Chapter 81: The Key to the Legacy

The room was silent as they stared at the book, Legatum, the supposed key to uncovering the truth about the Founders. The ancient leather cover seemed to hum with barely contained energy, as if it knew the weight of the secrets inside.

Annabeth tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin. "If this book only opens for those connected to the Founders, then we need to figure out how it determines that connection."

Hermione nodded. "It could be a bloodline enchantment—like the wards at Gringotts, which only recognize goblin heritage. Or it could be something more symbolic."

Harry frowned. "Symbolic how?"

Annabeth's eyes glowed with excitement. "Legacy doesn't just mean blood. It means ideals. Maybe the book isn't looking for a direct descendant. Maybe it's looking for someone who embodies what the Founders stood for."

"Then we test it," Nico said simply.

Everyone hesitated. The book's energy was… strange. It felt different from typical wizarding magic. It felt older.

Finally, Hermione stepped forward. If anyone could match Ravenclaw's ideals, it was her. She placed her hands flat on the cover.

Nothing.

A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but she quickly stepped back, adjusting her robes as if she hadn't expected much.

"Right," Ron muttered. "Guess I'll give it a go."

He placed a tentative hand on the book—then yanked it back as a sharp zap of golden energy sparked against his palm.

"Oi! Okay, I get it, I'm not a Founder," he grumbled, shaking out his hand.

One by one, they tried. Ginny. Cho. Luna. Even Harry, despite being descended from one of the oldest wizarding bloodlines, felt nothing when he touched the cover.

Then, Percy stepped forward. "Well, can't hurt." He set his hand on the book.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then—

The book shuddered beneath his palm, a golden pulse rippling out from where he touched it.

Everyone tensed.

Percy yanked his hand back as the book trembled again, this time with enough force to rattle the nearby ink pots on Dumbledore's desk.

"Whoa."

Annabeth inhaled sharply. "That's it. It reacted."

"But why Percy?" Hazel asked. "He's not a wizard. He doesn't have some ancient Hogwarts bloodline."

Dumbledore, who had been watching silently, finally spoke. "Perhaps, Miss Levesque, you are thinking too narrowly. If blood were the only measure of legacy, Hogwarts would have fallen long ago."

Annabeth turned to Percy, her expression unreadable. "You're a son of Poseidon."

"Yeah, last time I checked," Percy said.

"But Poseidon isn't just the god of the sea," she continued. "He's a god of storms. Of power. Of kings."

It hit them all at once.

Godric Gryffindor.

A warrior. A leader. A man of courage and unshakable will.

A man who, had he been born in a different era, could have been the son of Poseidon.

A chill ran down Percy's spine. "You're saying I might be—what? Some kind of spiritual successor to Gryffindor?"

Annabeth folded her arms. "I'm saying it's possible that the book recognizes a piece of him in you. His values. His strength."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "It seems that history does not simply repeat itself—it finds ways to endure."

Percy exhaled, turning back to the book. "Well, I guess I should—"

Before he could finish, the Legatum snapped open.

Pages flipped furiously, as if an invisible wind had caught them. Ancient ink glowed gold, rearranging itself into words. The language wasn't English—or any language Percy recognized—but somehow, he understood.

His voice came out in a whisper.

"…The past is not gone. The future is not set. Those who bear the mark of the storm will shape the course of fate."

The room was frozen in place.

Hazel's voice was barely above a breath. "What does that mean?"

Percy shook his head, his fingers tightening around the edges of the book. He didn't know.

But something told him they were about to find out.