Chapter 4 – The First Lessons
(Block 1)
September deepened, and with it, the rhythm of Hogwarts life began to take shape. Lessons, meals, and late-night studying—or, in most students' cases, late-night gossip—wove into a pattern as familiar as the shifting staircases. But this year, that rhythm faltered. There was something offbeat, something discordant, and it had a name whispered in corridors, written hastily in notes passed under desks:
Percy Jackson, Artemis, and Athena.
The transfer students had not even been at Hogwarts for a fortnight, and already they were the center of gravity around which everything else spun.
Breakfast in the Great Hall
Harry noticed it first at breakfast. The hall was buzzing, plates clattering and owls swooping in with the morning post. Yet half the heads in the room turned, almost in unison, when Percy and his companions entered.
They moved as though the world parted for them, each step deliberate but unforced. Percy in the center, Artemis with her moon-silver hair flowing beside him, Athena on his other side, sharp-eyed and calculating. The three were inseparable, and their closeness stoked Hogwarts' collective envy like tinder to flame.
Seamus muttered through a mouthful of toast, "Look at 'em. Like they're some kind of royalty."
Dean shrugged. "Hard not to notice. Artemis looks like she stepped out of a storybook, and Athena—well, half the Ravenclaws are ready to worship her."
Ron snorted. "Don't forget Percy. Every girl in the school's sighing over him, and every bloke's glaring at him. It's disgusting."
Harry poked at his porridge, trying not to stare too openly. Percy laughed at something Artemis said, the sound rich and effortless. Athena rolled her eyes fondly, and somehow the whole exchange looked natural, unforced—like they'd been together for centuries instead of days.
Hermione's quill was already scratching. She jotted in the margin of her Arithmancy notes, muttering, "Where did they even come from? What school produces students like that?"
Harry didn't answer. He just watched as Percy caught his eye briefly from across the Hall. It wasn't just a glance—it was a weight, a reassurance. For reasons Harry couldn't explain, his chest loosened, and the knot of nervousness he carried every morning faded.
Transfiguration
If McGonagall had been impressed by the trio's aptitude during their Sorting night, she was even more so when teaching them.
"Today we attempt a simple transformation: matchsticks into needles," she announced. Her stern gaze swept the room. "A spell requiring precision, concentration, and patience."
The class bent over their desks, muttering incantations. Harry's matchstick quivered, wobbling uncertainly between wood and silver. Ron's caught fire. Hermione's sharpened at the tip, nearly correct but not perfect.
And then Percy lifted his wand. With a whisper of intent, his matchstick shimmered, lengthened, and reshaped into a flawless silver needle. He turned it idly between his fingers, as though it were a toy.
Artemis followed smoothly, her needle gleaming with a faint lunar sheen, the kind of beauty that made even inanimate objects look enchanted. Athena's transformation was so precise it could have been used in a healer's kit.
The class stared.
McGonagall's lips pursed—not disapproving, but struggling to remain neutral. "Excellent," she said briskly. "Five points to Gryffindor, and…" Her eyes softened, just for a moment. "Remarkable control."
Ron groaned into his desk. "Unbelievable. Even Hermione doesn't look that smug."
Hermione bristled. "I'm not smug, I'm—oh, fine, maybe a little."
But even she couldn't deny the truth: the trio had outpaced them all.
Whispers in the Library
Later that week, Harry found himself in the library with Hermione and Ron. They'd hoped for quiet, but the whispers followed them even here.
"…Athena corrected Binns again. Said his date was off by twenty years."
"…Percy had Quirrell stuttering like a frightened mouse."
"…Artemis hexed a Slytherin who tried to corner her. Elegant, though. Didn't even pull her wand properly."
Ron slammed his book shut. "They don't even have to try, do they? Just waltz in and make everyone else look second-rate."
Hermione frowned. "It isn't that simple, Ron. There's something deliberate about it. Athena, especially. She's not just answering questions—she's directing lessons. Like she's… teaching."
Harry glanced down at his parchment, where his essay sprawled unfinished. He didn't say it aloud, but Hermione's observation gnawed at him. Because when Percy looked at him, Harry didn't feel overshadowed. He felt chosen.
Dumbledore's Growing Irritation
Elsewhere in the castle, Dumbledore sat in his office, a half-eaten lemon drop melting forgotten on his desk. His instruments whirred, their needles twitching erratically. The arrival of the transfer students had unsettled the delicate weave of his plans, and he did not like it.
Harry's development had been carefully plotted: small hardships to build resilience, a guiding hand here and there, enough secrets to push him toward curiosity but not rebellion. And now? Three strangers had bulldozed into his design, capturing the school's attention, Harry's trust, and perhaps something deeper.
Minerva's reports were glowing. Severus's were bitter. Quirrell's had grown increasingly desperate. None of it reassured him.
"Guardians," Dumbledore murmured into the empty air. "But who set them here? And why now?"
The twinkle in his eye dimmed. For once, the great chessmaster did not see all the pieces on the board.