Surprise!

. . .

There was a single moment in which Hermione found herself fearing Percy. It wasn't so much fearing the boy himself, but more so his actions toward whoever had triggered the anger and sorrow rolling off of him in waves. She watched as he gripped the sides of his shirt tightly. Only when she looked closely did she realize her mistake.

He wasn't angry. No, he was terrified. The child in him—the child that didn't get to live for very long, Hermione allows the brief thought—was trying to crawl his way out of this adult-Percy. Now that she knew exactly what to look for, Hermione could feel it within herself, an echo of that twisted gut feeling one gets when succumbing to an emotion as strong as she's sure Percy is feeling right now. Somehow, somehow, Hermione just knows that if Percy would allow himself to, he'd be hyperventilating.

And so she stands, all blazing fire crackling with warmth, hidden and warped by the image of frail bones and auburn tresses, her eyes the only part of her that tells the tale of her strength, wisdom, and determination.

Her slim fingers slide over Percy's white knuckles, their devotion and patience softly coaxing them to yawn awake until they ultimately lie awake and useless on each side of Percy. He sighs, his hand reaching out desperately and latching onto Hermione's hand, the whole exchange remaining unseen by the other occupants of the room.

Oddly enough, Hermione feels a sense of satisfaction and pride when Percy subtly leans into her side, seeking strength.

Ron is the one to break through her thoughts, and embarrassingly, Hermione can't help the small jolt that shoots through her body as she flushes and reflexively let's go of Percy's hand. The change within the both of them is noticeable only to them—their own little secret, Percy would tease—as Percy straightens his back and smooths invisible wrinkles in his shirt. Hermione curses herself for virtually kicking Percy to the curb for her friend. She awkwardly shuffles a few inches to her right, away from Percy, closer to Harry and Ron. Out of habit her arm stiffly reaches up to tuck some of her curls behind her ear.

"So, now what?"

"The answer is pretty obvious, Ron," she says through the forming lump in her throat. She makes sure to throw in her signature eye roll to ease herself back into her old self. "We continue classes and to study, unless Dumbledore says otherwise, of course."

She didn't want to acknowledge Percy's never-ending gaze fixated on her.

Didn't even want to see his soft smile (for her).

. . .

"You were wrong."

Dumbledore simply raises a brow, lips fighting their way up. "Oh? Well, that's a first."

Percy pushes himself off the wall he had rested against, labored breath easily audible across the room. "Mhm," he hums, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets, giving him a slumped form.

Dumbledore easily and quietly notes the veins surfacing in the young boy's forearms, muscles tense and chest heaving beneath his loose shirt. He allows his eyes to flicker up to Percy's split lip, one of his eyes dilated concerningly. He seems... defeated. Dumbledore hums a response, a 'do tell' tone to it.

"I haven't reached the bottom, Professor Dumbledore." And oh, this visit makes sense now. He releases a breath of recognition. He should have figured this topic would arise again, really. He can't help but chuckle. Oh, how he's grateful that of all things, this is what he was wrong of.

He watches as Percy begins to walk away, a slight limp in his walk. If he didn't know any better, Dumbledore would think this boy led a perfectly normal life; normal sport injuries, normal parents and a normal school to attend. But—there's a reason he chose him to guide Harry and his friends, isn't there?

"The truth is, professor, you never stop falling."

Ah, that's why. Dumbledore looks on as Percy straightens himself. Hands removed themselves from their casual home within his pockets and now stand at attention to his sides, his stride wide and confident, chin held up high. His eyes ablaze with a fire only he possesses, shoulders strong and broad, face expressionless and stature unrevealing.

Dumbledore looks on as the God of War walks out of his office.

There's a reason why he chose him to guide Harry and his friends, after all.

. . .

"We knew each other when we were younger." It's plain, it's simple. It's right to the point. Hermione almost cringes at her forwardness.

Percy simply nods.

They're sitting side by side on the couch, watching the fire lick the logs hungrily. His arm is hanging loosely around her shoulder, her head resting in the crook of his neck. Annabeth and Thalia are out calling in the rest of Percy's team. Ron and Harry have retired to their beds.

But Hermione could not forget the image of the shell she had pulled out of Percy's pocket. And Percy's playing with her fingers as he comes up with his response and—

"I liked you even then, you know."

—he shouldn't do that. It does things to Hermione, and she's fifteen! She is not some lovesick teenage girl who fawns over the slightest of things. She harrumphs at his stubbornness. He's the one who insisted they don't pursue anything. But that's not the point being discussed, at any rate. What's being discussed is that he knew and he didn't say anything. She turns her head to breathe in his scent: salty like the sea but calming like a stream, entrancing and alluring just like the beach.

"Well why didn't you say anything?"

She wonders briefly if this is what it feels like to be consumed by fire. She watches as his long fingers wrap around her hand, like the fire does the logs. Watches as her hand, like her heart, is consumed entirely by him—his name burning into her skin wherever he touches, but she doesn't bleed red as one would suspect. Rather, she heals a healthy pink color. His movements are elegant and calculated. She doesn't know if he's aware of this hypnotizing factor. She almost forgets she's asked a question until he responds with that soft, private voice he's reserved just for her.

Hermione secretly finds herself loving it.

"I didn't think you remembered me, or wanted to at most. I don't know," he shrugs with a single shoulder, mindful of Hermione, as always. Her presence has always brought a pleasant warmth to his skin. "Either way, I didn't want your previous opinion of me to…somehow, warp? Yeah, warp the way you think of me. I may have been all smiles and innocence then, but it's been seven years. We've both matured since. I also didn't want to get myself stuck as being viewed as a friend or best friend forever by you."

She can't help but wrap her arms around his bicep at that. Awkwardly, she presses a kiss to the skin beneath her lips. She smiles to herself at the familiarity of it. When she allows her thoughts to drift back to the topic at hand, she sighs.

"But Percy, I believe I had the right to know, did I not? How long have you known?"

"A month, at most."

After a playful punch to his shoulder, Hermione and Percy officially catch up with one another, free and without the burden of their reality weighing on their shoulders, even if just for tonight. When Hermione leans in for a kiss, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and words slurring together, Percy leans back.

"I'm sorry," is what he says. He wraps a sleeping Hermione in a blanket and carries her to her dorm, pressing a kiss to her forehead before one of the girls take her from his arms, "maybe in another lifetime."

. . .

"Today, we celebrate the victory of Harry Potter. His triumph, however, did not come without a high cost. The Ministry of Magic, does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so—either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Harry Potter and his fellow Champions faced anything less of a threat than the Dark Lord himself is an insult to their memory—to their performance and bravery showed here this year during the Triwizard Tournament. Let it be known that we are living in dangerous times. Now, the fear we all feel at this dreadful news reminds me, and, reminds us, that though we may come from different countries and speak in different tongues, our hearts beat as one. In light of the recent events, the bonds of friendship made this year will be more important than ever. Remember that, and Harry Potter and Perseus Jackson's sacrifices will not be in vain. Remember that, and together, we will be able to reach heights and become stronger together than we will divided."

. . .

"To Percy!"

Percy laughed along with his friends, raising his glass of butterbeer to clink it against his companions', the drink sloshing within its confinement. He downed his sixth drink of the night, at peace with his friends.

The pleasant warmth the drink offered as it slithered down his throat and into his stomach was welcomed with a quiet hum of satisfaction. He allowed his eyes to close as a feeling of relaxation engulfed him. He watched as Clarisse taunted Will into a game of pool, slightly surprised to find a muggle form of entertainment in a wizard-orientated pub. Then again, knowing Clarisse, she probably conjured one on her own.

He sighed, missing the familiarity of this. It had been a while since he and his group had been together. After the news of his father's return Thalia had been the one to suggest a visit to Hog's Head. He had readily agreed. Whenever he was with his group, he felt at home. There was always this warmth that surrounded him whenever he was with them, a kind of warmth usually associated with family. These were the people, the only people, who have and will always understand him, fight with him—fight for him. He had been with them since the young age of ten, had even been the one to train the twins. These are the people he'll always fight for, the people he will always protect and care for. He waved the barman over. "Can I get a chocolate liqueur, please?" with a grunt, the bartender is gone.

An hour later, he's evolved to drinking water. After his tenth drink of the night he had decided to cut himself off, though his jumping nerves made him want to down a good serving of rum. His eyes danced back and forth, from clock to clock to watch to clock again. Thalia had already stopped by more than once to help him out, but nothing could distract him. He glances again at his watch. It's almost five minutes after—

"I'll have a butterbeer."

. . .

"Things won't be the same, will they?"

"Nope."

. . .

Two years ago:

He could feel the warmth seeping from his body into the cold ground of the forest. He listened as rain pelted down and exploded on fallen leaves or splashed down onto the ground.

He was alone.

He waited. He waited for what felt like days, his skin turning as pale as parchment paper. Despite the great pain it caused him, he smiled.

Parchment paper.

He would miss his wife's baking, would miss the eating competitions held between him and his son. He would miss the warmth on the other side of the bed emitting from his love. He would miss the days spent laughing and smiling together as a family, just him, his wife, and their son.

He would miss it all in the time to come.

He chuckled as he heard a voice in the distance, the sound of a man calling out his name. He called out the man's name, laying still as the spell continued its hold on his body.

A lithe shadow towered over his body, power emitting from the man standing before him. He sighed at the sight of the man, then breathed in relief when the man waved his wand, freeing him from the spell paralyzing his body. The man pulled him up to his feet.

"Are you ready, brother?"

Poseidon slumped against the man, his arm around his brother's shoulders in an effort to hold himself up. He nodded.

"Good," Hades began to drag him forward, "as of today, you are a dead man. I do hope you got your affairs settled, brother, I would hate to see my favorite nephew and his mother suffer more than they have to."

"Yes, brother. As would I," Poseidon sighed.

"Are you ready, brother?"

"Yes."

"Good," Hades began to walk them over to a tree, aiming for the shadow resting against it, "as of today, you are no longer Poseidon Jackson."

Poseidon raises an eyebrow, "oh?"

"As of today, brother, you and I are once again Poseidon and Hades Riddle, sons of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Are you ready, brother?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let's begin."

Together, the two surged into a shadow, fading, neither seen or heard of again.

The brothers sought to finish what they had started all those years ago in all efforts to lift the burden from their children.

They would be unsuccessful and return two years later.

. . .