previous year. Percy’s just glad it was spread out over twenty different people, rather than just three.

“We do not curse or duel each other in anger. We do not fight like children on a playground. You should be grateful I do not suspend both teams for the season.”

Everyone in the room flinched at the idea of losing their seasons.

“Therefore,” she continued, voice hard as iron, “every member of both teams will serve a detention. I will be taking a hundred points from both Slytherin and Gryffindor as well.”

That really wasn’t terrible all things considered. It would suck to make up those points but at least Slytherin had lost them too. 

Percy thought too soon though, because McGonagall continued. “Furthermore, Gryffindor and Slytherin are banned from the Quidditch pitch for the next two weeks.”

“What?! But What about-” Oliver blurted before he could stop himself. The protests came at once, loud and indignant, filling the room.

“Tha’s enough!” McGonagall roared, her accent thickening in her anger. The room fell silent instantly. “Be grateful ye’ve not lost the whole season. This is yer warnin’. Another stunt like this, and ye’ll be sittin’ in the stands all year.”

Her glare was enough to pin them all in their seats. Then she said briskly, “Granger, Weasley, Potter—my office. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The students filed out quickly, the Gryffindors sending sympathetic glances while the Slytherins smirked on their way past.

Inside her office, McGonagall pointed at the chairs opposite her desk. “Sit.”

Ron collapsed into the middle chair, sinking down as much as possible and, staring at his shoes. Hermione folded into her own chair, lips pressed together. Percy sat in the last seat, watching McGonagall carefully. Somehow, this reminded him so much of that fateful night last year. He could only hope that they didn’t receive yet another dressing down. 

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall began, her accent going back into her normal range, “do you understand how serious this is?”

Ron hunched his shoulders up, nearly covering his ears.

“Look at me, Mr. Weasley.”

Reluctantly, Ron raised his head. His freckles stood out against the pallor of his skin.

“You were wrong to curse a fellow student.”

“But Professor,” Ron burst out, voice breaking. “Malfoy called—”

“I am aware of what Mr. Malfoy said,” she interrupted firmly. Her eyes flicked toward Hermione, softening briefly. “And rest assured, he will face punishment of his own. You will have his written apology before the week is out.”

Hermione’s lip trembled again. She swiped at her eyes quickly, not wanting to look weak.

Percy’s confusion only grew. The way everyone spoke about it, “Mudblood” was more than an insult. But why? He’d have to ask later when they had a moment alone.

McGonagall turned back to Ron. “That does not, however, excuse reckless behavior. Do you understand how close you came to being expelled?”

“But he only cursed him, Professor. Lots of students curse each other, and it’s not the first time they get caught doing it either.” Percy tried to argue. 

And he wasn’t wrong on that aspect, Fred and George pranked students all the time. Half of those could be considered curses alone. And besides that, he’d seen other students pull wands in the hallway and shoot off a few spells before a professor stopped them. 

Percy really didn’t see what the big deal was. Unless- “Malfoys fine right?” 

“Mr. Malfoy will be fine. Madam Pomfrey will give him a stomach soother and he has a long day ahead of him but he will be perfectly fine.” she explained. 

“Then why is it such a big deal?” Percy asked.

“It is not only what was done,” she said, “but to whom. Lucius Malfoy is a very powerful man. And the moment he hears about his son being cursed by you, Mr. Weasley, he will be demanding your expulsion. And because he is a member of the school board and has the minister's ear, he has the means to do so.”

Ron went pale, sinking further into his seat. Hermione gasped softly.

“It is only the number of witnesses to Mr. Malfoy’s own words that will prevent that outcome,” she went on, voice aimed squarely at Ron. “The Headmaster and I will handle it. Mr. Malfoy will not want that word aired publicly—not in the current climate. It would not go well with much of wizarding society.”

She adjusted her glasses, her tone cooling. “That said, he will still push for a harsh punishment. Therefore, you will serve detention twice a week through November.”

Ron opened his mouth, but Percy kicked his shin attempting to shut him up before he could put his foot in his mouth and get into even more trouble. He shut it again, sulking.

“You two,” she added, turning her gaze to Hermione and Percy, “will also serve a detention, same as the others on the pitch.”

Percy wanted to argue—they hadn’t thrown punches or hexes—but he caught Hermione’s faint nod. She knew they weren’t blameless either. They had been a part of starting the entire thing.

“I will assign the times tomorrow,” McGonagall said. She flicked her wand; the office door swung open. “You may go. And I expect your best behavior for the rest of the term.”

“Yes Professor.” All three mumbled as they stood. 

They were just about to step out of the door when Professor McGonagall's voice stopped them again.

“Oh, and Mr. Weasley.” He froze.

“I will be writing to your mother.”

Ron groaned aloud, dragging his feet as they left. Percy couldn’t help but wince in sympathy. Facing McGonagall’s wrath was bad enough. Facing Mrs. Weasley’s on top of it? That was a whole different punishment.

“Hermione?” Percy called as they climbed the last staircase toward Gryffindor Tower.

The three of them had agreed—without much debate—that hiding out in the common room for the rest of Saturday was smarter than risking another run-in with Slytherins. The corridors felt unusually hushed as they marched through them.

Hermione walked beside him, her eyes still swollen and red, but not as raw as before. She looked steadier now, though Percy could tell she was forcing herself upright, spine stiff with the effort to appear composed.

“What does that word mean?” Percy asked, keeping his voice low.

Hermione slowed, half-turning to glance at him. Her brow furrowed. “What word, Harry?”

“The one Malfoy called you,” Percy said. “I don’t know what it means, but it must’ve been bad if everyone went absolutely wild like that.”

Hermione flinched—not much, just the faintest recoil, but enough for Percy to wish he’d swallowed the question.

“It is bad!” Ron blurted from Percy’s other side. His hands flew up, nearly smacking into the stone wall as they turned a corner. “It’s the worst thing anyone can call a Muggleborn.” His ears were red again, anger simmering under his freckles.

Hermione rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, then straightened her shoulders with visible effort. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, steadier. “Do you know what Professor McGonagall was talking about when she mentioned the political climate and how it would affect the Malfoys?”

“Not really,” Percy admitted.

Hermione’s lips pressed together before she explained, her words careful, as if rehearsed from books. “In the wizarding world, a lot of people believe in blood purity. Wizards born from long wizarding lines, with no Muggle ancestry, are called Pure-bloods. The Malfoy family is very—very—Pure-blood.”

Percy tilted his head. “But why does it matter?”

Hermione’s hands moved as she spoke, fingers twitching with agitation. “There’s this old idea that wizards who marry Muggles will dilute their children’s magic. Which is ridiculous. I mean, look at you—you’re a Half-blood, and you’re one of the strongest in our year. And then there’s Crabbe and Goyle—” she wrinkled her nose. “Clearly not.” Her pace quickened as she warmed to her explanation. “It’s outdated, not backed by evidence. If anyone actually bothered to test it with proper research, it’d be disproven in a heartbeat, but certain Pure-blood families refuse to listen—”

“I’m a Half-blood?” Percy cut in before she could spiral further.

Hermione blinked, startled by the interruption. “What?”

“You just said I’m a Half-blood,” Percy pressed.

“Of course,” Hermione said, brows knitting. “The Potters are Pure-bloods, but your dad married your mum, who was Muggleborn. That makes you a Half-blood.”

“Oh.” Percy didn’t know what else to say. Was he supposed to have already known that? Did everyone else just…know? He shoved the thought aside for later. Right now wasn’t the time. He cleared his throat. “Right.”

He steered them back. “So…that word Malfoy used. It’s basically a slur for Muggleborns. But then—why would Lucius Malfoy be so worried about people knowing his son said it?”

Ron kicked at the edge of the rug they’d just stepped onto, face darkening. “Look, mate, when You-Know-Who was around, certain Pure-blood families had loads of influence. Everyone knew where they stood in the war. But when he—you know—died, his followers started ending up in Azkaban. Suddenly everyone claimed they’d been forced, or tricked, or under a curse. Lucius Malfoy was one of them. Dad says he probably paid off the Ministry, too.”

Hermione nodded sharply and picked up where Ron left off. “So, if people today thought the Malfoys still believed in blood purity to the point where Draco would actually say—” her voice faltered, eyes flickering as though repeating the word might scorch her tongue, “—mudblood—well, it would look very bad. Lucius Malfoy could lose a lot of influence.”

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” Ron spat, teeth clenched. His fists were jammed into his pockets, knuckles pressing white. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s rubbish. Most wizards these days are Half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles, we’d’ve all died out.”

Hermione’s voice rushed back in, tripping over itself as she launched into another ramble. She jumped from bloodline statistics to magical theory to how wizarding society might shift if prejudice was ever studied properly. Her hands carved through the air, punctuating every thought. She even picked up her walking pace, marching ahead of them. Percy and Ron fell in step behind her without complaint, used to her tempo by now.

Percy only half-heard her. His mind was spinning too fast. Now that he knew what mudblood meant, his magic stirred uncomfortably under his skin, coiling tighter with every step. Hermione was right, of course. She was always right. But logic didn’t make the word less vile. He clenched his fists.

The next time Draco Malfoy sneered that word—or even looked at Hermione like she was less than him—Percy wasn’t sure he’d manage to keep his temper.

It was the next day when they were headed down towards the great hall for dinner that McGonagall stopped them. They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter. Weasley. Granger.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern. “You will all be doing your detentions this evening.”

“Weasley, you will be helping Mr. Filch clean the trophy room this evening and then you will be reporting to him every Monday and Wednesday evening after dinner unless told otherwise. No magic of course.” she stated, not leaving any room for arguing. 

 Ron gulped. Percy felt for him, Filch was impossible to deal with and always threatened death or torture on anyone he didn’t like. Which was everyone but that stupid cat. Percy had attempted to make nice with the cat before. He had earned a scratch in the process of trying to pet it and then had to make a break for it when the cat had yowled so loud she had summoned her owner. 

“Oh don’t give me that look.” McGonagall said with a small eye roll. “It’ll do you some good.”

She turned to face Hermione next. “Miss Granger, you will be in the library with Madam Pince. She has some maintenance jobs for you this evening.”

Ron was obviously jealous of her. But it was more obvious to Percy that this was an attempt from Professor McGonagall to let Hermione off light. Honestly, knowing Hermione, she would plead for a longer detention if it meant staying in the library after curfew. 

“And you, Mr. Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.

Percy reeled. “Wait. What?”

“Professor Lockheart has requested to handle your detention, and as per school policy, I have no reason to deny his request.”

“Uhh yes you do.” Percy stated without thinking. “I don’t want to.”

Yeah. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say because McGonagall’s eyebrow arched in that way that always made him feel about three inches tall. “That’s not how it works, Mr. Potter.”

“But—I can’t.” The protest came out strangled, closer to pleading.

Her frown deepened. She studied him for a long moment, then turned toward Ron and Hermione. “Why don’t you two go ahead to the Great Hall. Mr. Potter will follow in a moment.”

Hermione hesitated, her eyes darting worriedly between them. Ron opened his mouth like he might argue, but Percy gave a small nod. Reluctantly, they shuffled off down the corridor.

McGonagall folded her arms, fixing him with a pointed look. “Now. Why exactly do you refuse to serve detention with Professor Lockhart?”

Percy shifted his weight from foot to foot, mouth suddenly dry. “I—uh—it’s…” He bit his lip, searching for words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. “My mum and I met him this summer. At Flourish and Blotts.”

“Yes, I recall,” McGonagall said, her tone clipped. “He caused quite a spectacle.”

“Yeah, well, after that she—she told me not to spend time alone with him.” Percy forced himself to meet her eyes, even as heat crept up his neck. “Said she didn’t trust him. Said he gave her…a bad feeling.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger. She seemed to be weighing his words carefully. “A bad feeling?”

Percy bristled. “Look, she’s never asked me to avoid anyone before. But she was serious. Strict about it. And I trust her.” His hands balled at his sides. “I just…don’t want to be alone with him.”

The silence stretched long enough for Percy’s stomach to churn. Finally, McGonagall exhaled slowly through her nose. “Mr. Potter, I have no cause to doubt your mother’s instincts. But nor can I cancel a colleague’s request simply because a student ‘does not want to.’ or someone 'has a bad feeling.' It sets a poor precedent and without proof of anything you might be implying, it could cause many problems for the school.”

Percy’s heart sank. “So that’s it? I have to stay with Lockheart?”

Her expression softened, just barely. “If another professor were to request your time for detention, I could override Lockhart’s claim based on the duties assigned. Answering fan mail is not exactly a punishing experience in my opinion.” She stated it in such a way that it was obvious she was trying to help without telling him what to do exactly.

Percy seized on the loophole instantly. “Could you request me then? For detention, I mean?”

McGonagall shook her head once, firmly. “That would be a conflict of interest. I am your Head of House, and it could be perceived as favoritism and trying to get you out of certain punishments. There is a rule in place that prevents detentions to be served with the head of house of any student unless all other options are unavailable. That is why we assign students from our own houses to serve detention with other professors or staff members.”

He deflated, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So unless another teacher steps in…”

“You will serve with Professor Lockhart,” she finished for him, her tone brooking no argument. Then, after a pause, she added, quieter, “Unless something changes.”

Percy caught the faintest glint in her eyes—sympathy, maybe even a hint of concern—but her face was schooled back to its usual strict mask before he could be sure.

Suddenly a thought struck him. He remembered a few kind words spoken to him earlier that week. Apparently, his entire expression must have shifted, because McGonagall’s back straightened and the corner of her lips twitched upward ever so slightly.

“Now, I’ll be off to supper,” she said briskly. “You best be headed there soon, too.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, robes sweeping down the corridor in the direction Ron and Hermione had gone moments earlier.

Percy waited just long enough for her to round the corner—then spun on his heel and bolted. He wasn’t sure he’d ever run that fast in his life. His magic thrummed against the pull of the castle itself, helping him along. The moving staircases swung into place as if the school was working with him, lining up so he could bound up five steps at a time without slowing.

By the time he reached the right floor, he wasn’t even winded—just buzzing with nerves. He skidded to a stop in front of a door, smoothed a hand down his robes, and knocked, trying to will his heartbeat into something steadier.

“Come in!” called a bright, cheery voice.

He pushed the door open to find Professor Sprout bustling about her office. She was stacking rolls of parchment into her bag, her earth-stained sleeves rolled up past her elbows, the faint smell of soil clinging to the air.

“Ahh, Mr. Potter,” she greeted warmly, looking up with a smile. “I was just about to head to dinner. But what can I do for you?”

Percy hesitated, the words tangling for a moment. He really hoped she meant what she’d told him after their first Herbology lesson. “I—I need to speak to you,” he managed, voice uneven.

The smile slipped from her face as soon as she saw his expression. Concern replaced it, her eyes narrowing slightly. She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Sit down, Mr. Potter.”

Percy perched on the edge of the seat, hands knotted in his lap. Sprout lowered herself into her own chair, leaning forward, her fingers laced together atop the desk.

“What happened?” she asked, cutting straight to the point.

“Nothing happened… yet,” Percy said carefully. “But I’m worried something will happen tonight.”

For just a moment, Sprout sagged against the desk, relief flashing over her features as she let out a quiet breath. Then she straightened again, steadying herself. “What’s happening tonight?”

“I have detention. Professor Lockhart requested me to help him with his fan mail. But—” Percy’s throat tightened. He forced the words out. “He only asked for me. Out of twenty others who could’ve been picked, he singled me out.”

Sprout’s frown deepened. She tapped a dirt-stained thumb against the edge of her desk, studying him. “I see.” She paused. “And you would like me to request you for detention instead.”

Percy didn’t even blink. “I’ll do anything.”

She gave a single decisive nod. No hesitation. Then she began sliding the last of her parchment into her bag, tugging the strap closed. “Very well. I’ll speak to Minerva in the Great Hall. Meet me in Greenhouse Two after supper.”

Relief washed over Percy, heavy enough that he slumped back into the chair for the first time since he’d sat down. “Thank you, Professor,” he said sincerely, standing as she pushed her chair back. “I’ll see you after dinner.”

He reached for the door, hand already on the knob, when he hesitated. “Professor?”

Sprout glanced up, brow raised. “Yes?”

Percy swallowed, forcing the words out. “I don’t think anyone should serve detention with Professor Lockhart. Not alone, at least.”

For a moment, Sprout said nothing. She chewed her lip, thoughtful, her eyes flicking toward the window as though weighing something unspoken. Finally, she gave a firm nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

That was enough. Percy opened the door and stepped back into the corridor, his legs carrying him toward the Great Hall at a calmer pace than before.

Detention with Professor Sprout was a relief and despite the labor she had him doing without magic, it was also kind of enjoyable. He and Sprout had discussed many different topics as he swept Greenhouse two. Apparently the third years had been dealing with a plant that literally threw dirt at them if they weren’t handled carefully. 

They discussed school and Quidditch, but Professor Sprout was also very intrigued when Percy revealed that he had a 50/50 chance to go into Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor. Which sparked a conversation on the different house aspects and how someone can embody more than one and if the hat was looking at his memories to see if the students had embodied those traits in the past and then deciding the house that way, or looking at their memories and trying to determine if the hat was predicting the traits he would embody in the future. It was a fascinating conversation, but they still hadn’t determined a working theory by the time Professor Sprout had dismissed him for the night.

One thing was for certain though, their conversation stayed well away from a certain blond, disgustingly charming professor. Neither of them wanted to ruin the admittedly good mood.

It was as Percy was walking back to his dorm that he heard it. Lockheart was talking very loudly to someone he couldn’t determine, and he was headed right towards Percy. His magic tugged him in the opposite direction immediately, and with silent feet, Percy followed the tug. It directed him back down to the main entrance hall and led him all the way across the school to go back up the south stairs. Percy’s heart didn’t stop thudding in his chest until the magic stopped tugging him away from Lockheart. 

Percy knew how to get back to his dorms from there. He walked up the next staircase without issue and he started to double back to the next staircase on the second floor. 

But so suddenly, his breath was knocked out of him, his magic combined with the Hogwarts Magic fully yanked him across the floor. He literally went sliding down the hall, unable to stop himself as he pinwheeled his arms to keep his balance. 

“Wha-” Percy spoke aloud. He tried to pull his magic back into himself, to take back control, but it wouldn’t let him. Percy was across the hall in seconds. 

And then a voice, a raspy voice that sounded as if whoever spoke had been chewing on nails spoke. It was bone chilling, and sent shivers up and down his spine as he heard it. But it was also a broken sentence, hard to make out and understand. 

“Come … come to me. … Let me rip you. … Let me tear you. … Let me kill you. …” It spoke. 

“Yeah. No.” Percy said. And he didn’t even fight the magic again as it tugged him towards the next staircases and he wasted no time at all to get back to the Gryffindor dorms. 

Percy tried to wait up, he really did. But the fire had burned down to embers, the common room was almost silent, and the clock over the mantel now read half past eleven. Neither Ron nor Hermione had come back from detention. Ron had warned him earlier that Filch was infamous for keeping students until near midnight, making them scrub or polish the same floor three times over. Hermione, Percy suspected, would have volunteered to organize every dusty shelf in the library if Madam Pince had let her stay past closing. Either way, Percy was alone, tired, and not in the mood to keep fighting sleep.

The greenhouse work Professor Sprout had given him for detention had worn him out completely. Hours of sweeping, bagging dead roots, and hauling heavy sacks out behind Greenhouse Two had left his arms aching and his robes dusted with soil. He’d managed to wash most of it off, but the tiredness clung to him as firmly as the dirt had. He’d been telling himself he’d wait up to share what he overheard earlier, but at this rate, they’d have to hear it in the morning.

Just as he leaned forward to push himself up off the couch, the Fat Lady’s portrait creaked open. Percy turned, half-expecting Ron or Hermione at last. Instead, Ginny Weasley tumbled inside.

“Ginny?” Percy called, startled.

She squeaked, tripping on the lip of the portrait hole and sprawling forward. She hit the rug with a muffled thump and a small shout.

“Whoa,” Percy said quickly, hurrying over. He crouched beside her as she rolled onto her back. “You okay?”

Ginny just stared up at him, wide-eyed. Her hair was splayed across the floor, and she didn’t even blink.

“What are you doing out at this time?” Percy asked, reaching down to offer her a hand. She didn’t take it until he tugged lightly on her arm, prompting her to help herself up.

“I—I uh—” she stammered, her voice small and shaky. “I… don’t…”

Percy raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Finally, she finished in a whisper. “I don’t really know.” Her voice cracked, and tears filled her eyes before spilling down her cheeks.

“Hey—” Percy said quickly, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Ron’s little sister to start crying in front of him. Hermione was the only girl he’d dealt with in tears, and even then it was usually over homework or Ron being insensitive. Percy had learned Hermione just wanted reassurance and a hug. Ginny, though—he had no idea what to do with her sudden sobs.

“That’s fine,” he said awkwardly, his hands hovering before he settled on patting her arm. “Sometimes I… get stuck in my head too. Go for a walk without realizing where I’m headed. Happens to me all the time.”

Her wet eyes lifted toward him. “R-Really?” she hiccupped.

“Uh, yeah. All the time,” Percy replied, nodding like it was obvious.

She hiccupped again, and the tears kept coming. Feeling clumsy, Percy shifted his grip and guided her toward the couch he’d just vacated. She sank onto it, and he sat beside her, hesitantly taking her hand. She clutched his like it was the only steady thing in the room.

They sat there for several minutes in silence, broken only by Ginny’s uneven breathing. Her sobs gradually faded into soft hiccups, and she slumped against the couch cushions, eyelids drooping.

“Hey,” Percy said gently, when it seemed like she might fall asleep right there. “Maybe you should head up to your dorm and get some rest. Things usually look better in the morning.”

For a moment, Ginny didn’t move. Then she blinked, realizing where she was and who she was sitting beside. She squeaked, yanked her hand from his, and jumped to her feet. Her face was scarlet as she stared at him, frozen like a deer caught out of place.

Percy stared back, confused. Before he could say anything else, she spun around and bolted up the girls’ staircase, her steps quick and uneven.

He blinked at the empty stairwell she’d disappeared into, then shook his head. “Weird,” he muttered to himself. He didn’t know what that was about. Honestly, Ron’s sister had always been a little odd, and Ron would probably be the first to agree with him.

Left alone again, Percy let out a long sigh. The fire had burned down to little more than glowing coals, and the shadows of the room stretched long across the floor. He glanced once more toward the portrait hole, half-hoping Ron and Hermione might appear. But it was late, and his eyelids were heavy.

He dragged himself upstairs, changed quickly, and dropped into bed. He’d tell Ron and Hermione everything in the morning. Tonight, he was too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

Chapter Text

“And you’re sure you weren’t just hearing things, mate?” Ron asked as they made their way down the stone steps toward the dungeons.

As much as Percy loved potions and the feeling of accomplishment that seemed to hum in his magic every time he finished a potion, he dreaded this class. Snape had been particularly nasty the past few days, very short-tempered, cutting, and clearly taking out his irritation on every Gryffindor within reach. And this was the first lesson since “the incident,” as Hermione called it,  so no one in Gryffindor was looking forward to it.

He honestly didn’t understand why Snape was still making such a big deal of it. It was done. Punishments were given out and most of them had already been completed. 

But still, there’d been reports from older students about losing points for things like breathing too loud or sneezing during roll call. Angelina had supposedly coughed once and gotten a detention for “interrupting his lecture.” It was obvious Snape was on a warpath.

“Harry,” Ron said, snapping Percy from his thoughts.

“What?”

“You said you heard a voice tell you it wanted to kill you when you were walking back to the dorms. Are you sure you weren’t just hearing things?”

“I know what I heard.” Percy glanced over to his friend. “And it didn’t say it wanted to kill me specifically. Just that it wanted to kill.” He clarified again.

“Right. Sure. But what else could it mean? Are you sure no one else was around?”

Percy sighed, exasperated. “Well gee, Ron, maybe I should’ve stuck around to find out who was planning to murder someone.”

Ron raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just asking. Still—could’ve been someone trying to scare you. Or a prank.”

“No. I asked Fred and George. They said it wasn’t them.”

“And you believe them?”

Percy gave him a flat look. “When do the twins ever not take credit for their pranks?”

Ron huffed a laugh. “Good point. Let’s hope it was just some creep then and he’s not planning on acting on it.”

Percy wasn’t sure he didn’t have the best track record in these things. But Ron was right—he didn’t want to think about what else it could be.

They stepped into the dungeon classroom, the air colder than usual, candles flickering dimly against the wet stone walls. Ron drifted toward his usual desk, while Percy made his way to the front where Neville was already unpacking his things. Hermione wasn’t there yet; she’d gone to fetch more parchment after running out in Defense.

“Hey, Nev,” Percy said as he sat down, pulling his quill and ink from his bag.

“Hey, Harry.” Neville’s voice was quiet. His hands were fidgeting with his own quill and the feather was starting to look a little rough around the edges. “How bad d’you think it’ll be?”

Percy grimaced. “Bad. Probably worse for me and Ron. He’s still mad about the Quidditch ban. Maybe we should switch partners today.”

Neville shook his head quickly. “No, it’s fine. He’d just get angrier if we did.”

Percy eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Your call.”

The door creaked open again, and Malfoy strode in, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. His eyes flicked across the room and a glint formed when he spotted Percy and his friends. 

For a kid who had thrown up slugs in front of half of the quidditch players in Hogwarts, he looked far more smug than he should in Percy’s opinion. If it had been him, Percy probably wouldn’t have shown his face around the school ever again. Still it didn’t seem to deter Malfoy who strode confidently across the room. 

“Well, well,” he drawled, a smirk already stretching across his face. “Potter.” He looked Percy up and down his eyes glinting before he turned to Ron behind him. “ And Weasley—” he turned, his tone dripping with mock sympathy—“still breathing free air after nearly hexing me into the hospital wing. You’d think the school would tighten up its admissions, but then again, they let Granger in.”

Ron’s face turned red, and Percy’s jaw locked. Malfoy smirked wider.

“I suppose it’s a mercy they didn’t expel you,” he continued smoothly. “Hogwarts can only handle so many blood traitors at once. One less Weasley might’ve improved the castle’s reputation.”

Percy’s nails dug into his palms. He wanted, very badly, to make him stop talking. Malfoy wasn’t just cruel; he enjoyed it. He had that kind of smirk that made Percy want to knock it off his face with his fist and in that moment, he was reminded eerily of Smell Gabe who often wore that evil smirk.

He could still see Hermione’s expression from that day—shocked, hurt, trying to hold herself together while Malfoy grinned like he’d won some sort of pathetic award. Percy’s stomach burned at the memory. 

He wished Ron’s curse had lasted longer.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Percy said coldly, keeping his voice level.

“I’d have thought you’d be grateful I’m talking to you at all,” Malfoy sneered. “Especially after your little pet Mud—” he cut himself off with a smirk, “—your little friend ran crying off the Quidditch pitch. I see she’s not here. Did Granger finally realize she's not a real witch?”

That did it. Percy gripped the desk so hard the wood creaked. He didn’t trust himself to stand. If he did, Malfoy would be eating dirt before Snape even entered the room.

“Hermione is top of every class.” Percy said through gritted teeth. “You trying to insult her just cause you can’t seem to keep up is pathetic. What did daddy say about you getting lower scores than a muggleborn last year?”

Malfoys mouth curbed into a sneer and rage seemed to ignite even as a blush took over his face. He went to say something else but the door at the back opened again. Hermione hurried in, clutching her parchment roll and looking slightly flustered from her trip here. She glanced at Percy and Ron, offered a quick, uncertain smile, then sat down at her usual seat beside Ron.

A moment later, the door at the front slammed open with a sharp crack. Snape swept in, robes flaring, his hair hanging lank and oily as ever.

“Sit,” he said coldly and Malfoy and his lackeys rushed over to their own seats across the room. His eyes flicked toward Malfoy for half a second—just long enough to catch the smirk that still lingered there—and then to Percy. “Open your books to page one hundred and twelve. Today we will be brewing the Hair-Raising Potion. A simple brew—though apparently even simple tasks are a challenge for some of you.”

His gaze landed on Neville, who immediately froze, and Percy had to suppress an eye roll.

He began his usual circuit through the room as everyone did as instructed. His dark eyes scanning cauldrons, occasionally sneering at an ingredient setup or muttering what had to be insults under his breath. Percy kept his focus on measuring out the moonstone, ignoring the way Snape’s robes brushed against his desk as he passed. The man’s magic felt sharp, coiled, like barbed wire in the air.

“Careful, Longbottom,” Snape said suddenly. “You’ve cut your rat tails too thick. Or are you planning to poison us all?”

Percy looked down — Neville’s slices were fine, just as the book described. He was getting better.

“It’s fine,” Percy said before he could stop himself, pushing his glasses up his nose as he glanced back down at the book. “The tails are just right for the brewing time. Thinner ones would—”

Snape turned slowly, his expression dangerous. “Did I ask for your opinion, Potter?”

“No, sir,” Percy ground out.

“Then perhaps you’d best focus on your cauldron before you ruin that as well. Your arrogance is showing again — I suggest you tuck it away before it burns the whole classroom down.”

A few Slytherins snickered quietly. Malfoy’s laugh was louder than the rest. Percy gripped the table’s edge until his knuckles turned white. His magic pressed against his skin. It was restless, more than it had been since entering the classroom. He kept his eyes on the cauldron, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

They worked in silence for the next several minutes. The air was thick with steam and the faint metallic smell of potion brewing. Their potion was coming along perfectly — even his magic hummed with approval, the mixture glowing faintly silver-blue. Neville smiled faintly beside him, visibly relieved that for once, something was actually going right with the potion.

Then, without warning, Snape appeared beside their table. His eyes flicked to their cauldron, and his lips curled in contempt. “And what do we have here?”

He leaned in, examining the potion. Percy didn’t say anything, he didn’t trust himself too.

Snape sniffed. “The color is far too bright. Clearly due to your typical Gryffindor impatience. You were supposed to stir at a count of four seconds each rotation. This is too quickly.”

That was complete bull, if Percy could say so himself. Their potion was fine—the calming magic pouring off him and surrounding the potion told him as much. It was nearly finished, the energy weaving together in its final stages, the formation of entirely new magic almost complete as Percy’s own magic weaved through it.

Snape flicked his wand, and the contents of the cauldron vanished into thin air with a soft pop.

The sudden emptiness hit Percy hard. His magic, which had been flowing neatly into the potion, was cut off mid-channel. It snapped back against him like a snapped cord, leaving his head with a very sudden throbbing pain. He winced, pressing a hand to his temple.

Neville made a small, startled noise. “But, Professor, it— it was fine—”

“Five points from Gryffindor for backtalk,” Snape said, turning on his heel, sneer on his face. “And ten from you, Potter, for misleading your partner.”

Percy’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t misleading,” he muttered.

Snape froze. “What was that?”

“I said it wasn’t misleading. The potion was fine. Better than fine.” Percy forced the words out evenly. “You didn’t even check it properly before-”

Snape’s wand snapped up and he cut Percy off. “Do not presume to question my expertise in my own classroom,” he said quietly, his voice sharper than a blade. “You are an arrogant child living off a reputation you did not earn. Perhaps if you spent less time playing hero and starting fights and more time following instructions, your potion might have been worth keeping.”

Across the room, Malfoy gave a delighted snort. “Imagine being the ‘Great Harry Potter' and still failing at making a Hair-Raising Potion. Pathetic, really.” he said loudly, lounging back in his chair. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled beside him. Percy was pretty sure neither of them actually understood what Malfoy had said.

Snape didn’t correct him. He didn’t even look at Malfoy.

Percy bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. His fingers tightened on the desk until he felt the wood strain beneath them. He forced himself to stay still. He’d made it through worse. He could make it through this.

Then Snape turned on Ron. “And you, Weasley— You should count yourself lucky that your curse didn’t cause permanent damage, or I’d have insisted on your expulsion myself.”

Ron stiffened in his seat, going red. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to?” Snape snapped. “You cast a curse you could barely control and struck another student, and you dare to make excuses?”

“Malfoy called Hermione—”

Snape’s expression went flat. “Do not finish that sentence. Detention. One week.”

That was it. Percy’s hand slammed against the desk before he even realized he’d moved. “You don’t get to defend him,” he said sharply. “You heard what he said. You know what he called her.”

Snape turned toward him, expression unreadable. “Ten more points from Gryffindor for your tone, Potter. Actually make it twenty. And if you speak again—”

But Malfoy couldn’t resist. “He’s just upset,” he said, smirking, turning to his fellow Slytherins who were watching the argument take place. “Still touchy about bloodlines, are we? Maybe you’re worried someone’ll remind you you’re only half—”

The sound that came out of Percy was low and sharp, almost like a growl. The air in the room shifted—every candle flickered away from him at once.

A wave of magic pulsed through the classroom, silent but heavy. Everyone felt it: the sudden pressure in the air, the chill down their spines, the way the hair on their arms lifted. It wasn’t visible, but it was there—something ancient, raw, and powerful radiating from him.

He moved without thinking. One second he was sitting, the next he’d shoved the desk aside, lunging halfway across the room toward Malfoy. Glass shattered as ingredient jars tipped over. A couple nearby cauldrons tipped over. Gasps rang out.

Snape’s wand was out in a flash. “Petrificus Totalus!”

Percy froze mid-motion, his arms locking at his sides. The magic still rolled off him in waves, pressing against the walls until the candles guttered out.

“OUT!” Snape’s voice echoed through the dungeon. “OUT OF MY CLASSROOM! You will report for detention every night this week! And forty points from Gryffindor for your pathetic display!”

The spell released, and Percy stumbled back, chest heaving, still shaking with fury. No one said a word as he grabbed his bag and stormed out, the door slamming behind him so hard it rattled the jars on the shelves.

Percy marched out of the classroom, the door slamming behind him, missing his heel by inches as it shut.

He was furious. Screw Malfoy. And screw Snape, too. Both of them were pretentious bastards who deserved whatever karma decided to throw at them. Percy was sick of their smug attitudes, their sneers, their constant superiority—and the way Snape let Malfoy get away with anything while tearing down everyone else. Especially him, Ron, and Hermione.

Every part of him felt hot. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it, and he could tell his face was red. His magic was wound tight, pulsing under his skin, and he knew if he didn’t get control over it, something in that dungeon would’ve exploded. Snape had already thrown him out.  Fine. That was probably for the best. He needed to cool off before he really lost it.

He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the curious looks from passing students. When the staircase shifted under him, it lined up perfectly with the next landing, almost like it wanted to help him get out faster. He didn’t question it. He just kept moving until the heavy air of the dungeons gave way to the open, cool breeze outside.

The sunlight hit him hard after the dim corridors. It was surprisingly warm for mid-October in the Scottish Highlands—still cooler than home, but enough that he didn’t need the heavy cloak shoved under his bed. He didn’t slow down until the castle’s stone steps gave way to grass and the gentle slope of the rolling hills leading toward the Black Lake.

At the shoreline, Percy toed off his shoes and yanked off his socks in one continuous motion. The ground was cold and damp beneath his feet, but he didn’t care. He walked straight into the water until it reached his ankles, the chill biting into his skin. The tension that had been coiled around him finally broke, his magic easing as the water lapped softly at his legs. He closed his eyes and breathed, the sound of the waves steady and grounding.

He stayed like that for a while—breathing, feeling the mud slide between his toes, letting the cold numb the heat under his skin. When the sharp edge of his anger started to fade, he stepped back towards the shore and sat down, feet still submerged. He dropped his elbows onto his knees and rubbed his hands over his face.

How could anyone like Malfoy actually believe the garbage he said? And Snape—he might not throw hexes or curses, but Percy knew what it felt like to be humiliated and singled out over and over. That man shouldn’t be teaching. Not when he went after kids like it was a sport. But the question that sat worst with Percy was why him? Why did Snape’s glare always linger on him longer than anyone else’s?

He stayed there until the heat in his chest eased completely. The lake shimmered in the light, the air smelled clean, and for a few minutes, Hogwarts almost felt peaceful. He could hear the wind rolling through the grass, the occasional snap of a branch in the woods, birds calling somewhere far off.

Then something changed. It was very subtle, just a shift in the air, like he wasn’t alone anymore. Percy straightened, glancing around. His magic stayed calm, so whatever it was, it wasn’t dangerous. He waited. Then the water rippled, the surface moving against his shins in a slow, deliberate wave.

He looked out across the dark water. The sunlight reflected off small peaks and dips, but one area stayed unnaturally still. Then, out in the distance, two yellow eyes appeared above the surface, glowing faintly.

Percy blinked. A head, humanoid but not quite, rose just high enough for him to see it clearly. It was covered in long, black, pin-straight hair plastered to its skull, and the skin underneath was a strange grayish color, smooth and tough-looking. Its eyes stayed locked on him, unblinking, pupils narrowing slightly as it studied him back.

He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to. The thing didn’t feel hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either. They just stared at each other, the water between them rippling slowly. Percy felt his fingers twitch, restless, and finally lifted one hand, moving it in a slow wave.

The creature’s eyes narrowed further. Then, in one fluid motion, it lifted higher out of the lake until its chin was visible. The sunlight caught the sharp lines of its face, too sharp for a human, and its mouth stretched wide, showing rows of pointed, white teeth. The grin was all threat, but the creature didn’t move closer. Instead, it gave what almost looked like a mocking smile before slipping back beneath the surface. A flash of a pale gray fin cut the water once, then vanished into the depths.

Percy stayed where he was, watching the ripples fade until the lake went back to its systematic waves again. Whatever that thing was, it definitely looked threatening, but Percy didn’t feel like he was being threatened as it watched him. It had just… looked. Out of curiosity, maybe? He wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t going to sit there waiting for it to come back.

He pulled his feet out of the water and shook them off before tugging on his socks and shoes again. The sun being high overhead told him History of Magic was probably halfway over by now. Not that it mattered—Binns wouldn’t notice he was missing, and even if he did, Percy wasn’t about to sneak in late just to fall asleep at his desk.

He started walking back toward the castle, the breeze cool on his face. He’d calmed down, but the thought of sitting in a room full of students still made his skin crawl. He wasn’t ready to deal with anyone's curious questions or the usual staring he received anytime anything weird happened around him, and he definitely didn’t want to explain anything to Ron or Hermione yet.

His steps carried him through the corridors without thought. The castle seemed to guide him, staircases shifting at just the right moments, corridors strangely empty when he turned down them. Eventually, he realized where he was going—the small hidden alcove he’d found weeks ago.

When he rounded the final corner, he stopped short. The tapestry that hid the space had changed again.

It still had that strange, heavy stillness to it. It didn’t move like the others in the castle, but its amount of detail gave it life anyway. The scene showed a figure kneeling on a mountain beneath a dark sky, clouds stitched in deep grays and silver threads that shimmered faintly, like lightning trapped in the fabric.

The man was crouched low, his cloak tattered and burned. His hand reached toward a stone bowl at the mountaintop, where golden and copper threads wove a vivid flame that seemed to flicker when Percy moved.

The man’s face was half-turned, mouth twisted in effort or pain. Around him, the storm looked almost alive—faces hidden in the clouds, their eyes cold and watchful. When his fingertips brushed the flame, light spread down his arm in thin red and orange stitches, winding like veins through the fabric. Percy didn’t know what it meant, but it looked like he was reaching for the fire. The flames flickered towards him slightly, ready to be taken and casting an unnatural glow to the man's tan skin.

Below that, smaller scenes showed him again, clutching the glowing ember to his chest while silver lightning bolts struck down from above. Beneath the mountain, the earth opened into black space, streaked with red that glowed faintly in the torchlight.

Percy frowned and stepped closer. The threads shimmered differently with each angle, giving the illusion of heat. A draft moved through the corridor, and the fabric rippled slightly. For a second, Percy thought the man’s head turned, a glint of pale gold catching the light—then it was gone.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Whatever story the tapestry told, he couldn’t make sense of it. He didn’t want to. Pushing it aside, he slipped through the small gap behind it and let it fall closed behind him.

The alcove was exactly how he’d left it. The cushions pushed to one side so he could sit facing the window. He dropped into his usual spot, stretching out and exhaling slowly. The last of his irritation from class eased away.

He could at least write to his mom now. She was probably worried he hadn’t sent a letter yet, and Hedwig was due for a good flight anyway. Sending her home with a letter might do them both some good.

Percy had been on the edge of a bad mood ever since that miserable Potions class the previous week.

Snape’s detentions had been awful—hours of scrubbing cauldrons so coated in sludge Percy was convinced the man had assigned the upper years that particular potion just to make their lives harder. The stuff clung to the metal like glue, and every time Percy and Ron thought they’d finally gotten one clean, Snape would sweep over, inspect it for half a second, and order them to start over for their “lack of competent knowledge in a basic skill.”

Still, at least he hadn’t been alone. Cleaning was miserable, but doing it with Ron was better than being stuck somewhere with Lockhart.

And that was the one good thing to come out of Snape’s detentions.

Apparently, Lockhart had once again requested to “take over” Percy’s punishment—something Percy learned only because Snape wanted to mock him. The man had stopped beside them one evening, arms crossed, expression sharp.

“You need to learn real consequences, Potter,” he’d said with a quiet, cutting sneer. “Not be handed a punishment on a silver platter in the form of shining Lockhart’s shoes.”

Percy had refused to thank him—he would rather eat his own wand than show Snape gratitude—but there had still been a flicker of relief. Snape wasn’t his Head of House, so Percy actually could say no to Lockhart this time.

And thank the gods for that.

By the time the last cauldron was scrubbed and Snape finally dismissed them, Ron and Percy dragged themselves out of the dungeon exhausted but relieved. Detention with Snape had been miserable, sure—but at least it meant Percy wasn’t trapped alone in a room with Gilderoy Lockhart.

Honestly, that alone made the entire week bearable.

It was nearing the end of October, which meant Halloween—or, as Susan and Neville had reminded him more than once, Samhain. Susan explained it was an older wizarding holiday, one that had faded out of fashion but was meant to honor the dead. Fitting, Percy thought grimly, since it was also the day his parents had died.

The closer the day crept, the worse he felt. No amount of pumpkin decorations or floating candles could make him feel festive. He’d spent most of the week clenching his fists or biting his tongue to avoid snapping at professors—or worse, at his friends.

So, he’d taken to walking alone. The castle was quieter before dinner, corridors glowing in the dim orange light of torches and the occasional enchanted pumpkin. He’d left Hermione and Ron in the library. For once, they hadn’t followed. Ron had only given him a small nod, and Hermione’s worried look said more than words could.

His magic had been restless all morning. Not warning him like it did when Lockhart was near, and not playful either—just agitated, flickering at his heels and tugging at his sleeve. Once or twice, it brushed against Hogwarts’ ancient magic, and the castle responded like it was quietly amused.

That should’ve been his warning.

His magic tapped sharply against his shoulder just as he rounded the next corner, but by then it was too late. A red blur lunged out of nowhere. Percy barely had time to shout before strong hands grabbed his shoulders, pinning him in place, while another pair of hands dumped something warm and slick over his shoes.

“Wha—?” Percy sputtered, jerking back.

“Fred! George!” he barked when he realized who it was. The twins stumbled away, grinning like maniacs and just out of reach of his swinging arm.

“Good afternoon, Harrykins!” Fred said cheerfully, as if they hadn’t just ambushed him.

“Whatever you did, I’m really not in the mood!” Percy snapped, scowling hard enough that most people would have backed off. The twins weren’t most people.

“I don’t think so, mate,” George replied, his grin widening. “You look like—”

“—you need to be a bit more grounded,” Fred finished smoothly.

Percy glared, his patience thinning fast. “What did you put on me?”

Fred cupped his ear dramatically. “Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t quite hear you. Maybe come a little closer?”

He didn’t even try to hide his smirk.

Percy narrowed his eyes but took the bait anyway, shifting his weight forward to step toward them—and nearly fell flat on his face. His legs locked, his boots refusing to move. He windmilled his arms, barely able to catch himself before he faceplanted into the floor..

“Wha—what did you do?” he demanded, glancing down. His shoes looked perfectly normal aside from a faint shimmer of orange where the potion had soaked in. The floor, though, gave off a faint magical hum that made the hairs on his arms prickle.

“It’s a little something we’ve been working on,” George started, voice lilting with pride.

“Just for you,” Fred added with mock sweetness.

“It took us a month or so to perfect the potion—”

“—and a few unfortunate trial runs—”

“—definitely don’t go into the fourth-floor cleaning closet,” George warned.

“Filch hasn’t figured out it was us yet,” Fred said, grinning. “But everything in there’s still glued together.”

“Forever,” George confirmed. “Even the broom handles.”

Fred nodded solemnly. “The latest batch, though, works like a dream.”

“Guys!” Percy snapped, cutting them off. “Okay, hilarious. You’ve had your laugh. Now how do I get unstuck?”

The twins exchanged a look—mischief and victory flashing in their identical expressions.

“That’s the thing, Harrykins,” George said, grin still plastered across his face. “This is payback.”

Fred crossed his arms. “We even gave you a fair warning over the summer, remember?”

Percy blinked. “This is about the prank war?” he asked, incredulous.

“Of course it is,” they said in unison, matching smug smiles perfectly.

Percy groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Flattered, really,” Fred said brightly.

“Anyway, it’ll wear off in about an hour—”

“—give or take a few minutes.”

“And whatever you do,” George warned, “don’t touch your shoes.”

“Unless you want your hands glued down too,” Fred added helpfully.

Percy gave them both a murderous look. “You’re dead when I get loose.”

“Ah, but you won’t,” George said cheerfully. “Not for a while.”

“See you around, Harrykins,” Fred called, giving an exaggerated wave as they turned to leave.

They walked away shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing and congratulating each other, their laughter echoing down the corridor.

Percy tugged experimentally at his feet again. No luck. He was definitely stuck.

“Brilliant,” he muttered to himself, folding his arms. The corridor was deserted now. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint hum of the castle’s magic responding to his irritation, like Hogwarts itself was trying not to laugh.

Percy huffed. 

Percy tugged one last time at his shoes. Nothing. The soles didn’t even creak. The potion had dried to a faint, almost invisible shimmer, and the magic in it was humming softly against the stone floor, thumping like a faint pulse. He exhaled through his nose, glaring down as though the sheer weight of his irritation might burn through the floor.

He’d had enough. Enough of Potions, enough of Snape, enough of Malfoy, and definitely enough of the twins. He could practically hear them laughing still, somewhere far off in the castle

He folded his arms, jaw tightening as he tried to think of some spell he would know to get unstuck. All he wanted was to sleep. He was so tired of this month. He was sick of Snape and Malfoy. He was sick of trying to avoid Lockhart and coming up with excuses to not speak with him after class. And more than anything else, he missed his mom. Hedwig hadn’t gotten back from taking his latest letter to her. He really just wanted to make sure she was still okay at home and all of the stress these past few weeks was making everything worse.

He tried pulling his feet unstuck again. How long has it been? Clearly not long enough because his feet were still glued to the floor. 

And then—footsteps.

Percy tensed automatically. They were coming from the adjoining corridor. Whoever it was, they weren’t in a hurry and Percy was about to call out, hoping it was an upper year or a professor who might be able to help but he halted when he heard a  low, familiar laugh drift toward him.

“Oh, my dear boy, modesty never suited me!”

Percy froze.
Lockhart.

He crouched instinctively, even though crouching did nothing to hide him when he was standing in the dead center of the hallway with no cover at all. His feet were still fused to the floor; he couldn’t take a single step, couldn’t shift left or right. All he could do was make himself smaller and hope Lockhart passed by without looking his way.

But the problem became obvious the moment the pair turned into view.

Lockhart wasn’t alone.

Colin Creevey walked beside him, shoulders stiff, eyes darting between the floor and the wall. His camera hung from his neck, forgotten. Lockhart stood far too close, one manicured hand resting against Colin’s back—low, uncomfortable, possessive in a way that made every warning light go off in Percy’s head.

The corridor was empty.
No teachers.
No other students.
Just Lockhart’s laugh echoing around the stone walls.

Colin nodded to something Lockhart murmured, though the kid’s expression made it clear he didn’t want to.

Percy’s jaw tightened. His magic flickered at the edge of his senses, agitated.

That was enough.

He pushed himself out of the crouch even though he couldn’t run or move closer. His voice came out sharper than he planned, cutting through the hallway:

“Professor Lockhart!”

The sound bounced loudly, and Lockhart’s head snapped up. The man’s face lit up unnaturally bright the instant he saw Percy—wide grin, eyes too eager, posture shifting like someone spotting a present with their name on it.

“Harry, my dear boy!” he boomed. “Just the young wizard I wanted to see!”

Colin startled, taking a step back in surprise but Lockhart’s hand stayed right where it was.

Percy kept his voice even. “Sir. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I, uh—ran into a bit of a problem.” He gestured down at his shoes. “Some friends thought it would be funny to glue me to the floor.”

Lockhart blinked, then let out a good-natured laugh that was just a little too loud. “Ah! A prank! I was quite the joker myself in my Hogwarts days, you know. Drove poor Slughorn mad with my quick wit and creative spirit.”

I doubt that, Percy thought. Out loud, he said, “Right. That’s very interesting.”

Lockhart didn’t seem to catch the edge in his tone. “You know, you and I really are cut from the same cloth. Pranksters, natural charmers, true heroes and what not—oh, and speaking of charmers, about your detention! I was terribly disappointed you couldn’t attend.”

His grin turned more sly as something more flickered across his face. “We might’ve made marvelous progress with my fan mail. Perhaps we can make it up tonight in my office?”

The way he said it made Percy’s skin crawl. His voice had dipped lower as if it was a secret just between the two of them despite Colin Creevy watching their conversation like a tennis match. His fingers fiddled with the straps of his camera from nerves. 

“Sorry, Professor,” he said carefully. “I’ve already got plans. Homework, you know.”

“Nonsense!” Lockhart waved the excuse away, stepping closer. His robes brushed against the hem of Colin’s. “I insist. I could even give you a few private lessons—little tricks of the trade, from one rising star to another. Maybe we could even plan a way to get back at the ones who got you stuck in the first place.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “That’s kind of you, but no thank you. I’m sure your time’s better spent elsewhere.”

Lockhart tilted his head, the smile never faltering, but for a brief second, Percy caught something cold and calculating in his eyes—then it vanished behind another dazzling grin. “Well! At least let me help you out of this unfortunate predicament. I know just the charm.”

“That’s really not necessary—”

But Lockhart had already drawn his wand. “No need to be shy, Harry. I’m quite the expert. Watch closely—you might learn something!”

“Professor, don’t—”

“Evanesco!”

The spell hit the floor.

For one stunned moment, Percy thought nothing had happened. Then the stone under his shoes simply ceased to exist. His stomach dropped.

“Wait—!”

The word turned into a shout as he fell straight through the gaping hole. The corridor vanished above him, replaced by a blur of moving stone and air. He hit hard—flat on his back—and the world went white.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall, followed by the ragged sound of someone yelling his name.

“MR. POTTER!”

The shout rattled through his skull. Percy blinked until the ceiling came back into focus. McGonagall was there, hovering above the hole, wand drawn and expression horrified. Lockhart’s pale face appeared beside her, mouth moving uselessly.

“Minerva! I—ah—he fell before I could—”

“Be quiet, Gilderoy!” she barked, her accent thickening with every word. She flicked her wand, floating herself down until her feet touched the floor beside Percy.

He groaned, clutching his shoulder. Everything hurt, but at least he could move.

“I’m fine.” He groaned to Professor McGonagall as he tried to push up on his elbows. He was promptly stopped by a hand holding his shoulder down.

“Don’t sit up!” McGonagall ordered, already casting diagnostic charms. Blue light flickered across his chest and ribs. She watched the results appear in the air, her stern expression shifting from panic to something closer to relief. “Merlin’s beard… nothing broken. Bruised to high heaven, but otherwise intact.”

Percy exhaled shakily, wincing as he shifted. “Told you I was fine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not fine, Mr. Potter. You fell two full stories. You could have been seriously hurt or even—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together. “You are very, very fortunate.”

Above them, Lockhart’s voice floated down nervously. “Minerva, I do apologize! The incantation was meant to vanish the adhesive, not the entire floor! Tricky spell, really. Simple misunderstanding—”

McGonagall tilted her head upward and said, very calmly, “If you so much as utter another word, Gilderoy, I will vanish you.”

There was silence.

She turned back to Percy, extending a hand to help him sit up. “Slowly now.”

He obeyed, grimacing as his back protested. “I’m okay, really,” he muttered, brushing dust off his robes. “I just—fell a bit faster than I expected.”

McGonagall looked like she wanted to lecture him about something, but instead she sighed through her nose. “Creevey, come down here.”

Percy caught a flash of dark robes through the hole above him and then heard the pounding of boots as Colin raced down the nearby stairs.

“Escort Mr. Potter to the hospital wing,” McGonagall said firmly when he got there panting slightly. “Madam Pomfrey will see to any bruising. And no arguments,” she added before Percy could open his mouth to argue.

“Yes, Professor,” Colin squeaked.

She gave Percy one last sharp look, then flicked her wand. The gaping hole above sealed itself with a rumble of stone, erasing any sign of the accident. When she looked back up at Lockhart, her voice carried that calm, deadly tone that made every Gryffindor behave instantly. “We will discuss this privately in my office, Gilderoy.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Minerva,” came the weak reply.

Percy climbed to his feet with Colin’s help, wincing again. His ribs ached with every movement, but it could have been far worse.

They walked in silence for a while, the corridor dim and quiet around them. The only sound was the echo of their footsteps and the faint click of Colin’s camera bumping against his chest.

“Um,” Colin said finally, voice small. “I’m sure Professor Lockhart didn’t mean to—”

Percy cut him off gently. “Colin. Don’t ever let him get you alone again.”

The boy froze mid-step. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Percy said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it left no room for argument. “If he ever asks you to help him with something—letters, photos, whatever—say no. And if he insists, you come find me or Professor McGonagall. Got it?”

“I-” He looked up at Percy and must have noticed the seriousness in his tone because he cut off the thought. Colin swallowed. “Got it.”

“Good.” Percy’s voice softened a fraction. “You’re fine, yeah? He didn’t—hurt you?”

Colin shook his head quickly. “No, sir. He just… talks a lot.”

“Yeah,” Percy muttered. “He does.”

They reached the staircase that led toward the hospital wing. Percy waved Colin on ahead, still rubbing the back of his neck where he’d hit the floor. “Tell Pomfrey I’m coming. I’ll catch up.”

Colin hesitated but nodded and hurried off.

Percy leaned against the cool stone wall, exhaling slowly. His entire body throbbed, but the anger underneath was stronger than the ache. Fred and George were going to regret this one.

He glanced down at his socked feet and shook his head. “This is so not over.”

He pushed off the wall and started limping toward the hospital wing. 

At this point, Percy just wanted to get through October and hope the rest of the year went better after that. But as the days crept closer to the thirty-first, his mood only got worse. 

He knew he was getting snappier. The entire school seemed to be avoiding him. Even Malfoy had stopped trying to provoke him after the Potions lab incident—though Percy was sure that would change once the first Quidditch match rolled around.

So, on the day before that cursed date, the last thing he wanted was to run into Nearly Headless Nick during his walk.

The ghost was hovering by a window, staring out at the gray afternoon sky and muttering to himself.
“. . . don’t fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that . . .”

Percy decided he didn’t have the energy for this conversation. He kept walking, pretending not to notice, hoping to continue his aimless loop through the empty corridors in peace.

But Nick let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

Percy ignored it.

Then came another one—louder, more theatrical.

Percy stopped, let out a short breath through his nose, and turned around. “Good afternoon, Nick. Are you okay?”

Nick sighed again, heavier this time. “Ah, it’s nothing,” he said, waving a translucent hand. “A matter of no importance. It’s not as though I truly wanted to join . . . I thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements.’”

His tone was light, but his expression was sour.

“You would think,” Nick continued suddenly, pulling a crumpled letter from his pocket, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify one to join the Headless Hunt!”

Percy stared at him, lips pressed together. He didn’t say anything—not that it would’ve mattered. Nick always found a way to keep talking. Percy had felt bad for him once, but that was before hearing the story for the tenth time. By now, most students had learned to tune him out, offering a sympathetic word here or there only to keep the ghost from sulking.

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly. It would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However—” Nearly Headless Nick snapped the letter open again and read with sharp irritation, “‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.’”

He stuffed the letter back into his doublet, fuming. “Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! Most people would think that’s properly beheaded—but oh no. Not enough for Sir Properly-Decapitated-Podmore.”

“That sucks, man,” Percy said, aiming for sympathetic but really just wanting to end the conversation so he could get back to being miserable in peace. “I hope your head gets chopped off completely next time you die.”

Nick let out another dramatic sigh, floating a few inches higher as if carried upward by the sheer weight of his suffering. “Thank you, Harry.”

Percy turned away from Nick, fully intending to escape down the next corridor and avoid any more conversations. He’d barely taken five steps before the air shifted around his ears—just a faint tug of magic brushing the back of his neck. Hogwarts had been doing that more and more lately, small nudges whenever something unpleasant was around the corner.

He slowed, listening. Another faint flick against his ear. And in the distance he heard a faint Meow followed by the cooing of a voice that was much to far away to make out what was said.

Filch.
And Mrs. Norris.

Percy didn’t need more warnings than that. He pivoted sharply and walked back the way he came, boots thudding fast against the floor.

Nearly Headless Nick drifted a few inches higher, eyebrows raised. “Back so soon?” he asked, gliding forward to keep pace. “You looked rather determined to be elsewhere.”

Percy didn’t answer right away. He just walked quicker.

Nick floated closer, his tone sharpening with curiosity. “Running from something, Harry? Or someone? I do hope it isn’t because of my company. I’ve had quite a difficult day and—”

“It’s not you,” Percy muttered. “Filch is around that corner.”

Nick winced. “Ah. Yes. Best avoided.”

Percy kept moving, hoping Nick would leave him alone now. But instead, the ghost lit up with sudden eagerness.

“Well, since you’re here,” Nick began, drifting ahead of him and turning so they were face-to-face, “there is actually something else I hoped to ask you earlier. Something quite important.”

Percy groaned internally. “Nick… I’m really not in the mood—”

“But it won’t take long!” Nick pressed, wringing his translucent hands. “A simple matter, really. You see, tomorrow night is the anniversary of my passing—my five-hundredth, in fact—and I’m hosting a Deathday Party. A grand affair. All the ghosts will attend. Sir Patrick too, unfortunately. And—well—I thought perhaps you, Harry Potter, might like to come.”

Percy blinked. “Tomorrow?”
Of course it would be tomorrow. October thirty-first. As if he needed another reminder of the date.

Nick continued without noticing Percy’s expression sour. “It would mean quite a lot if The Boy-Who-Lived attended. A living wizard! Imagine the impression. And if you were to say a few kind words about me to Sir Patrick—just something about bravery or dignity—I’m sure the Headless Hunt would reconsider their cruel judgment.”

Percy scrubbed a hand down his face. “Nick, I don’t really think—”

“Oh, but Harry, you’d be perfect!” Nick interrupted, floating so close Percy could’ve walked straight through him if he wasn’t paying attention. “You’re admired by so many. Your presence alone would add prestige. Prestige I desperately need right now. Just a small speech! Or even a greeting! You wouldn’t have to dance or eat anything, of course—ghost parties are mostly atmosphere and lamentation.”

“Nick—”

“And you’d be doing a great service to a fellow member of Gryffindor House. I’ve always looked after you first years, haven’t I? Kept Peeves from dropping tar on you that one time, and—”

“Nick.”

“—and truly, Sir Patrick would have to take me seriously if I arrived with a hero at my side. You’ve no idea how insufferable he’s been—”

“Nick,” Percy snapped, louder this time.

The ghost paused, eyebrows lifting. Percy took a steady breath, trying to keep his voice calm.

“I’m not going.”

Nick blinked at him. “But—surely you don’t mean that. You haven’t even heard the menu! There will be a magnificent display of rotten fish and—”

“Nick, no.”

A flicker of hurt crossed the ghost’s face, but he pressed on, determined. “It is quite short notice, I admit, but surely you could spare an evening? The great Harry Potter honoring my Deathday—why, it would be talked about for centuries—”

Percy’s temper snapped.

“Nick, I’m not going to a party about death,” he said sharply. “I’m not celebrating anything related to death. Especially not tomorrow.”

The ghost froze mid-air, staring at him.

Percy swallowed once. His voice came out harder than he meant it to. “Tomorrow is the day my parents died. I don’t want to spend that night in some freezing room listening to ghosts moan about their deaths. I don’t want to pretend it’s fun. I don’t want to give speeches. I don’t want to be ‘the Great Harry Potter’ for your party. I just… don’t.”

The silence was immediate and heavy.

Nick’s face fell. Truly fell—like all the bitterness from earlier had crumbled under something smaller and more personal. He drifted back several inches, shoulders drooping.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I… see.”

Percy exhaled through his nose, the anger draining but not leaving much behind. He hadn’t wanted to say it like that. But Nick just wouldn’t stop pushing.

“I didn’t mean—” Percy started.

“No, no,” Nick cut in. “Quite understandable. Perfectly reasonable. I should have realized the date, of course. Very inconsiderate of me. My apologies, Harry.”

“Nick—”

But the ghost was already fading backward through the wall, his expression stiff and wounded.

“I shall… leave you be,” he said, voice already muffled through stone.

And then he was gone.

Percy stood alone in the corridor. The faint echo of the ghost’s last words hung in the air before dissolving into the quiet.

A sigh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “Great,” he muttered. “Now I upset a ghost.”

He rubbed his forehead, annoyed with himself. He hadn’t meant to snap, even if Nick had practically cornered him with the invitation.

He turned back toward the hall, deciding to return to the Gryffindor common room before Filch circled back around.