Chapter 9 - Hic Sunt Monstra
A/N: Hello!
I've decided I won't be responding to reviews and the like on chapters any more, 'cause it clutters up the page and it can get really boring for those who don't like that kind of thing.
If I haven't sent a response to your feedback and you'd like one, I'm very sorry I haven't done so, and I will if you point it out.
But seriously, guys, thanks. I don't deserve all that praise, let alone the loyalty of so many fantastic readers. Yes, Seaweed Princess Of The Fandom, I'm looking at you.
Here you go, then.
Describe, as fully as you can, the effects of powdered moonstone in the Wolfsbane potion. How different and/or preferable is it to the use of aconite?
Nico tapped the end of his quill against the blank parchment in front of him and sighed, blowing out air through puffed cheeks.
What was the point in this? When was an anti-werewolf potion going to help them out anyway? The very thought of Lycaon and his vicious followers was enough to turn Nico's stomach. He remembered the stench of rank meat that followed the wolves at every step they took; their rancid breath, hot and heavy; their emaciated, hungry faces pierced by eyes as glowing as the silver orb that was the trigger to their curse. The thought that a potion had been invented by wizards to, as it were, tame the wolf during the transformation was probably supposed to be reassuring, but Nico had seen lycanthropes in full action when it was nowhere near the full moon. Aconite, Wolfsbane and moonstone be damned, werewolves weren't going to be sedated with a few mouthfuls of magical fluid.
It was a few seconds before Nico noticed that the tapping of his quill was attracting unwanted attention. Half of the student content of the Slytherin common room was glaring at him silently, either in irritation or mild surprise. After all, how dare he disturb the absolute stillness and tranquillity required by the high and mighty of Slytherin House, and, by extension, the elite of Hogwarts herself? He, a lowly (professed) half-blood, defy the orders of the likes of Malfoy, Runcorn and Rosier?
Were Nico anywhere else in Hogwarts or the outer world, heavy sarcasm would have laced those thoughts as they crossed his mind. However, having spent several hours in his rightful common room with his housemates, he was crucially aware that in Slytherin House personal beliefs became politics, and politics became policies. Anyone who thought differently from the majority either had to prove their moral/political superiority to their peers, or be shunned and mocked until Tartarus froze over. Having been there, Nico could assert that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
Of course, since their House's snaky bastard patron had been rather convinced of pure-blooded wizards' general superiority over the rest of humanity, any diverging opinions stood about as much chance of flourishing as Demeter had of convincing Nico to eat wholemeal bread (he barely had the appetite to manage the white as it was). So far, the ruling belief, and thus attitude, of Slytherin House was that muggle-borns were inferior and unworthy of studying magic; magic itself was gradually disappearing from noble, pure-bred families; magic was thus becoming impossibly precious, and evidently the only persons privileged to use and delve into it had to be of ideal genealogical disposition.
So Malfoy and his cronies had tried to impress on the dark, quiet, observant new fifth-year who had yet to declare any political affiliations. A rare thing in Slytherin, for students sorted there, under peer pressure, usually declared who their parents were within seconds. The first thing that had made him stand out to his classmates was his reaction to Malfoy's drawling inquiry as to who his 'people' were and what position they had in the Ministry, which received an unimpressed raised eyebrow and precisely no verbal response from Nico himself.
Nevertheless, in the past couple of weeks Nico had learned much. Among other things (such as giving the hormonal seventh-year male prefect a wide berth if one wished to keep their facial features normal) this included not outwardly disagreeing with the Slytherin élite (or at least not blatantly). Slytherin spats and quarrels, he had learned, were not uncivilised affairs of exchanged insults, outbursts of temper or, heaven forbid, physical blows. No, Slytherins were expected to sort out disagreements between themselves using more refined talents, such as the undermining of an opponent, the invoking of powerful family members, reminders of familial wealth, and always, always the power of one such other who would be delighted to uphold the honour of the accused.
In short, arguments weren't duels, they well full-out battles laid out by the two opposing sides, each manoeuvre planned and executed like moves on a chessboard - only with considerably less gallantry, despite the cold mask of courtesy and formality upheld by nearly all Slytherin students in fourth-year and above.
Thus, when Nico met the narrowed gaze of Draco Malfoy, the former was certain he was in for something a bit more than hurling snipes and dodging insults.
He dropped his quill and pushed the blank parchment away from him, eyeing the boy in the way he knew unnerved a lot of people. He knew what was coming; he'd seen this game before. Three days ago, sixth-year Edmond Rosier had strutted into the common room and thrown a copy of the Daily Prophet into Malfoy's lap, open at an article which, they had learned, laid heavy doubts on the legitimacy of Lord Malfoy Senior's claims to certain company shares within the Ministry. Through silky phrases of fake empathy over thinly-veiled glee, Rosier had made it clear his own father had played a role in humiliating the Malfoy family.
Draco Malfoy had picked up the paper with controlled disgust, glanced at the signature under the article, then scoffed and threw the copy into the fire.
"You should conduct your research a lot more carefully next time, Rosier." he'd called out, settling back into the divan and closing his eyes. "My father doesn't own shares. He owns companies."
"Companies with barely a claim to legality." Rosier had shot back, waggling another copy of the newspaper at Malfoy and jabbing at the article.
Malfoy's head turned to face Rosier.
"Yes," his voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I'd expect you'd know the difference, wouldn't you? Tell me, Edmond, how's your father's entreprise going? Still importing dried Veela skin and powdered Mermaid scales?"
Rosier's fists had clenched, the one Nico could see closed so tight the knuckles were threatening to pop out.
Malfoy lazily waved his wand, and a book shot out of his black leather satchel before landing squarely in his hand. There was complete silence in the room as Malfoy leafed through the pages at a languid pace, finally hitting the passage he wanted a few moments later. Despite the blond boy's relaxed attitude, the entire response had taken only a few seconds, and Rosier had not yet found a way to hit back.
"Ah." Malfoy said, just as quietly. "Veela. Says here they're humanoid creatures, and therefore protected everywhere in Europe. And...let's see - yes, Mermaids. Declared as sentient, powerfully magical creatures with strong resemblance to human mentality. Equally protected." The cold grey eyes swivelled to Rosier's glaring features. "Seems legality is a charge neither you nor your father should risk pressing, Edmond, unless you've found a rogue branch of part-humans in Asia and convinced the Ministry to allow imports of dried parts of their anatomy."
The verbal exchange had stopped there, leaving Rosier in white-lipped fury and Malfoy smugly returning to closing his eyes, but the quarrel was by no means over. The sensitive information concerning Rosier Senior's business, so carelessly revealed by Malfoy, was very clearly not meant to be public knowledge, and a clear warning and reminder of the Malfoy patriarch's omniscience in business circles. Warning, it later transpired, which Rosier decided to ignore it as best as he could.
The next few days had been marked by a number of strange occurrences that no-one could concretely trace back to anyone else, and yet happen they certainly did.
At breakfast, Rosier received a note from the family lawyer, informing him of his father's temporary arrest in view of several serious accusations concerning the morality of certain aspects of his work. The same morning, Malfoy's usual spot on the Slytherin table was flooded with dozens of owls, all shrieking and flapping and holding out legs to deliver a great variety of envelopes that all shared the common trait of being on the verge of exploding, which they did as soon as anyone touched them. Malfoy and his cronies had to be excused from their first lesson to have mild burns and scorches treated by the school's mediwitch, Madam Pomfrey.
Such was Nico's first experience of Howlers.
Soon after, Malfoy found himself unable to talk every time a teacher picked him to answer a question. Curiously, Rosier struggled with a brief spell of incontinence on the same day, leading to hoots of laughter, several missed lessons and the sudden drifting of Rosier's friends towards other circles, including Malfoy's.
Then, once tension had died down for an hour or two, both Crabbe and Goyle mysteriously contracted purple boils on their faces, limbs, and - rumour had it - nether regions. This rendered flanking Malfoy while walking around the castle and looking menacing a very difficult thing to do, seeing as - if rumour were consulted once more - the boils were prone to bursting. Malfoy was then of course obliged to walk the long corridors of Hogwarts alone, which revealed a certain propensity on his part for tripping over air, falling down stairs and slipping in muddy puddles.
Finally, over dinner on the third day, matters had been settled. A still-flushed Rosier shook hands with a bruised Malfoy, and Slytherin House could breathe freely again (Crabbe and Goyle's boils had the added disadvantage of dissipating a nauseous smell when they ruptured).
Memories of the recent disagreement crossed Nico's mind during his glaring match with the young Malfoy heir. He wasn't by any means frightened of the jumped-up little aristocrat, but he had seen what he could do, and more to the point, howhe did it without leaving evidence of his involvement.
Not that Nico needed proof in any way. He wasn't about to go tattling to a teacher about the nasty kids who'd been mean to him, but he needed to be careful nonetheless. The pranks and petty acts of revenge exacted between opponents were just that: petty. But they were of a kind Nico had never dealt with before. He was used to sword-fighting, monster attacks and full-front charging on the enemy, not shadowy deals and promises or back-stabbing. This was new territory, and one he would never have imagined he had an ability for except for one thing that kept niggling him whenever he tried to mix more within Slytherin: the Hat had put him here for a reason.
He wasn't that ambitious. Of that, he was quite sure of. No. Nico could be cunning, deceitful, unpredictable. Of all the demigods at Hogwarts, Nico suspected he was the one who found it easiest to hide his true identity. All his life, he'd avoided people and their questions, he'd taken care to hide his thoughts and feelings from the world, kept his own judgement when it mattered and yet managed to persuade people into action when necessary.
And overall, it had paid off. He'd tricked Percy into following him in the Underworld; he'd successfully kept the extent of his emotions hidden from everyone for years; hell, he'd even persuaded Hades to help fight Kronos!
But it was clear Slytherin was the 'bad' house, the one where the bullies mostly came from, and at first Nico had wondered at the Hat's choice. Most students avoided Slytherins, and friendships (to avoid saying 'alliances') were very rare outside the confines of the House. Although to be fair, Slytherin students weren't doing their utmost to contradict such a reputation, either. If anything, many revelled in it. Crabbe and Goyle were prime examples of big bullies with much more brawn than brains, but did not let that stop them from shoving their way through crowds and arguments.
The Hat's decision to place him in Slytherin had stung a little at first, he could admit that. But once he'd looked past the narrow, calculating gazes of his fellow housemates, he'd seen the true potential of this House - a potential that also accounted for placing sweet, kind Piper in along with him. Slytherin House wasn't an incarnate competition for who could be the nastiest, it wasn't about whose family was more powerful than another. It wasn't even about establishing contacts to further your own ambitions in life. All of those were currently staple in Slytherin, sure enough, but that was because its occupants were moody, hormonal teenagers with no idea of the real world and the pressure of being expected to show political adroitness, which inevitably brought out the worst in them.
No, Slytherin House was about style. Who could persuade someone to concede something they had no wish to allow. How smoothly one could argue their side of the story. How subtly one could voice an offer and yet make it seem like a perfectly bland statement. How quickly one could think on their feet once the tables turned out of their favour. Any adult who was active in the political world would recognise these traits as tools and qualities to further everyone's interests in the world, not just their own. Problem was, self-inflated teenagers who were in an almost constant locking of horns had trouble seeing past their own interests. It was this that Nico had set himself the aim of fixing.
He had privately shared these thoughts with Piper, and she had smiled, remarking how similar some of it was to the mindset for charmspeak. It was never about your own interests, she explained, confirming his thoughts on the matter, it had to be how you could you turn your opponent's desires to your advantage, and possibly against theirs.
The most difficult of all, they agreed, was making it happen without it being obvious. Piper's powers were all very well and good, but the fact remained that encouraging someone to do something highly desirable on their account but not, say, socially acceptable, was entirely possible with charmspeak, but also very likely to attract a lot of suspicion, especially if said person was entirely aware of the...er, questionable nature of their wish.
Which was why, Nico reasoned with a sigh as Malfoy unfolded himself from the divan and swaggered to his shadowy spot near the door, he would have to find his own way of gaining respect and authority within Slytherin. In any case, Piper was unavailable, being with Jason somewhere else entirely, doing whatever it was Aphrodite girls did with their boyfriends - probably braiding hair and making friendship bracelets.
"Malfoy," Nico greeted his housemate in a voice so flat not even a marble would find cause to roll askew on it, "I see you've recovered from your ordeal the other day."
Malfoy scowled.
"The situation was always perfectly under control. Crabbe and Goyle were the ones who contracted those boils, not me, and as you can see neither mine nor my father's reputation have been tainted."
"I was referring to the mice incident in Flitwick's class over a week ago." Nico said calmly, turning back to his unwritten answer. "I'm glad to see you found the confidence to get down from that desk in the end."
Malfoy's chalky cheeks flushed pale pink.
"If you recall, those mice were in the late stages of decomposition and yet fully alive - clearly the work of dark magic." The boy snapped. "It made sense to keep them at arm's length."
Nico's eyebrows raised in mild surprise.
"Arm's length? Looked like an arm, a desk, two benches and chair, from me and my friends' point of view."
Malfoy's lip curled. "Yes. Some friends you have, di Angelo. An overgrown Golem and a girl who could've escaped from the sugar-cane fields, yet who I hear is also your sister. And Hufflepuffs, to boot."
"Yet completely unfazed by mice." Nico responded, still as calmly, though his tone was starting to acquire the dangerous softness that his father's sometimes had when someone crossed the limits. Insulting comparisons of his friends, aside, the revelation that Malfoy knew of Hazel's relation to him was a bit of a shock, he had to admit. He'd no idea how the boy found out about that, and made a mental note to determine how.
This time, Malfoy didn't flinch at the slight to his courage.
"Slytherins are known for their survival instinct," he said, shrugging and draping himself on the arm of Nico's sofa. "Still... Care to explain the differences in your names and, ah... complexion?"
Nico didn't answer immediately, since he knew he was entering dangerous grounds. (Yeah, he thought with no small amount of bitterness, Nico di Angelo arriving somewhere dangerous and with no idea how to avoid it. Shocker, eh?) Parentage was a big deal in the wizarding world, and especially in this House. If you didn't have a name to match your talent, no matter how much you achieved you would only ever be thought of as half the person your noble counterpart was.
"We share the same father." he said finally.
"Ah. Widower... remarriage, I suppose...?" Malfoy said, his drawl suggesting he wouldn't believe Nico whatever he answered.
"Of a sort." After all, Maria di Angelo had died before Hades, in the form of Pluto, fell for Marie Levesque. For the first time, Nico realised with a jolt that both he and Hazel's mothers had borne versions of the same name, leaving him unsure how to feel about that. Angry that his father had perhaps tried to replace his mother? Pleased because it made Hazel and him seem even more closely related?
"Oh. A mistress, then?"
"No." Nico snapped. "Are you done?"
He wasn't. Malfoy made a show of rubbing a hand around his chin as he mused while Nico's fingers tightened around his quill, causing droplets of ink to dot his parchment.
"Di Angelo... Unusual name, that. Never heard it before, but no doubt American wizards have different families altogether, though I dare say some old British families must have emigrated too. Sounds almost... Italian." The blond boy's head turned to Nico, his expression a mask of curious innocence while his grey eyes glittered. "I must say, you do look a bit Italian. Any connections there?"
"Do I sound Italian to you, Malfoy?" Nico ground out, broadening his American twang a little.
"No, but it's the blood that matters. If you wanted to lose your accent I could recommend a few suitable tutors." The arched, perfectly enunciated tone of the older boy left Nico in no doubt that he had profited (suffered?) from such an education himself.
He forced out a short, humourless laugh.
"And sound like I'm coming straight out of a fifties' British soap? No, thanks."
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and his expression shifted to one of mild triumph. Nico bit his tongue. Dammit. He barely knew anything about media culture since the forties and he had to make a reference now, of all times?
"So," Malfoy concluded smugly. "At least some muggle background to you, then."
"My people are a lot less secluded than you lot, we mix more with mor- with Muggles." Nico said. Demigods often lived with regular families, they went to normal schools. They even sometimes had to fight monsters in public areas, so that was a least partly true.
Malfoy looked politely surprised.
"Really? That's odd. I seem to recall the separatist American Wizarding President introducing certain measures against unnecessary contact with muggles and their culture, only last year."
"I think you'll find not everyone agrees with him." Nico said, gritting his teeth, knowing that Malfoy was trying to extort as much information from him as possible and resenting that fact that he couldn't just knock this guy quiet with the hilt of his sword.
"Clearly." Draco drawled. "So what are your views on the subject? Separatist or unificationist?"
Nico wrote down a few words to give himself time, not even knowing what he was putting down. Unificationist? Separatist? Obviously some sort of political terms, but he barely knew who was President in the US, let alone any wizarding government vocabulary. Malfoy said the current wizarding leader in the states was 'separatist', whatever that meant, but advocated mutual segregation between wizards and Muggles. Okay, so 'separatist' as in keeping the two kinds apart? Then that meant 'unificationist' would be... Nico almost sighed in relief. And here he'd thought almost every wizarding person in the UK would be at least pro-hiding. Even if they were a minority, a sign of a non-prejudiced movement that was pro-coexistence was a good thing at least.
"It's not that simple." He said aloud, stalling for time to think. The words were longer in coming to him than usual. He felt uncomfortable, and completely unsafe, talking like this to someone he hardly knew and didn't even like - though that was no surprise since he liked very few people. Still, his friends knew he preferred to be alone and didn't insist when he was reluctant to join in their conversations. They accepted his solitude, his quietness, his... other traits. This was the longest (involuntary) conversation he'd had in weeks.
"I think we have more than just two options where I come from. A lot of people don't know what to think, because each side has their own propaganda, and sometimes they fire the same message, use the same examples, give the same reasons, until everyone is confused about who's on which side."
"Side?" Malfoy said, crossing his arms and sliding down from the arm of the sofa to sit cross-legged on the seat next to Nico, who scooted away, scowling. "There are no 'sides', it's not us against them, it's not even you against me. It's a constant flow of tides, going in one direction for a while, then getting overwhelmed by a wave of the opposition's momentum, only for the wave to disappear and another barren reef to pop up for people's opinions to wash ashore on. And let me tell you, opinions change almost as often as the tides."
"But it's still a struggle." Nico argued. "It's still a competition of who's going to win over who."
"Well," Malfoy said, smirking a bit, "of course , but these are politics, not battles. There is no 'right' side, and there is no 'wrong' side. Those words only appear when a victory's been declared, and even then, a battle stops. At worst, it carries on for a few years, and maybe the causes each side stands for will last for a century or two. But politics... they last forever. There will always be issues to deal with, scuffles and duels to change the way people are run every day, powerful movements being overrun by motley groups with more support than they have policies."
Nico studied the boy in front of him, and was surprised to find none of the original malice that he had found so repulsive in him at first. Instead, there was a light in his eyes, a passion for the subject, a smooth eloquence to his words that, despite his youth, made him quite the orator.
"So I take it you're separatist?" Nico asked, as casually as he could without cringing.
Malfoy's lip curled slightly upwards.
"I'm whatever the tide leaves behind, di Angelo. I'm the one who'll be left to organise the lost souls who wash up on the barren shore."
0o0o0o0o0o0
Percy met Annabeth at the entrance of the Great Hall, and together they went down to the Quidditch pitch, not even noticing the drizzle that was, it seemed, the standard autumnal weather of northern Scotland. The fifty-feet-high bubble blowers loomed as they walked around the edge of the carefully manicured pitch, prompting Percy to wonder why, for a sport that was played mainly in the air, it required a ground so perfectly green and uniform. For his part, he had only ever really heard of Quidditch, having been at Hogwarts too short a time to have witnessed a match yet, and though he had gathered it was some sort of sport played on flying broomsticks (one was not to ask details of such things if said things were thought to be as common and obvious as brushing your teeth) he had yet to see anyone play it.
The demigods had all been approached at one time or another to inquire if they would consider playing Quidditch for their House, but once Hazel and Thalia had turned green and it was clear none of the others would volunteer to do so, the matter was quickly dropped. Jason had subsequently expressed an interest, but was unwilling to try it without at least one figure of moral support, and he had yet to convince anyone of accompanying him. The tryouts had occurred a few days ago, which effectively annulled any of their chances of making the House team, but as Hazel pointed out, they were hardly going to be good enough at something they'd never done before to be selected anyway.
However, it was not Quidditch that interested the demigods that afternoon, but the changing rooms near it, or rather the roomy, secluded clearing that bordered the Forbidden Forest behind them that provided excellent ground and shelter to practice sparring, fighting, archery and any other martial activity that would be considered out of place in Hogwarts herself.
Percy and Annabeth found the rest of their friends already there, with Thalia exchanging blows with Jason while Hazel helped Piper revise her stance and technique. Frank frowned slightly as he sharpened his various weapons (Percy honestly had no idea how he concealed them about his person, especially since he had reason to believe he had them on him all the damn time) as though he were worried they were rusting, though every demigod knew for a fact that all weapons of celestial bronze and imperial gold were forever impervious to rust and wear.
Percy readily took out Riptide from his pocket, eager to return to the usual sparring routine they went through at Camp Half-Blood. Their quest preceding Gaea's awakening had informed Percy the hard way that his sword-fighting skills hadn't, say, preserved any vestiges of the achilles' curse, which meant if he wasn't careful he was as likely to be killed by Karpoi as by a Manticore. Their exercises varied, going from regular duels to full-on teamwork battles that resembled bouts of Capture The Flag, while others were more Roman in nature, focusing instead on clever, precise strategy and battle manoeuvres. There were no real limits to what they could do, most of them having handled live weapons since they were children, but the general rule was that no demigod, under any circumstances, was to use their specialised powers in a practice duel. Individual powers, it was universally agreed, were for real-life battles.
Percy sparred first with Frank, nearly losing an arm after his opponent sprang a Roman on him and neatly disarmed him before moving, as it were, for the kill. Thankfully, Percy had years of sneaky Greek tricks hammered into him, and he managed to roll, grab and leap to his feet before Frank could fully regain his balance, and the game was back on.
But it was hard work. Frank, despite his gentle nature, had inherited a great deal of his father's skill, and Percy was hard pressed countering his attacks, even struggling to keep up his defences as the son of Mars hammered down blow after blow, specialising in lunges and swipes. After a few minutes, both of them breathing heavily despite the daily exercise of climbing countless stairs within the school, they declared a draw and collapsed on the ground for a while.
Around them, Piper was still practicing her moves, Jason was sparring with Nico - who, for all his inferior stature and weight, was holding his own very well - to nobody's surprise but universal admiration - and Annabeth was showing Hazel some basic knife-fighting moves. Slightly apart from the group, Thalia was attempting to teach Leo some free-running routines, a series of somersaults and impressive acrobatics Percy had to assume were made easier by her enhanced abilities as a huntress, because he'd never seen her do stuff quite like that before. For his part, Leo was showing very little interest in doing the jumps himself, and instead was fiddling with various bits and pieces from his tool belt. He'd been obsessed lately with finding as many sneaky ways as possible of making Umbridge's life miserable, and one could often find him in the common room tweaking little gadgets while others studied, or muttering to himself as he came up with ideas and dismissed them like a child picking only the biggest, creamiest chocolates in the box.
Percy picked himself up from the ground, ready to call out to Frank for a re-match, but his attempt was cut off by the exploding sound of something suddenly bursting out of the edge of the forest, yelling impossibly loudly and thundering out amidst their group, scattering their haphazard circle. The creature was a centaur, though he looked absolutely nothing like Chiron or any of his cousins they had met.
His flank was coloured a mottled grey with black and brown streaks down his back and legs, giving him an overall scruffy appearance, while his human upper body was hard-lined and covered with wiry dark hair. As he cantered around them, Percy spotted twin black tattoos on the centaur's shoulder blades, covered by a quiver full of jagged arrows and a wickedly sharp sword. His eyes were so wide and crazed-looking that a rim of white showed around the irises, the resulting expression something Percy usually reserved for locked-up memories of Tartarus. Incensed. Crazed. Furious. His messy beard was covered in hardened drips of saliva, yellowed teeth bared in mad fury and his bottomless black eyes did not leave their group for a second. Percy barely had time to raise his sword before the creature's powerfully dark aura overwhelmed him in nauseating waves of mad anger, the stench of putrefying crops, stale air, disease and death.
Too stunned and disorientated by the attack to form a proper defence line, the centaur had very little trouble smashing through Thalia, Frank and Jason's raised blades, even as Percy and the others hurried to defend them.
Within seconds, the centaur had notched and released several arrows with a crude but deathly-efficient bow, pinning Thalia's hoodie to a tree and sending her own bow flying. Within the next half-second the others were rendered utterly immobile, for Annabeth and Piper were sprawled on the ground and staring up at two notched arrows on the centaur's bow, ready to be released at any moment.
Percy's mind was racing. It had all happened so quickly. Too quickly. Their best marksperson was rendered useless, Annabeth's cry of pain suggested her broken ankle was waking up again, and no-one could move for fear of prompting the centaur to do something they would all regret.
"Wait!" He yelped at their attacker. "What do you want?"
The centaur snarled and spit at Piper's feet.
"Half-blood filth!" He growled. "On ma land!"
"Er... sorry, dude. 'This your lawn?" Leo called out, his voice a little higher than a two-year old high on sugar. "No worries, we'll just get lost and you can go back to seething and frothing like the good ol' days, yeah?"
"Silence!" The centaur snapped, gnashing his teeth at him. There was more than a little madness in the evil gleam of his eye, but unfortunately that did not seem to make him stupid or distracted, which the demigods could have used to their advantage. In fact, it appeared to make him alert on a level that resembled paranoia. His gaze kept flicking between the demigods, a stare that sucked all warmth and light into its depths like a black hole left a void in its path. The strange fire that flickered in the centaur's eyes was more darkness than light, and every time Percy met them he felt as though he were falling back into the depths of Tartarus, like the eternal evil of the place had claimed him once and would claim him again.
"Wha' brings filthy god children on ma territory?" The centaur demanded in a snarl, drawing back his bow even further to ensure their quick answer.
"We were just practicing!" Piper squeaked, not daring to move an inch as the centaur aimed the arrow ever closer to the centre of her chest. "We didn't mean to trespass on your property, sir, I swear!"
Dimly, Percy noted how strange it was to hear her plead for their lives without the usual edge of charmspeak. When Piper faced monsters lately, she was usually the one with the upper hand regardless of whether the monsters knew that or not.
"Practicin'?" The centaur let out a laugh that echoed of mocking crows and the groans of dying men. "A likely story! Firs' godspawn in the area for millenia, an' they's claimin' they're jus' practicin'. I oughtta rip yer tongues out fer jus' daring to say that, I should." He said, the maddened fury suddenly vanishing to be replaced by a horrible casualness as he single-handedly maintained the bow aimed at the girls and reached behind him, plucking a dagger from a sheath on his quiver. The blade was short, but jagged and extremely sharp. It glinted in the faint light as he twirled it in his dirty fingers.
"So," he crooned, "who's firs'? How 'bout the pretty lass with the gold hair? Shines brighter'n ma sharp friend, 'ere."
His cracked and blood-encrusted lips stretched into a horrible grin as he slowly clopped closer to Annabeth, laughing as she grimaced in pain and disgust and tried to drag herself away from him.
"Wait! It's the truth!" Percy cried out, causing the centaur to turn his attention to him. Behind their attacker, he could see Thalia slowly unzipping her hoodie and extricating herself from her pinning prison, reaching for her arrows even as she still had an arm caught in the silver fabric of her top. He had to distract the monster for as long as possible while she freed herself.
The centaur smiled again, and Percy once more felt like the world around him was stripping itself of any goodness left after every carnage in history, leaving only his despair at his friends' predilection and this mad centaur's evident pleasure at the prospect of torturing them.
"Och, ma sweet spring lad," the monster crooned, "I don' rightly care if what yer sayin's the truth or no. See, yer on ma land, an' I don' take kindly to people flauntin' their rights ta prance around this school like's they own the place."
Thalia had managed to retrieve three arrows from her damaged quiver and could almost reach her bow.
"So you live in the Forest?" Percy guessed. "Must be really annoying to always have kids wandering in and out of the place."
"Yeah. I'd sue the headmaster, if I were you." Jason joined in, his eyes fixed on his girlfriend as she stayed utterly still, splayed out on on the ground. His face was a mask of detached calm, but Percy knew him well enough by now to know that on the inside, he was probably screaming, raging to cut this bastard Kronos-style.
The centaur snarled.
"Human scum!" He spat. "I ain' never gon' consult with thrice-cursed manspawn. God children are bad enough, but mortals ent worth the food wot comes out of 'em either end."
Percy winced, really wishing that particular mental image hadn't just been brought up.
"Er, yeah, I agree..." His mind was racing, searching for a way out. He refused to let his eyes wander to Thalia, who was having trouble stringing her bow silently, lest he betray her. He didn't even let himself look at Annabeth, who was panting in pain due to her ankle having been put to too much use again.
Jason seemed completely frozen at the sight of Piper being in such immediate danger. If aliens had suddenly invaded bearing guns and chocolate pumpkins, Percy doubted he would have blinked. After a quick glance at the rest of his friends, who all looked like they wanted to help but were at a complete loss at what to do (even Frank couldn't shapeshift due to deep gash on his arm that left him grimacing in pain), Percy decided to handle this one himself. His companions' utter helplessness left him alone anyway, and it reminded him of a similar situation, where Percy himself had been the helpless one. He wondered if a similar solution would help them out this time too.
"You know what, dude?" He called out to the centaur. "How about we settle this like in the old times... with a deal?"
The monster's eyes narrowed, and he scowled at Percy, shifting on his four hooves before throwing his head back and let out a humourless bark of laughter.
"Ha! The half-blood wants a deal with me!" His cruel eyes met Percy's, and his mouth stretched into his horrible grin. "You best hope ya knows what yer doing, boy. Few folks've dealt wiv the Devil an' lived long enough ta regret it."
Percy was trying to stay focused, ignoring the dizzying nausea that the centaur was causing around him. His head suddenly felt like it had Tyson's hammer pounding inside it. He barely heard Leo's muttered comment of "Inflated ego, much?" a few feet away.
"Oh, I've met the Devil." He said, keeping his gaze levelled on the centaur's shoulder, which helped lessen the nausea a little. "And what d'ya know, here I am telling you about it. This boy isn't any ordinary boy, dude. I've made deals with Titans, killed Giants and tricked Gaea into saving my life. What have you done other than shoot innocent children?" He planted Riptide in the grass in front of him, feeling sick, angry, and even more reckless than usual.
The centaur bared his teeth further, but his attention was now solely on Percy, which meant he totally failed to notice Thalia, now standing with her bow fully drawn and aimed at his back. He hadn't attacked them again either, which Percy took as an encouraging sign. He knew Thalia could shoot this monster at a single word from him, but if there was a chance they could all exit this clearing peacefully, he'd take it, so he carefully ignored her for the time being.
"Then what will this mighty lil' demigod offer me?" The monster ground out. "Yer lives in exchange for mine? Sorry ta break it to ya, laddie, but seems at the moment like yer in no position ta threaten me." He reached down and grabbed Piper by the front of her shirt and held his knife at her throat to emphasize his point.
Jason tensed and tried to lift his sword, but Piper was very faintly shaking her head, signalling with her eyes that he wasn't to move. Thalia still held her bow taut and ready, but Piper's reaction made her hesitate, and she lowered it slightly, waiting to see what the exchange would come to. Percy held Jason's arm as further insurance that he wouldn't capsize the entire situation.
"Not threaten. Help." He corrected, outwardly calm, but desperately hoping what he had in mind would work, or at the very least buy them time. "Let us go, and we'll make sure no-one disturbs you on your territory again."
The centaur's bushy black eyebrows rose so high they disappeared behind the shaggy tufts of matted hair around his face.
"Will ya, now? And how's you gon' do that, eh? Ask the nice teachers to leave me alone? Cut the entire Forest completely off limits? No headmaster will ever agree to those terms, boy."
"The how isn't part of the deal." Percy reminded him coldly. "The what and when, however, are. Do we have a deal?"
The monster snorted, the movement jerking his shoulders enough to press the dagger's blade dangerously hard to Piper's throat.
"An' I'm supposed ta jus' trust ya ta keep yer word, am I? Godspawn are known ta be tricky sons o' pox-faced hags, boy. Give 'em an inch, they take a mile and yer best sack o' wine wiv 'em too."
"Where we come from," Hazel spoke up, her tone quiet but carrying easily across the clearing, "we make oaths on a river so sacred, so eternal and fundamental to the world that it bounds you to your word. If Percy swore on the Styx to ensure your privacy, he will be forced to do so."
The centaur looked mildly surprised that she had spoken, and Percy prayed to Zeus, Poseidon and the Fates that he didn't take that as a threat to his authority, because otherwise Piper's fluttering throat would very soon be more red than bronze.
The centaur made a sound that was, so far, the least horrifying of his reactions, rather like contempt but with a hinted beginning of reluctant agreement.
"Then I want ta add me own terms." He said gruffly. "The oath will keep ya to yer word, boy, but likely's not, it won't set a time to it. If ya swear to secure ma territory, I'll let you and yer friends skip off." His eyes glittered so malevolently that Percy's nausea redoubled and his knees nearly buckled under him. "But I gets ta keep one o' ya friends to keep ya motivated."
Percy blanched. Now this, he hadn't expected.
"What?" Hazel squeaked. "But we can include a deadline in the oath. There's no need for hostages!"
"Oh, aye." The monster agreed easily, his gaze still fixed on Percy, who had turned green from the wave of nausea fighting to overwhelm him. "But if ya swear to complete the oath within a month and ya fail, well... yer'll likely be dead," he jerked his chin at Percy, " an' not much use to me, and the lot o' ya are as free ta ignore me as newborn pixies. Whereas keeping one o' these pretties," he grinned at Piper, who had also turned pale, "will make sure ya keep yer word, and quickly."
Percy cursed himself for not having thought of this possibility sooner. His mind was racing, but seeing the blade pressed to Piper's throat and a single drop of blood starting to bead on her skin, he drew a blank. He glanced at Jason, who was crouched like a tiger, fixated on his girlfriend like a cat on a swinging target and with a grip on his sword tight enough to break an arm. He didn't move, but his lack of any real reaction was all Percy needed.
"Okay." He relented finally. "I'll swear to those terms."
"Wonderful!" The centaur said. "Oh, an'... one more thing." In a single movement, he dropped Piper to the ground and grabbed up Annabeth instead. She gave a cry of pain as her ankle dragged on the ground, her face contorting as the centaur fisted his hand in her hair to get a secure grip.
"Methinks this lil' lass is much more likely to motivate young darkie, here." He purred, suddenly obscenely gentle as he brought his face closer to Annabeth's. "And t'would be a mighty shame to let by such fine skin an' lovely hair."
Percy felt like his heart had stopped. Piper was okay, ish, crumpled on the ground in a heap, trembling, but relatively unharmed. Annabeth, on the other hand, was struggling to get away but failing to do much, her features strained with pain and disgust.
He had to hand it to the centaur, oh he really did. To fool them all into thinking Piper would be hostage, then striking at where Percy was most vulnerable, all within ten minutes of having met them. Instinctively, he knew this was a different sort of monster to the ones they'd dealt with before. Wilder, more savage, maybe even older. And nowhere near as manipulable. Percy never thought he'd feel nostalgia for vengeful minor goddesses or prophetic bullies with gambling addictions, but in that moment in time, he would have given anything to be up against them instead of this cruel, shrewd monster who deserved the term better than anything Percy had seen so far.
He'd never really paid much attention to monster classes, and he utterly lacked Annabeth's constant need for research and further information, but right now every story he'd ever heard about centaurs came back to him in frightening detail. Hercules' wife Deianeira carried off by the savage Nessus, the rape of the Lapithian Hippodamia by the Centaurs of Ixion, countless tales of frenzied rejoicing and dilapidating drunkenness flashed across his mind, and he came to the conclusion that had been obvious since the centaur had switched the girls: he couldn't leave Annabeth with this monster.
Admitting it, overwhelming shame took over, because he'd been prepared to let Piper stay as hostage with full knowledge of what that could entail, but as horrible and unfair as that was, it was the truth. He would rather have a friend be captured, or risk all of his friends' lives, before seeing Annabeth carried off by this guy.
He couldn't agree. He wouldn't.
Fortunately, for the first time that afternoon, the demigods had an extra card to play. He just hoped he was right in dealing it.
"Thalia." He croaked.
It was enough.
Without missing a beat, the huntress drew her bow, aimed and let loose an arrow within a second, one more in another, and was pulling out a long blade and springing onto the monster's back within a third. The centaur roared in anger as the first arrow nicked his hand, forcing him to release the dagger at Annabeth's throat, and stumbled away when the second buried itself in his flank. Dark blood trickled down his mottled leg, and a droplet of it landed on Percy's hand as the monster shook himself, trying to rid himself of Thalia's steely grip on his back and throat.
Failing to do so, the centaur reared and attacked them. Roaring in fury, he drew out his longsword, nearly slicing Thalia in half in the process and started hacking at the demigods with great swings that revealed enormous power and deadly expertise. Frank and Nico only kept their heads and respective limbs by dropping and rolling out of the way.
It was though a spell had been lifted. For all those agonising minutes of stand-off, the demigods had been unable of lifting even a finger to help their friends, forced to stand and watch as this sickening excuse for a living creature threatened and leered at his victims. Now that the balance had been upset, they let go of all the rage and despair collected during the exchange and unleashed hell on the centaur.
Annabeth having dragged herself out of the way for the time being (thankfully she'd had the presence of mind to twist out of Thalia's line of aim before she shot her first arrow) Percy, Jason and Frank moved as one, closing in on the centaur, swinging and jabbing at his flank while blocking his way to keep him as trapped as possible. Nico and Hazel brought up the rear, slashing at his hind legs while Percy and Frank methodically blocked blows and jabbed at his front. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy saw Leo scamper over to the girls, pulling something from his tool-belt that, he hoped and prayed, was nectar or unicorn draught.
As he fought, Percy could feel the familiar rush of adrenalin, but also the relatively novel sensation of cold rage: he wanted to hurt this centaur, maim him for daring to threaten his friends, kill him for hurting Annabeth and Piper. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Percy knew part of that rage was directed at himself. He had failed to protect Piper the same way he would protect Annabeth. She was a friend, a dear and loyal one, but still he had not been strong enough to refuse her to the centaur. He had betrayed her.
The shame and anger, both at himself and their attacker, lent strength and lethality to his movements. He felt able to defeat this thing, his entire herd if he had one. For the first time that afternoon, Percy felt in control. Deadly. Powerful.
The centaur was heavily outnumbered. His movements were raining down on them just as viciously, but the strength behind them was giving way to hastiness and shoddy defence.
Seconds flew by, minutes dragged, time became irrelevant. Percy kept fighting, every instant aware of his tiring arms and the growing shock of his friends as, incredibly, they failed to take him down once and for all despite their greater numbers and initial upper-hand. The monster's strength was incredible. He kept swinging and blocking blows as though he'd just entered the fight, every single one of them landing with such force that Percy's arms felt like they were made of old plastic, brittle and terribly ephemeral.
Gradually, the tide was turning again. The centaur snarled and let out a roar that drowned their entire chorus of grunts and war cries. He gave one almighty shake that sent Thalia flying to the ground, knocking her unconscious as she hit a tree root, then somehow broke through their circle with a leap that would have shamed any equestrian champion. He cantered around them as they hurriedly reformed ranks around their fallen or hurt friends, notching an arrow on his bow. Their best archer down, and Frank busy with two swords, they were once more in a dangerous position, at the mercy of their attacker's deadly long-range weapon.
"So ya chose death after all, boy." The centaur taunted, his features twisted more horribly than ever in pain and anger. "Can't say I'm complaining, neither. Was always more fer the kill, me. But let me tell ya one thing;" he waved his drawn bow at Percy and his friends, "ya want to appear all noble and reasonable, 's fair as a judge gon' sober fer a year. But in the end, all godspawn are filth. They lie, they trick, they kill. The reasons may be different, but the result's always the same. In the end, you'se just like me."
The centaur rose his bow higher, aimed directly at Percy's face, and for the demigod in question, this was the end. The centaur was too close for Percy to successfully dodge the arrow, and doing so could mean his friends would be shot instead anyway. No more tricks, no more feints were possible. Demigod powers were out of the question: Nico risked dissolution, water was too far off, lightning put them all in danger, and Hazel had complained earlier about how rare metal was here.
Percy turned to Annabeth, wanting her face to be his last sight in this world, but Frank let out a snarl that sounded more animal than human. He dropped his swords, hurled a small knife at the centaur then turned into a bald eagle more fluidly than Percy had ever seen him change before, flying right at the monster's face. The centaur reeled in surprise, stumbling as the little blade sank straight in the middle of his chest, then bellowing in pain as Frank screeched in his face and slashed at his eyes with razor-sharp claws. The demigods sprang into action once more, but this time there was a desperate edge to their movements, as though they knew that, against all odds, this monster was still going to get the blood he had come for.
Their numbers now seriously depleted, they approached the monster in omega formation, a semicircle of tense demigods closing in their prey. So far, there were two good things: the girls were unhurt, sort of, and the centaur seemed unable to move in a straight line, let alone go for them again.
But that didn't change anything, Percy knew. As the past twenty minutes had proved, the tide of a battle could change on a whim, and right now Percy swore he wasn't going to take any chances if he could help it.
Frank kept up his circling around the centaur's head, and soon there were rivulets of blood trickling down his cheeks and shoulders. Unable to defend his sides as well as his face, the centaur was forced to retreat back into the forest. Slowly, step by step, the demigods drove him back. They were tiring, and their ranks were no longer quite so tight, but they had the advantage of numbers, and their opponent was weakened by blood-loss and pain.
At last, the centaur stumbled on a thick root and nearly fell to the ground, still covering his upper body and face with his arms. Percy took the opportunity to kick his legs from under him, slashing a tendon or two as he did so, then watched coldly as the monster collapsed, writhing in agony. A part of Percy knew that he was supposed to feel pity for this thing, this creature who wrecked blood and pain out of anger and possessiveness, but he only felt icy satisfaction at the bloody heap of pierced, thrashing limbs before him.
He levelled his sword at the centaur's face, immediately followed by Jason.
"Leave." Percy said, his voice so cold it was hard to recognise as he heard it come from his mouth.
"Or we kill you." Jason added, just as icily. "We've dealt with worse than you."
Slowly, the centaur lowered his arms. With a twinge of nausea (fortunately kept at bay by adrenalin so far) Percy saw how bloodied and obviously ruined one of his eyes now was, and his opposite cheek was gashed so deep the inside of his mouth was visible. The centaur's chest was heaving, his face ashen, his limbs trembling, but his eyes were as dark and evil as ever, and looking into them still made Percy feel like the world was a cruel, savage place of desolation.
"Ya can all go ta Hell." The centaur spat, the hate in his voice twisting his features past all standards of humanity. His hands shot out, each grabbing the shirt of the boys in front of him. In a split-second, Percy and Jason found themselves pressed to the centaur's chest, a thick, strong arm around each of their necks, already squeezing hard enough so that black spots and stars dotted Percy's vision.
"I may not get the lass," the centaur hissed in Percy's ear as the latter grappled at the arm around his throat, "but I sure as Hell won' leave withou' spillin' twice the blood ya got from me."
No longer able to breathe, Percy barely registered the words, nor Jason's feeble struggling beside him. He didn't hear Annabeth's cry. He certainly didn't notice the two unexpected arrows that suddenly sprouted from the centaur's shoulder, or the monster's roar of pain, and didn't feel himself fall from his grip. By the time the rescuing archer bounded into sight, he had blacked out.
He woke up a second later, or what felt like it, wincing at the choking pain in his throat, but alive and otherwise unhurt, though his vision was still fuzzy. Annabeth was beside him, helping him sit up, frantically asking if he was okay.
"Wonderful." He mumbled. "You-... ankle?"
"Painful, but not broken." She answered. "Leo gave Piper and I some nectar." Her beautiful face was grey and drawn, but she was smiling in relief.
"What... who...?" Percy asked, vaguely waving a hand at the blurry figure who had its back to them.
"My thoughts precisely."
She wouldn't let him stand up just yet, but they watched in bemused awe as their rescuer let out an explosive snort, taunting the centaur who stumbled back into the forest the way he had come.
"An' stay there, ya great wuss!" The man yelled after it. He turned to the stunned demigods. "A'right, there, you lot?"
They all nodded, too surprised or in too much pain to do much else. Piper was cradling her head in her hands, a trickle of blood still running down her throat, while Hazel, pale and shaken, leaned against Nico and a human Frank as they helped her up. Thalia was regaining consciousness at the same time as Jason, both pairs of blue eyes blinking in utter confusion as they spotted the newcomer.
The man was strikingly tall, well over six foot, with curly dark hair plastered to his face by the slight drizzle still hanging in the air. His face was handsome, but marred by long linear scars that suggested it had once been raked by very long claws. A few strands of his black hair were twisted into braids, woven with bright blue thread and secured by swirly silver clasps, a detail that struck a swaying Percy as rather contrasting with the rest of the guy's very warrior-like appearance. He was dressed in a blue tartan skirt (a kilt, said a voice in his mind that sounded like Annabeth's) with a sash of the same fabric looping around his chest and hanging over his shoulder. A bow hung in one hand and a heavy club in the other, carved with all sorts of patterns that went from daisies, to broken arrow shafts and dying foes.
Hazel limped over to their unexpected saviour.
"Thank you." She said. Always a good place to start when someone had saved your life. "But... sorry, who are you?"
"He's Beowulf." Percy mumbled, focusing on a golden curl falling out of Annabeth's hasty bun in an effort not to faint again. "Wearing skirts and all..."
The man snorted.
"Name's Jack O'Kent. Ya can all call me Jack."
"Er... thanks. But, um... what are you? A wizard?" Hazel prodded further.
The stranger, Jack, laughed.
"Me only wand's this 'un, sweetheart." He said, lifting his club. He suddenly grinned, and winked at her. "Well, not 'zactly, but best not get too personal jus' yet, eh?"
Hazel's mouth dropped open in clueless reaction, but before she could so much as fan herself, Leo swooped in with his usual blunt flair.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but... why did you help us?" he blurted. "I mean, you could see we weren't winning six on one, so why risk your life for us?"
The man stuck out his lower lip, tilting his head this way and that as though deciding what to say and, maybe, what to leave out.
"Horsie 'n me go way back." He said finally in a tone casual-as-you-please. "Owes me a couple, 'f ya follow me, an I don' take too kindly to 'im messing aroun' the school. Scares the kids, messes up the terrain, an' none of us forest folk much like ta make a show near humans. I was passin' this way an' figured ya could do with some help."
Jack, who apparently did not qualify as human by his own definition, fiddled with his belt, refastening several little knives on his person, all the while appraising the assembled demigods with dark, slightly suspicious eyes.
"Now, me darlin's, th'question tha' begs ta be asked is, what did ya do that to th'Nuckelavee for?"
"The what?" Annabeth asked, and Percy would have rolled his eyes if he weren't certain it would worsen the nausea. Great. They'd been nearly smashed to a pulp or turned into pincushions by a raving lunatic centaur, and now they were getting told off for it.
"Nuckelavee, centaur what just attacked ya. 'E don' usually attack anyone unless they challenge 'is authority, or..." he paused, giving Hazel a once-over before sighing in apparent realisation. "Aah, you'se one of 'em, ent ya?"
He glanced at Nico, who'd come up behind his sister and placed a hand on her shoulder, scowling at the stranger.
"Now, ya'll both be children o' that poxy-blackened queer lord o' the dead, no?" He nodded sagely. "Aye, ya are. T's'all in the expression. That'd make the rest of ya half-bloods too, then?" It was phrased as a question, but everyone present knew it to be a statement.
None of the demigods answered him. It wasn't hard to see why. The man had an air about him that wasn't too dissimilar to the Nuckelavee. A way of standing, of walking, of observing each and every movement exchanged between them. There was a certain confident grace about him, matched by effortless poise with weapons, that put Percy and his friends on tenterhooks. With a jolt, Percy realised what made him so wary of this guy. He spoke and acted as a friend, but his movements were those of a predator.
Jack noted their guarded expressions, then laughed as they stayed silent in face of what had been, for all intents and purposes, an accusation.
"Ah, don' get yer underdainties in a twist, lads - an' ladies - I ent gon' tattle ta no-one. But, ah..." he winked at Nico and Hazel with a pained smile and a vaguely embarrassed look flitting across his features. "I'd appreciate it if ya didn't mention to yer Pa ya saw me. He don' like me too much."
"Why?" Nico asked, his expression as dark and closed off as it always was when he shut his true thoughts away.
Jack shrugged.
"Ah, 'tis nothin' really. A couple o' deals I made with ol' Lucifer ages ago. Didn' like that one bit, yer dad."
"Lucifer... As in, the Devil?" Hazel said, her voice cracking in disbelief.
Jack snorted.
"That what 'e calls hissself these days? In my day, he were no more'n ole Lucy, all sulky 'cause his boss threw 'im outta heaven."
"What? You mean... That's real? It actually happened?" Hazel asked weakly, her grip on Frank's arm tightening so that he winced slightly.
"Aye, o' course." Jack surveyed them suspiciously. "Why's it you don' know 'bout the Fall, then? T'were a fair bit o' twinkle when it happened, it were. Them ol' Christians wrote it all down in that bloody big book, didn' they?"
"We, um... We were brought up to believe the Bible was legend, a metaphor to simplify God's actions." Hazel said, while everyone else was too stunned to do anything but gape at the man who had casually informed them that the Devil did, in fact, exist. Even Percy, who'd boasted not ten minutes ago of his encounter with Tartarus and was at present incapable of looking at anything without going cross-eyed, felt completely nonplussed.
Jack scoffed.
"Legend? And ye ol' folks would be pure fact, then? S'Jupiter in all those true, researched history books, is he?"
The demigods exchanged looks, not quite knowing what to say. True enough, Greek and Roman gods were supposed to be legend, or at least caricatures of the human being so exaggerated they were unreal. Their whole nature was so distorted yet familiar, so outrageous but often understandable, that it was easy enough to dismiss them as myth. As it turned out, they weren't, but to claim that biblical figures were real... well, Percy wondered how many clergymen would give anything to be in their place right now.
"So, um... if the Devil exists, does God exist too?"
Jack shrugged.
"Exist... 'Tis a human term, that. Not sure if ya can apply it to whatever ya happen ta be talkin' about, but the Fall happened real 'nuff. T's'all written down, ent it? One of 'em demigods decided to tell the world what he learned 'bout th'roots o' the gods. He wrote a poem, 'e did. Bleedin' long 'un, too."
"You don't mean..." Annabeth's voice was an octave higher than usual, "You don't mean Paradise Lost...?
Jack nodded the affirmative, though as usual Percy had no idea what Annabeth was on about. Usually, it made him uncomfortable to feel left out of shared knowledge, but judging by his friends' equally confused glances at his girlfriend, he wasn't the only one.
"Aye, t'were the one. Never read it, meself, but word 'as it 'e got it all fair accurate."
"John Milton was a demigod?" Annabeth squeaked.
"Oh, aye. Son o' Apollo. He were 'is favourite son for a while, too, on'y once Milton decided ta write down all 'e knew 'bout th'gods' origins, Apollo weren' none too 'appy, an' 'e blinded 'im as punishment."
Annabeth nodded, her gaze oddly vacant. "Yeah... he had to finish his work dictating it to someone because his sight disappeared in the last few years of his life."
"But - uh... why did Apollo punish him for that? It's not like most people would've taken his word for gospel, anyway." Jason pointed out, visibly making an effort to keep up in a conversation that was miles ahead of him given the dazed state he was still in. Percy sympathised. He'd woken up a minute ago himself, only to immediately get dragged into conversation with someone who seemed to be an expert at avoiding explicit answers.
Jack's lips stretched into a genuinely warm smile that seemed to agree with Jason's point, but there was a patronizing edge to it that set Percy's teeth on edge.
"T'weren't what people believed what bothered Apollo, lad. T'were what people read into it."
Percy frowned, as confused as ever, which he was rapidly getting sick of. The others looked more than a cup short of a tea-set too. Automatically, every head swivelled to Annabeth in search of an explanation. She looked annoyed, but her tone when she spoke held the usual exasperated air that had become more of a playful routine than genuine annoyance when someone lacked her own level of knowledge.
"Written in the seventeenth century, John Milton's Paradise Lost arguably remains the single biggest English epic poem ever composed. It was written with the aim of rivalling other epic works, such as Homer's Odyssey and Virgil's Aeneid, telling the story of Lucifer's Fall from Heaven, and his subsequent attempts to undermine God by introducing evil wherever he could. He was the serpent who tempted Eve, for instance. I'm guessing the main reason the gods were annoyed," she glanced at Jack, who was looking at her in amused approval as she rattled off what she knew, "was his explanation of how the gods came to be. You see, Lucifer didn't Fall alone. There were all sorts of other demons who followed him: Belial, Moloch, Dagon... One of them, Milton calls Titan. Or, as we know him, Ouranos. Milton vaguely mentions how Saturn usurps him, and later how Jove usurps him."
"Saturn?" Leo asked.
"Kronos." Chorused Jason, Hazel and Frank, somehow sounding hollow.
"So you can see why the gods would be a bit vexed at Milton's portrayal." Annabeth concluded. "They were barely mentioned among the rest of the other demons who Fell, and the implication is anything who Fell from Heaven in the first place was pagan, damned, corrupt, evil, unworthy... you get the picture."
There was silence as the demigods absorbed this information. When a few seconds had passed, Leo spoke up again with a somewhat strangled quality to his voice.
"Are you saying Ouranos and Gaea were initially angels?" He said, looking profoundly disturbed.
Annabeth laughed weakly.
"Oh, sweet Nike, I hadn't thought of that. But yes, I suppose, that's what Milton seems to suggest."
"That's... that's just..." Percy floundered, unable to find the words.
"Preposterous? Unthinkable? Obviously flawed? Normally, I'd agree with you on all accounts, but Jack here seems to know what he's talking about." She nodded at Jack, who winked at her and smiled, almost flirtatiously. Percy scowled and moved closer to Annabeth, looping an arm around her shoulders though he nearly fell over in the process.
Jack smirked, then took a step back and clapped his hands once together.
"Well, as fine an' educational as this certainly was, would ya dandy lot mind if I dashed off and did me own business? I mean, lovely as it is ta chat with these beautiful ladies," he winked at the girls again, receiving several scowls and a blush in return, "a man 'as to do what a man 'as to do."
"Sure. Er... thanks for your help. You, um... you saved our lives." Percy said awkwardly, while Jason nodded in respect.
Jack waved a hand around, nearly knocking Leo off his feet with his huge club.
"Don' mention it. Firs' time talkin' with actual people fer years, anyhow." He grinned. "Centaurs an' Acromantula an' Thestrals are all good an' dainty, but there's no accountin' fer proper talk."
"Oh. Er, good... I guess."
"And now," Jack said, heaving his club over his shoulder and slapping Leo on the back with his free hand, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground again, "I bid ya all farewell. Gotta couple o' dozen fairies to skin fer me dinner."
Percy spluttered.
"You're kidding, I hope?"
"Och, aye." Jack answered easily, already walking back into the forest. "I don' much like the taste of wings crunchin' anyways. Prefer birdies, I do."
They watched as their rescuer retreated to his territory, united in stunned silence and their utter inability to even begin to understand what had happened in the past few minutes. Percy suspected he wasn't the only one to feel at a distinct disadvantage after having questioned the stranger for a while and yet still not being any closer to knowing who he was, too.
It was Jason who voiced their thoughts a few moments later.
"Okay. Firstly, what the hell just happened? And secondly," he sat up, wincing and bringing a hand to his throat, "I feel like roadkill."
"You and me both, dude." Percy muttered. He tried to stand up despite Annabeth's murmured protests, but found the world was actually a lot more wobbly than most people seemed to pretend. He clung to her, mindful of her fragile ankle but needing the support to avoid toppling over.
They all hobbled closer together, wincing and trying to ease blood-flow, patching up torn clothes with their limited magic and some help from the Mist, while Leo scurried around, tipping nectar down Jason and Percy's throats, force-feeding Nico some unicorn draught (for shock, he said, since the son of Hades was unhurt but looking paler than a ghost) and crumbling up their last piece of ambrosia into tiny pieces for the others to pick at. He also produced several clean bandages from his tool-belt and a bottle of iodine. The latter seemed rather unnecessary considering nectar and ambrosia's healing properties, but no-one wasted any energy telling him that. And besides, it was nice to sit back and rest while someone else did the running around for a change.
Leo's usually nut brown face was pale and drawn as he bound Annabeth's ankle in swathes of white strips. His flurrying hands were careful as he helped his friends, but his expression so closed and tight-jawed that Annabeth ended up asking in concern if he was the one in pain.
Leo shook his head, not answering immediately but his voice full of anger and bitterness when he did.
"I'm sorry." he said through gritted teeth. "I was absolutely useless just then. I should've helped you fight, but I couldn't make myself do anything-"
"Hey! If it weren't for you, Thalia and I would probably still be out cold by now." Piper said sharply. "And I'm sure we're all happy to have a medic to help us now."
"But Pipes, I could've used fire against that thing!" Leo protested, his voice getting louder in frustration. "I could've fired grenades, thrown rocks - hell, anything! But instead, all I could persuade my cowardly body to do was sneak around making sure my fallen friends weren't dead." He forced out a dark and totally un-Leo-like laugh, looking down at his work-roughened hands in disgust. "Some demigod. Some friend."
"It wasn't your fault, Leo." Hazel said firmly. "It was that monster. Couldn't you feel it draining us? When I looked at it, I couldn't see or feel anything except that the world was one big battlefield, covered in corpses with sickness hanging in the air." She shuddered. "I couldn't concentrate on breathing normally, much less fight - until Thalia managed to distract him."
"Besides," Annabeth joined in with a bitter half-smile of her own, "you're not the only one feeling like you were useless. I was a damsel in distress." She looked ready to be sick. "A freaking fairy princess being held hostage by the village baddy."
"Now that puts things in perspective." Thalia agreed, licking her fingers for the last micro-crumbs of ambrosia. "When Annabeth's the one in trouble, you know you're in for it too. One time, Luke and I got captured by monsters and kept in huge smelly bags. We were tied up and couldn't see a thing, but it wasn't very long before seven-year-old Goldilocks here was pulling us out and we could see the monsters unconscious, hanging upside down and covered in Christmas tinsel."
The demigods burst out laughing while Annabeth smiled shyly, flushing both in embarrassment and pleasure at the memory.
"Well they were green and spiky, so it made sense they should be dressed as Christmas trees." she reasoned, prompting more laughter.
It was strange to sit there, laughing in the meadow that still bore traces of their very recent fight with a blood-curdling monster. But at the same time it felt reassuring, because it meant that for the moment, the danger was over and they could just enjoy being regular, carefree teenagers.
Unfortunately, moments like those never lasted for more than a minute, not even in Camp Half-Blood where something distinctly un-regular dashed across your line of sight about every minute, and so very soon the demigods found themselves trying to answer an ever-increasing number of questions raised by recent events.
"Who do you think was that guy, Jack?" Piper asked around, frowning. "How does he know so much about...what he told us?"
"And was that even true?" Hazel joined in. Out of all of them, she was probably the one over whom Christianity still held most influence, and indeed she looked quite troubled. "I mean, Lucifer, the Fall, the Bible - all of those being true seems..."
"Un-freakin'-likely." Leo completed, tossing a popcorn grenade in the air and tilting his head back as it exploded, mouth open to receive several grains as they fell. "Haven' we got 'nuff day-tees to worry 'bout as 'tis?" He said, munching.
"What I want to know," Annabeth said, crossing her arms and staring glumly at the grass under her folded legs, "is how so many people can tell at first sight that we're demigods. So far, that's Moaning Myrtle, the Asrai, the Nuckelavee and Jack of Kent."
"And I swear some of the paintings in the castle have tried to make us talk to them about things they shouldn't know." Frank added, frowning in concern. "One of them once asked me why I had knives attached to my belt. They should be hidden by the Mist."
"Maybe it's like how monsters can smell us?" Piper suggested. "I'm not suggesting they've all got super-sensory sense of smell, but there has to be something about us that triggers recognition. I bet even the humans here can tell there's something odd about us. After all, they're not typical mortals, they've been blessed by Hecate."
"There's a scary thought." Thalia said darkly. "Sending us undercover to the very people who would be able to see through us."
Percy pulled a doubtful face.
"If that were true, I don't think we would've come this far." he said. "Dumbledore wouldn't've given us a place at his school if he thought we were a threat. He doesn't strike me as the kind to take unnecessary risks. "
"Who says letting us in was an unnecessary risk?" Annabeth said quietly. "For all we know, we're pawns who are just as necessary in this whole game as Harry Potter is."
All heads snapped around to look at her
"What?" Thalia asked. "Pawns?"
Percy exchanged a glance with Jason, knowing where this was going and having to suppress the urge to roll his eyes.
Annabeth's expression turned a little self-conscious, but she jutted out her chin in defiance.
"I know you all think I'm overanalysing things since we got here, but I still think we're not at all present here for the reasons we think we are. Even Chiron, who sent us here in the first place, has little to no idea about what he's doing. He made it sound as though we'd be studying like in a normal school, and it turns out we're learning plant properties and how to vanish solid objects into thin air."
Annabeth started plucking at the grass in front of her, ducking her head in what Percy knew was a bid to avoid anyone's sceptical gaze.
"Chiron thinks he's acting all top-secret because this world has no idea of who we are," she continued, "but in reality, I think we're no better off. We have literally no idea how to do anything in this world, whether it's ordering some clothes from a shop or defending ourselves with magic. And I think we're not as incognito as we pretend we are. Dumbledore didn't earn his reputation of being the greatest wizard of the century by doing things like taking in a small dozen of foreign students who landed on his doorstep - with no proper explanation of magic-transcending transport, might I add - claiming their home was destroyed by monsters with little more than a few eyebrows raised. I'm telling you, we're only here because he is allowing us to be here."
Percy sighed. This had to be the third time at least Annabeth was sharing her doubts of the man since they had arrived two weeks ago. He didn't want to hurt her by dismissing her misgivings, but he also had cause to think she was worrying needlessly.
"Hey, we've been through this." he said as gently as possible and taking her hand. "Whatever Dumbledore knows, or thinks he knows, he'd have to be stronger than all of us put together to stop us from doing what we want."
Annabeth laughed weakly.
"Oh Percy, I love you, but do you have any idea how wrong you are? He doesn't need to be stronger. That kind of man has a finger in every pie, a say in every official decision, an opinion in every debate. Okay, say we're unbeatable when all of us," she indicated the circle of grim demigods, "are together. All it would need is for us to be separated by an inane excuse, then rounded up individually, threatening one to hold the others in place." The side of her mouth twisted up. "The Nuckelavee managed that in little under a minute, how long d'you think it would take Dumbledore to hatch a plan that would set us up until we're as helpless as we were half an hour ago?"
The sudden look of alarm on some of their friends features, notably Jason and Hazel's, proved the weight of her point, and even Percy had to concede that their childish preconceptions of the world's dangers were probably going to change soon and drastically. It would be Goodbye old banding-together, and Hello sneaky sophisticated methods of Getting Their Way.
Thalia, however, was having none of it.
"Annabeth, you're being paranoid." she said firmly, in a tone of voice only those who had known Annabeth longest could use around her - rather like a sister to another. "I agree Dumbledore probably isn't as benign as he'd have everyone believe, but - hell, anyone who's heard of his duel with that other dark wizard Crinklewall-"
"Grindelwald."
"- would know that! And just because you think he suspects us isn't a reason to mistrust him. I mean, he hasn't done anything to threaten our cover, has he?"
"That we know of." Annabeth said stubbornly.
Thalia hit her own face with a splayed hand, waving the other helplessly in defeat.
"I give up." she mumbled. "We don't have time to worry about potentially evil mastermind geniuses. Piper, tell her she has nothing to worry about."
Piper did no such thing, but she took Annabeth's other hand and smiled as only she could, with all the warmth and sympathy one might find in a mother's gaze.
"I think we're all forgetting the purpose of our initial discussion." she reminded them all softly. "How do some people know we're not regular wizards, and how can we remedy that?"
"Yes," Jason latched on, glad for a change of subject. "That's our first priority. Also, who the hell are the Nuckelavee and Jack of Kent? I mean, who are they actually, not just the versions of who they said they were."
"Second priority," Hazel said, still looking pale and shaken by their recent ordeal, "learning the basics of magical defence. I never want to be that helpless again, not even in the regular world."
"Sounds like a plan." Leo said, quickly placing everything back into his belt. The grey light of the drizzly afternoon was fading despite the early hour; days were short in autumnal Scotland. "I have a feeling Madam Pince is gonna see a lot more demigods than any of us want."
0o0o0o0o0o0
Professor Dolores Umbridge, High Inquisitor of Hogwarts for the grand total of three days, twirled her wand with a last flourish and stepped back to admire the result, absently scratching her forearm. Her favourite patterned china plates were now perfectly fixed in the place of honour, right on top of the mantelpiece. The beautiful white kitten in the middle scampered around its china borders, mewling and purring in excitement, its huge blue eyes gazing at her in adoration (It was actually supplication. She didn't notice it hissing and spitting as soon as she turned her back on it).
She did love her kittens. They reminded her of days gone by. The extra-specially large one with a pink bow had originally been a present from Cornelius, with willow leaves delicately splayed around the edges. Later, when her poor old Blueberry was showing signs of old age, she'd done a bit of research here and there to make a nice memento of him (though not in Knockturn Alley. No, that encounter with that piece of low-born filth, Fletcher, had never occurred. And he certainly hadn't sold her that Ancient Egyptian book which contained spells that bound a life to an object and created an animated image). The fruit of her hard work had been quite charming, and now Blueberry could spend all eternity gallivanting around in his willow-patterned plate, and he looked so happy ('frustrated', was the word that sprang to mind if anyone else were to see the object) she had determined to do the same with any sweet feline that came to her attention.
Scratching her lower back (and having to bend in a most undignified position to do so) and repressing the urge to cough (she really ought to go see Poppy Pomfrey) about that green mucus), she checked her rose-patterned china clock on the desk, she saw it was almost five o'clock. Young Potter would be arriving soon, in that grouchy manner of his. She had to admit, the boy was proving more difficult to break than she'd expected. Apart from his first detention with her, he had shown no signs of regret for his actions. Then again, he hadn't been openly defiant of her either, except for that scandalous slur against Professor Quirrell.
Umbridge shook her head as she examined her face in a lace-lined mirror on her desk, carefully dabbing some Cora's Carefully Concealing Concealer on a couple of vaguely purple-greenish spots that had appeared over the past few days. Really, the shame of it. As though claiming a dead dark wizard was now in power again wasn't enough, Dumbledore and that self-important teenager insisted that he had in fact been trying to rise for the past fourteen years that he'd been dead, including methods such as possession, monstrous creatures in a school's sewer system, frauds and major conspiracies.
The stuff of lunacy. Or the seeking of attention, which it most probably was. In that, they were certainly successful. Dolores Umbridge roughly rubbed at the back of her calf, looking up as she did so at a copy of last Monday's Daily Prophet, enclosed in a gilded golden frame over her desk, a smug little smile tugging at her lips. She would certainly remedy that. The entirety of the school was now at her very fingertips, in the middle of her palm, to crush or to nurture as she so wished. Mr Filch, the deluded old dear, seemed to think it was only a matter of time before corporal punishment was allowed once more. Little did he know it had already started.
Umbridge picked up her black quill, sharpening the point a little more with a silver razor-like knife and popping a few of the purple spots with it before carefully placing it next to the blank parchment, adjusting it until the quill lay perfectly parallel to the paper. An old, familiar flicker of doubt flashed across her mind as she did so. Not because she felt guilty inflicting physical pain on its users, but because however powerful she was at the moment, she knew it was a risk using this quill while such measures were still generally frowned upon, or at least not expressly authorised yet.
Her base line of defence should she ever get into trouble, she had decided, was to stress the fact that despite all appearances, the quill didn't actually work with blood magic. No, such practices were ancient and raw and primal - the kind used by You-Know-Who on the Potter boy last summer, if one were to believe the ramblings of a senile eccentric and his brain-washed lackey. This quill simply cut into the skin and siphoned ink onto the parchment, full stop. With careful calculations as to the depth of the cut, the amount of blood needed for a continuous flow and the gradual increase of pain as the user kept up the activity, one could build up a sense that the quill was binding the user to the words they were writing out. Of course, the strength of that bond impression relied on the subject's state of mind. They were more likely to come to that conclusion when tired, frustrated, afraid, or weakened slightly by blood loss*.
Chasing the remainders of doubt from her mind and humming jauntily to herself to keep it at bay, Dolores Umbridge pottered over to the window, scratching her scalp, glancing out and happily noticing that, while still rainy, the weather had improved since last week's ghastly storm. Rumour had it that the fraud Trelawney had predicted a sunny first week, something which had prompted Umbridge to inspect her this very day. She'd been quite right in her first impressions of her, she thought with great satisfaction. The shameful woman had no skill whatsoever for teaching a class of dull-eyed children, let alone for the complex and noble, if a little loose, art of Divination. No doubt that would soon be remedied as well.
Still looking out of her window, movement on the grounds below her caused Dolores to peer a little more closely. She saw a motley gang of students making their way back to the castle. She frowned. Students still on the grounds at this hour with no supervision? That ought to be prohibited. Who knew what kind of mischief they would get up to?
They were apparently walking quietly enough, but seemed to be dragging things with them that looked remarkably like... other students? The light was too poor to make out much detail, and fading rapidly, so Umbridge pulled her wand out and briefly scratched the back of her ear with it, completely forgetting about Potter's imminent arrival.
Muttering a spell to sharpen her eyesight briefly, Umbridge managed to recognise Jackson and Chase, those two ignominious troublemakers, followed by their ragtag little group of friends. Two of them were supporting between them the little Negro girl**, who looked like she was having trouble walking at the same pace as the others. The arrogant blond Gryffindor was behind them with his arm around his girlfriend in a disgusting show of public affection, followed by the scrawny Latino boy and the other Grace twin, who also looked like she was limping.
What in sweet Circe's name had they been doing to cause such injury to themselves? Not that she cared, but they'd been coming from the Quidditch Pitch, that awful sport, and Dolores knew for a fact that they weren't on the school team. She even knew they didn't possess a broom between them (eavesdropping on first-year gossip could be quite informative, despite all doubts about its authenticity).
Those children were no better than Potter and his precious trio, she'd decided after her first few days. Always together when they weren't in classes, always talking quietly and looking up to no good. It was damaging to the school's good values, to see them all together, sporting different-coloured robes and knowing they shared a separate common room due to their unexpected arrival. Umbridge's lips thinned whenever she thought of it. Hogwarts Houses had been created for a reason; they divided the student population according to strengths and values, keeping them apart when it mattered and building healthy rivalries that would teach them some aspects of the grown-up world.
If she were perfectly honest with herself, Umbridge had to admit there was also the advantage of constant divisions between the houses that kept the students from banding all together, especially in light of recent events which Cornelius had been so anxious to control by keeping a firm hand on the notoriously difficult, rebellious young population.
Still, those foreigners were a troubling influence on other students. They'd even started the fad of ignoring House propriety and sitting at other tables for lunch. The cheek of it! Such flaunted indifference for tradition wasn't going to be tolerated, and now that Dolores Umbridge was High Inquisitor, she would make sure every table remained decidedly uniform in colour. She would enforce a curfew which prevented dangerous outside expeditions. She would certainly put a stop to all that swaggering arrogance every student here seemed prone to.
Hearing slow, reluctant footsteps outside her door, Umbridge scratched her armpit and back of her neck one last time, shuffled behind her desk and sat down before neatly folding her hands in front of her. She ignored the urge to scratch her rear.
"Come in, Mr Potter."
*A/N: I know it seems unlikely one could suffer (even slight) weakness from an apparently minimal subtraction of blood, but if you start from the principle that the quill uses about 10ml of blood per hour (blood being thicker than ink, and old quills using a lot more ink than modern fountain pens) and Harry stays for about seven-eight hours for each detention (five to past midnight), that's a small shower gel container's worth of blood lost per evening (plus the constant leaking of the cut on the hand), repeated five times a week, for two weeks in a row. Considering it takes about 12 weeks for oxygen-distributing red blood cells to be fully replenished in a male body after a blood donation (for example), at that rate dizziness, short breath and palpitating heart rates are fully possible, weakening the subject, tiring them and - in this story - making them more susceptible to suspicions of blood-tying magic.
**A/N: Please don't shoot me, I know that's highly incorrect and offensive. That particular phrase is used purely in the context of Umbridge's mentality.
Okay, another chapter done.
I don't think I captured Umbridge very well, but hopefully I won't be writing too much from her perspective. It's almost physically painful to see the world the way she does.
Thanks for reading, guys, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I liked writing it.
By the way, I'm off to uni for the first time in two weeks. Any tips for me?
UPDATE: Oh come on, you know this one. The chapter's title, Hic Sunt Monstra, means 'Here be monsters'.
