Section I – Whispers in the Alley
The morning drizzle slicked the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, turning every lantern flame into a wavering reflection. The air buzzed with chatter and commerce: owls hooted from crowded cages, goblins barked orders from the bank steps, and children pressed their noses to glass displays of cauldrons and brooms.
And then the street shifted.
Heads turned as Percy stepped into view, Artemis and Athena flanking him like twin stars orbiting his gravity. They wore plain black cloaks, yet the crowd's hum faltered around them. It wasn't their appearance—though Percy's presence was carved with timeless steadiness, Artemis's beauty sharp as silver fire, Athena's gaze keen as polished steel—it was the feeling.
Every witch and wizard who glimpsed them felt something stir at the edge of reason. A thrum of power older than their world, pressing faintly against their chests. Most could not name it, so their minds bent the truth: purebloods, surely. Ancient stock. Old money. The rationalizations tumbled like dominoes.
"Do you know them?" hissed a woman to her husband outside Flourish and Blotts.
"No—but look at how they walk. No hesitation. Definitely an old family."
"Abroad, perhaps. It explains why we've never heard the name."
A group of school-aged girls outside Madam Malkin's gawked openly. One clutched her friend's arm, whispering, "He's with both of them. Did you see? No man I know walks like that unless he knows the world bends for him." The rest dissolved into nervous giggles.
But not all the whispers held awe.
Near the mouth of Knockturn Alley, two boys lounged with practiced arrogance, house crests stitched into their robes. Their laughter faltered when the trio passed. The taller of the two frowned, forcing bravado back into his voice.
"They reek of power, don't they? But no crest I recognize."
"Father will know," the other muttered, though his knuckles whitened on his wand. "And if they think they can parade here without respect, they'll learn different."
Athena's eyes brushed over them once. Calm, unblinking. The boys flinched as though spears of thought had pierced their arrogance, and they looked away too quickly, muttering excuses to themselves.
Even the owls in Eeylops ruffled their feathers uneasily when Artemis passed, silver hair gleaming under the gray sky. One large barn owl let out a sharp screech, only to fall silent when Kaal shifted on a rooftop above, his wings folded close but his presence undeniable. Wizards blinked, unsettled, their minds struggling to register the creature. By the next moment, their thoughts slid away from the truth: a great bird, perhaps—yes, something rare, but still natural.
Percy heard it all: the awe, the envy, the suspicion. He felt how the veil twisted mortal perception, how it bent reality into shapes small enough for their minds to accept. He had worn masks across ages, but never one quite so subtle, so insistent.
He leaned slightly toward his wives as they turned into a quieter side street.
"Do you feel it? The way their eyes slide away from the truth?"
Artemis exhaled sharply. "They look, but they do not see. It's maddening."
Athena's fingers brushed his arm. Her smile was cool, patient. "Better this way. Let them tell their stories. Ancient purebloods, foreign heirs, too rich to be questioned. Every word they whisper strengthens the fiction. Hecate was clever."
Percy's gaze drifted back to the crowd, where children still stared long after they had gone. "Masks always carry weight. I'll bear it. But I won't forget who we are beneath it."
And behind them, Diagon Alley whispered louder and louder. Three strangers, impossibly poised, impossibly powerful, impossibly untouchable. Names unknown—yet already unforgettable.
Section II – Masks and Mirrors
The room at the Leaky Cauldron was dim, its beams heavy with smoke and age. Rain tapped steadily against the windowpanes, the gray afternoon washing London in muted color. Percy leaned against the sill, Artemis sprawled across the narrow bed with her bow unstrung beside her, while Athena sat at the desk, quill in hand.
Parchments lay scattered before her—genealogies, crests, trade records—some lifted from wizarding archives, others conjured with careful precision. Athena's gray eyes gleamed in the lamplight, sharp as blades.
"This world thinks in bloodlines and names," she said, voice even but cutting. "They build thrones from ancestry, not merit. To walk among them unseen, we must give them what they understand—roots older and deeper than their own."
Artemis snorted softly. "So we play their game with their own rules." She rolled onto her side, silver hair spilling across the pillow. "You're enjoying this."
Athena did not deny it. "A story must be watertight. If one wizard doubts, others will pry. The veil Hecate laid on us convinces their eyes, but not their archives. So we seed ourselves into their histories."
Percy crossed the room, glancing over the parchments. "And what does our story say?"
Athena tapped a quill against a family tree curling in ornate ink. "The House of Chronos. Ancient, withdrawn, thought extinct. Its vaults untouched, its estates shuttered since the days before Grindelwald. Few alive would remember the name, and those who do will not risk questioning it. Their arrogance will work in our favor—better to pretend knowledge than admit ignorance."
Artemis's lips curved in amusement. "You invent a ghost family and wear its skin. Fitting."
Athena dipped her quill again. "Not invent. Reconstruct. Every archive has gaps—missing parchments, burnt records, names swallowed by war. I simply… fill the silence with our own voice. By the time the Ministry looks too closely, the story will have sunk into their roots. Old money, old blood. Beyond question."
Percy studied her handiwork: seals pressed with wax, deeds written in archaic script, a crest of an hourglass wreathed in laurels. It was seamless. More than seamless—it was convincing in the way truth itself convinces.
He touched Athena's shoulder, pride softening his voice. "You always did win wars without drawing a sword."
Her lips quirked upward. "Swords are crude. Lies endure longer."
From the bed, Artemis stretched, her bow hand brushing the air. "And what of you and me? What place in this fable do we hold?"
Athena looked up, her expression gentler. "We're his bondmates, of course. Names unfamiliar, origins whispered about. Let them sneer at us for mystery—better contempt than control. Percy is the heir, the unbroken line.We are the companions they cannot dislodge, no matter how hard they try."
Artemis smirked at that. "Let them try."
Percy's gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window, where Kaal sat perched in the gloom, feathers glowing faintly. "So we have masks now. But masks crack under pressure."
Athena's eyes glinted. "Then we let the cracks frighten them."
Outside, the city thrummed with mortal noise, unaware of the storm gathering in its heart. Inside, the three of them leaned closer—Artemis fierce, Athena calculating, Percy steady at their center. And with each word, each forged line of ink, the legend of the House of Chronos took root in wizarding history.
Section III – The House of Chronos
The marble steps of Gringotts gleamed in the summer light as Percy ascended them, Artemis and Athena flanking him with the easy grace of predators disguised as nobility. Behind them, Kaal unfurled his wings, feathers like molten gold tipped with black, a creature so vast he cast half the street in shadow. Wizards stopped mid-stride. Witches gasped. Even the goblin guards outside the great bronze doors stiffened, their black eyes narrowing in awe and something that looked very much like fear.
No one had ever seen a phoenix like this. Not even the whispered name of Fawkes could match the primal presence of Kaal.
Inside, the marble hall fell silent. Every quill stopped scratching, every goblin clerk looked up. Percy's boots echoed as he strode across the floor, and the air seemed to bend around him. Artemis's silver gaze swept the room like moonlight cutting through mist. Athena's composure was colder, sharper — the calm before a storm.
They reached the grand counter. The oldest goblin in sight adjusted his monocle, squinting up at Percy.
"State your business."
Percy's voice rolled out, not loud, but layered with the kind of authority that could bend oceans and still time itself.
"I come to claim the lordship of my House. The House of Chronos."
The hall rippled. Murmurs erupted — goblins whispering in their guttural tongue, clerks fumbling with ledgers. The elder goblin's monocle fell to the desk with a clatter.
"The House of—" He swallowed, visibly shaken. "That House has been sealed since the Founding. No heir—no claim—"
Percy leaned forward, and Kaal let out a cry that shook the chandeliers, a sound deeper and more terrible than fire. It made Fawkes's remembered song seem like the faint piping of a lark.
"I am the heir," Percy said simply. "And I will have what is mine."
Below Gringotts – The Lineage Chamber
The goblins ushered them, not daring to refuse. The air grew colder the deeper they went, past vaults sealed with layers of ancient magic. At last they reached a hall lined with obsidian pillars, runes carved so deep the grooves still shimmered faintly with primordial light.
Upon a plinth of stone sat an artifact: a circlet wrought in black-gold, its centerpiece a fragment of starlight pulsing like a heartbeat.
The goblins fell to their knees. "The circlet of Chronos," one whispered, voice shaking. "Forged before wands, before thrones. A symbol not of wealth… but dominion."
Percy approached, Artemis and Athena close at his side. The circlet lifted at his touch, as though it had been waiting. Runes flared across the chamber, ancient wards bowing to their master. The air itself seemed to pause, suspended in his presence.
Kaal spread his wings, releasing a cry that shattered every last doubt.
The goblins rose trembling, their leader bowing deeply. "Lord Chronos has returned."
Ministry of Magic – The Minister's Office
The news spread faster than floo flames. A phoenix greater than Fawkes. A House older and wealthier than even the Peverells. A lord who claimed bloodlines thought extinguished.
Cornelius Fudge went pale when the report landed on his desk. "This… this changes everything."
Hogwarts – The Headmaster's Office
The silver instruments on Dumbledore's desk whirred uneasily, several shattering outright. Fawkes let out a low, uneasy trill, as though he sensed the greater flame that had entered the world.
Albus Dumbledore steepled his fingers, blue eyes shadowed. A new lord. A powerful one. A boy not yet sorted, not yet under his thumb.
"A new piece has entered the board," he murmured to the empty room. "Perhaps even the most important piece of all."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing with calculation. "I must meet this Percy Chronos. And soon."