The doors of Gringotts had barely closed behind Percy when the street outside erupted into whispers. Wizards jostled for a better view of the towering phoenix, merchants craned their necks, and even the goblin guards had abandoned their usual disdain for a kind of wary reverence.
Kaal sat like a living bonfire on the marble steps, vast wings folded, golden-black flames licking the air. Artemis and Athena flanked Percy, silver and gray eyes daring anyone to approach.
And approach someone did.
With a flash of emerald fire in the nearest Floo, Albus Dumbledore stepped into the street. His robes shimmered faintly with protective enchantments, his silver beard flowing like a banner. Gasps rippled through the crowd—two legends had arrived, and the collision was inevitable.
"Lord Chronos," Dumbledore greeted, voice smooth, genial, but pitched to carry. "A most remarkable revelation."
Percy met his gaze without bowing, without even the faintest sign of deference. "Headmaster."
The word was neither insult nor honor. Merely flat acknowledgment, a stone dropped in a well.
Dumbledore's smile did not falter, but the lines around his eyes tightened. "I had hoped we might speak. You must understand, a new lord's return—particularly one from a House so… storied—will cause ripples in our delicate society. It is best we discuss how to… guide them."
"Guide?" Athena's tone was like sharpened steel.
Dumbledore turned his gaze on her politely, as though on a particularly clever student, and then back to Percy. "A boy of your age, even one of wealth and… rare companions, may find himself overwhelmed. The world of magic is treacherous. There are those who would seek to use you."
The irony of the words did not escape Artemis. She smirked openly.
Percy's expression, however, remained calm. "And you are here to protect me from such dangers?"
"To advise," Dumbledore corrected, though his smile was tighter now. "To ensure your strength serves the greater good, rather than—"
The air changed.
It was subtle at first—a sudden stillness, as though London itself had stopped to listen. Then the clouds above shifted, darkening unnaturally, their edges lit by streaks of silver fire. The cobblestones beneath their feet trembled, tiny cracks spiderwebbing outward.
Percy raised a hand. Without wand, without word, the air filled with the scent of ozone and sea-salt. Flames licked the edges of reality, not from Kaal, but from Percy himself. And when he closed his hand, the earth beneath Dumbledore's boots split with a low, grinding sound.
The Headmaster's composure wavered, only for a heartbeat. His fingers twitched toward his wand.
"You wield… elemental magic," he said carefully. "Without a focus."
Percy's gaze sharpened. "I wield what is mine. And I need no wood or stone to command it."
As if to punctuate the statement, a figure rose from the crack in the cobblestones—a ghostly warrior in full armor, eyes hollow but burning, summoned from the veil of death itself. It knelt silently at Percy's feet, awaiting command.
Gasps broke from the crowd. Someone screamed. Even the goblins at the door shifted uneasily.
Dumbledore stared at the specter, his own vast knowledge of necromancy—the forbidden corners of it—rushing forward. He knew what he was seeing. And it terrified him.
"You walk paths," Dumbledore said slowly, "that even the darkest of wizards dare not tread."
Percy stepped closer, shadows and starlight bending around him. "Do not mistake me for them. I am not your Tom Riddle. I am not your pawn. If you think to intimidate me, Headmaster, think again. Your games end at my feet."
For the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore felt old. Powerless, even. He prided himself on knowing more than any wizard alive—every rune, every spell, every current of the magical world. But what stood before him was something beyond books, beyond prophecy, beyond him.
He forced a genial smile back onto his face, but it did not reach his eyes. "Then I see we have much to learn from one another, Lord Chronos."
Percy simply turned, Artemis and Athena falling into step beside him, Kaal's wings brushing the air like thunderclouds. They left Dumbledore standing alone in the street, surrounded by whispers, his thoughts darker than he would ever admit aloud.
And for the first time in many years, the great Albus Dumbledore feared.
The fire in Dumbledore's office burned low, throwing long shadows across the stone walls. The silver instruments that cluttered every surface were restless tonight—clicking, spinning, whirring in uneven patterns as if disturbed by a force they could not measure.
Fawkes sat on his golden perch, feathers dimmed, eyes unusually wary. He had sung joy into this chamber through countless storms, yet tonight even he seemed subdued.
Dumbledore sat at his desk, hands steepled, mind circling the images etched into memory.
Percy Chronos—young, unreadable, power curling around him like a storm given flesh. Necromancy at his fingertips, elemental force bound to his breath. It was enough to trouble any wizard alive.
But it was not Percy alone that haunted him. It was the bird.
Kaal.
The phoenix had descended with him, greater and more terrible than any songbird of flame should be. Vast wings spanning the street, black-gold fire licking the air, a cry that made glass tremble and marrow shake. A creature older, hungrier, prouder than even Fawkes.
Dumbledore's gaze drifted to his own companion. Fawkes preened uneasily under the weight of that thought, his usual warm brilliance dim, his eyes shadowed.
He remembered the sound of Kaal's cry—nothing like the healing tones of his own phoenix. It was not a song of comfort, but of dominion. The note of inevitability, of time's passing. Even Albus, with all his wisdom, had felt smaller in its echo.
His lips pressed thin. Phoenixes were symbols of rebirth, of renewal, of hope. They did not belong to boys of fourteen. They did not appear at random. They chose wizards of great destiny and rarer soul.
Yet this one had come for Percy—and was more majestic, more powerful, than Fawkes himself.
What did that say of the boy?
Fawkes gave a quiet, melancholy trill, as if in response to the thought. Dumbledore stroked his feathers absently. "You feel it too, my friend. He is not merely another wizard with another bird. He is something else entirely. And the world will see it, just as I did."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing. "The House of Chronos alone is enough to alter the tides of politics. But a phoenix like that—greater than any our world has known—that will make him a legend before he lifts a wand in class."
A muscle worked in his jaw. "And legends are not so easily controlled."
For the first time in many years, Dumbledore felt a sliver of bitterness creep into his chest. Fawkes had been his constant companion, his proof that he still walked the path of light. Yet beside Kaal, even Fawkes had looked diminished, and that wounded him more than he cared to admit.
He shut his eyes briefly. The boy. The phoenix. The name. Each one alone could shift the balance of power. Together… they could eclipse him.
And Albus Dumbledore could not allow that.
The candles guttered low as midnight sank into the castle. Dumbledore remained at his desk, though the parchment before him lay untouched. His mind chased questions he could not answer.
Not just the boy. The companions.
They had stood beside Percy as equals—no simpering courtiers, no grateful followers. Their presence had been unnerving, not because they deferred to him, but because they did not. Their strength hummed beneath their skin, obvious even without displays of magic. And their eyes…
Dumbledore remembered the silver fire of one, the cool storm-gray of the other. Fierce. Intelligent. Possessive.
Mates.
The thought had unsettled him more than he liked to admit. The wizarding world had seen scandals before—May–December romances, half-veela dalliances, even the occasional same-sex bond whispered about in drawing rooms. But never this. Never a boy of fourteen openly entwined with two companions of equal power, unashamed, unhidden.
It was destabilizing.
The pure-blood families, with all their fragile pride, would bristle. Marriage was their currency, alliances their lifeblood. To see one so young, so unyielding, tie himself in a threefold bond outside their control… it would unravel centuries of expectation.
And yet, perhaps that was the key.
Dumbledore's fingers drummed against the wood. If the companions were bound by affection—or infatuation—then they might be vulnerable to persuasion. Affection could sour. Bonds could strain. If Percy was too proud to bend, perhaps his mates could be swayed.
He imagined them isolated from him, folded gently into his own orbit, convinced of the righteousness of the cause. Two young women of rare talent, guided to see that the greater good lay not in following a boy's reckless power, but in tempering it.
Perhaps they were manipulating him already. Perhaps their bond was no accident.
That thought eased him. Yes. It was safer to believe the boy had been ensnared, rather than born with such alien certainty. If Percy could not be swayed, maybe he could be… rescued. Drawn away from the web of these companions who whispered in his ear.
Fawkes shifted uneasily on his perch. Dumbledore looked up, meeting the phoenix's steady eyes. "Do not look at me so, old friend. You know what must be done. If they remain by his side, their influence will spread like wildfire. He will not need me. He will not need anyone."
He leaned back, gaze distant. "But if they can be… separated, if they can be shown a better path, perhaps all three might yet serve the light. For the greater good."
The words rang hollow in the silence. Yet Albus Dumbledore clung to them like a man clutching driftwood in a storm.
The quill scratched across parchment, its movement unhurried, elegant, deliberate. Dumbledore rarely wrote his own letters—so many duties, so many missives better left to secretaries and owls—but tonight, the words required his hand.
The first was addressed to Molly Weasley.
Molly was dependable, loyal, and above all else, unshakably faithful to his cause. Her family's poverty made them pliable; their reverence for his name, absolute. She would read his hints as commands, even when couched in kindness.
"… It is all the more important, Molly, that Harry remains surrounded by good influence, steady friendships, and guidance from those of sound judgment. The world can be a confusing place, and new faces, particularly ones who draw attention, must not be allowed to overshadow what truly matters…"
The second, to Amelia Bones, was written with a lighter hand, cloaked in diplomacy. He suggested vigilance, hinted at "unknown influences," and wrapped the entire message in concern for law and order. Amelia was sharp, harder to sway, but even she could be guided if her fears were nudged in the right direction.
Then came the faculty. Minerva would resist gossip, but even she could not ignore oddities in her House. Snape, though slippery, might find his ambitions tested against a boy who radiated wealth and independence. Hagrid would fawn, but Hagrid fawned over anything extraordinary.
Dumbledore paused, tapping the quill against his chin.
And then, the Ministry.
Fudge was the simplest of them all. A fool dressed in power. Dumbledore would feed his insecurity, suggest meetings, "oversight," the illusion of importance. The Minister would preen at the thought of restraining a young lord, never realizing who was pulling his strings.
The letters stacked neatly in front of him, each a strand of a web. Each small, harmless-seeming suggestion would ripple outward. Gossip would stir. Suspicion would spread. The companions would be tested, their bond questioned. Percy would feel the weight of scrutiny, the subtle pressure to bend, to accept guidance.
He set down the quill at last, flexing his fingers.
It was not enough, not yet. The boy was strong—too strong. To confront him outright would be folly. But to surround him with nets, to bind him with threads invisible until too late… that, perhaps, was possible.
Fawkes shifted on his perch, letting out a soft, uncertain note.
Dumbledore's eyes hardened. "You disapprove. I know."
He stood, the letters vanishing with a wave of his hand, whisked away to owls waiting in the tower. "But we cannot allow a boy—any boy—to unmake what has taken centuries to build. If Percy Chronos will not walk in step with us, then he must walk in chains he cannot see."
The words hung in the air, heavy, unyielding.