Chapter One (continued)
The Sorting ended, the food appeared, and conversation surged like a tide. First-years marveled at the dishes, upper years whispered in groups, and yet again, eyes kept flicking toward the three transfer students.
At the Gryffindor table, Percy sat calm, unbothered by the attention. A pair of fifth-year girls whispered openly, giggling behind their hands whenever he reached for a platter of roast chicken. At the Ravenclaw table, boys leaned in toward Athena, testing small jokes and clever questions, but she dismissed them with little more than a polite smile. Over at the Slytherin table, Artemis had already built an invisible moat around herself—every boy who tried to strike up conversation faltered at the cold edge of her silver gaze.
And yet despite the distance, all three found each other across the hall. Percy would glance up from pouring pumpkin juice, his eyes finding Artemis's. A corner of his mouth would quirk, and her mask of ice would melt just enough to show the flicker of a smile. Athena tilted her head at the same moment, a silent language passing between them.
The effect did not go unnoticed.
Seamus Finnigan elbowed Dean Thomas, whispering, "They're not just friends, are they?"
Dean raised his brows. "No chance. Did you see the way she looked at him? That's—"
"Jealousy?" Seamus cut in with a grin.
"More like murder," Dean muttered, watching a Ravenclaw boy retreat after Athena coolly dismantled his attempt at flattery.
Across the hall, Draco Malfoy scowled into his goblet. The sight of two breathtaking girls revolving around that one smug Gryffindor was insufferable. Crabbe and Goyle were whispering about it too, though Draco pretended not to hear.
Even Professor Snape, seated at the staff table, allowed himself a curl of lip. His black eyes flicked toward Percy, who sat tall and unbothered, the flickering candlelight catching in those strange sea-green eyes. Snape's sneer deepened. There was something about that boy—too confident, too at ease. It grated. And worse, the way the girls leaned toward him. Snape muttered something under his breath and reached for the wine.
Dumbledore alone seemed unreadable, though Harry—watching him for a moment—noticed the faintest crease at the corners of his eyes. Almost frustration.
Somewhere Else
Far from Hogwarts, deep in a damp forest clearing where a ruined house lay in silence, a shade stirred.
Voldemort's form was not what it once was, but his mind remained sharp, cruel, and alert. He had grown used to whispers from his followers of "changes" at the school, of strange presences. Tonight, as the Sorting Feast ended miles away, he shuddered.
It was not cold.
It was them.
He couldn't name them yet, but he felt their arrival as though a new constellation had burned itself into the sky. Three presences—bright, ancient, suffocating. They tore through the shadows he had carefully spun around Hogwarts.
The boy—Harry Potter—was supposed to be vulnerable. Dumbledore was supposed to mold him, keep him half-safe, half-broken, until the time came. But now… now something shifted.
Voldemort hissed, clawing at the damp earth. He remembered the green-eyed boy most clearly, though he had not seen him with mortal eyes. That boy's aura pressed against his soul like a tidal wave. And the two girls beside him were no less dangerous—moonlight and storm, wisdom and silence.
"They do not belong to this world," Voldemort whispered to himself. "And yet they walk it."
The thought unsettled him in a way nothing had in decades.
Fear was not a language Voldemort tolerated in himself. Yet he could not banish it entirely. These three did not just threaten his plans. They unmade them. If they were truly enemies, every scheme he had crafted to return, every fragment of soul he had hidden, would come undone before he could act.
And so he hissed into the night, a vow carried on the cold air.
"Whoever they are, they will fall. Potter belongs to me. Hogwarts belongs to me."
But even as he said it, his body quivered with a tremor of unease he despised.
Back at Hogwarts
The Feast ended. Percy rose with the Gryffindors, his long stride measured, unconcerned. Artemis moved with the Slytherins, her silver gaze skimming over students who dared to meet it. Athena joined the Ravenclaws, her sharp eyes already memorizing the twists of staircases and corridors.
And still, though separated by House, the three brushed shoulders as they passed in the crowd—Percy's hand brushing Artemis's as they crossed paths, Athena's arm briefly linking with his before vanishing again into her group.
The first-years saw it. The fourth-years saw it. Everyone saw it.
And envy burned hotter than the candles.
Harry climbed the Gryffindor tower behind Percy, Ron stumbling along beside him. Ron muttered something about "bloody perfect transfers," but Harry wasn't listening. He thought instead of the way Percy had looked at him during the Sorting—a small smile, but steady, protective.
It was the first time in his life Harry felt that someone was there for him without question.
He didn't know why. He didn't know who Percy Jackson really was. But something told him he would find out.