Chapter One (continued)
The Gryffindor common room glowed with warmth from the fire, chatter filling the high-ceilinged chamber. First-years collapsed into the soft armchairs, trading nervous laughter. Ron flopped down beside Harry, groaning dramatically.
"Did you see them?" Ron muttered, rubbing his stomach after eating too much treacle tart. "Those three—the transfers. The girls were looking at him like—like—"
"Like what?" Harry asked, curious.
"Like Mum looks at Dad when he's not paying attention," Ron muttered sourly. "Except worse. They're fourth years, Harry! Older than Fred and George. And he still looks like he doesn't care."
Harry smiled faintly, remembering Percy's calm glance at the Feast. He didn't tell Ron how strangely reassured it had made him feel. He didn't want to admit it aloud.
Around them, the older Gryffindors were buzzing too.
"I heard the silver-eyed one hexed a Ravenclaw boy before dinner," a second-year whispered.
"That's not true," another said. "She just glared at him. But it worked anyway."
"Where do you think they came from?" a third chimed in. "Beauxbatons? Durmstrang?"
"No. Too… different. They don't fit."
Harry tucked into bed later with those whispers still circling his mind. He pulled the covers up to his chin, watching shadows dance across the curtains. He thought about Percy's steady sea-green eyes, about Artemis's fierce beauty, Athena's sharp gaze. He didn't know them, yet he sensed they mattered. Somehow, they mattered more than anything else.
In the Slytherin Dungeons
Artemis walked silently at the edge of the Slytherin group, her silver eyes scanning the dungeon's green-lit stone. Pansy Parkinson trailed behind her, muttering to Daphne Greengrass.
"She's too perfect," Pansy hissed.
Daphne tilted her head, watching Artemis glide effortlessly through the hall. "Or too dangerous," she murmured. There was no malice in Daphne's voice—just a flicker of respect.
Draco Malfoy watched too, unsettled. His pride bristled at the way she ignored him completely, as though his name meant nothing. The thought was unbearable.
Artemis said nothing, but inside, she smirked. Mortals never change, she thought. They measure everything against themselves, and jealousy eats them alive.
In the Ravenclaw Tower
Athena settled gracefully into the Ravenclaw dormitory, immediately attracting attention. A pair of prefects tried to make conversation, but she dismantled them with polite precision, asking sharper questions than they could answer.
"Where did you study before Hogwarts?" one asked eagerly.
"Far from here," Athena replied simply. Her smile was soft, but her eyes warned them not to press.
As they retreated, whispering, she gazed out the arched window toward the stars. Her thoughts strayed not to her House, but to Percy. Always to Percy.
In the Gryffindor Dorms
Up in the fourth-year boys' dormitory, Percy sat on his bed, seemingly relaxed. But when the curtains closed, the casual mask dropped.
He summoned Artemis and Athena with a flick of his will. Time slowed, the air shimmered, and within a heartbeat, they were with him—though to any other eye, they would have been in their separate dorms still.
The three of them sank into each other's presence like a river finding its course. Percy reached for Artemis first, his thumb brushing the curve of her wrist, then for Athena, his hand sliding into hers. Their closeness was wordless, necessary. Hogwarts would see only fragments, but in private, they needed no disguises.
Artemis leaned against him, her silver eyes softer now. Athena brushed her lips against his temple, murmuring, "You felt it too? The boy?"
Percy nodded, his expression shifting. "Harry Potter." His voice carried a weight beyond the name. "The prophecy burns around him. And we're here to see it through."
Artemis frowned. "Dumbledore has schemes. He won't welcome interference."
"Voldemort has fears," Percy countered quietly. "And he should."
Athena pressed closer, resting her head on his shoulder. "Then we'll stand where we must. And no one will break him—not Harry, not you."
For a long while, they simply sat together, bodies close, hands entwined, a trinity of quiet strength. Outside, time moved forward again.
The Headmaster's Office
Far above the dormitories, Dumbledore sat at his desk, the golden light of his lamp spilling over a pile of parchments. His fingers tapped against the wood, irritation hidden beneath the usual twinkle of his eyes.
He had expected this year to be predictable. Guide Harry slowly, carefully. Keep him curious but pliant. The boy would move along the board like a pawn toward his destiny.
But now—three variables had entered the game. Strong, strange, untraceable. Even the Sorting Hat had been unsettled. Dumbledore did not like unsettled pieces.
He leaned back in his chair, murmuring aloud. "You do not belong here, do you? Yet here you are."
Fawkes stirred in his perch, feathers rustling.
Dumbledore sighed. He would watch. He would wait. But already he felt his carefully laid plans fraying. And Albus Dumbledore despised losing control.