At first glance, Percy Jackson is the son of Poseidon, the Hero of Olympus, survivor of Tartarus, the defeater of Monsters; but deep within his roots stems magic that reaches into another world: the world of wizards and witches and dark lords and on...
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Grief.
It's a killer in itself.
It sucks the joy from memories, lights everything in a grey shade of melancholy. The brightness is dimmed, smiles dip and eyes are darkened.
Percy Potter was no stranger to grief, he'd already lost so many; his parents being the first he could remember and his best friend being the latest.
It was the first of July, barely a week after that day. Percy had spent the first day in the hospital wing, completely unconscious, and then the funeral and then straight to Camp Half Blood for the shroud. His body still ached with the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.
During the day, Percy kept himself occupied with mediocre tasks around his godfather's flat in England, where he had been staying since he returned from camp, and between cleaning the kitchen and dusting the endless number of books on the shelves, he had no chance to let himself think. Severus was out for most of the day, busy with what Percy now knew was called the Order of the Phoenix, a secret organization set up by Dumbledore in the first Wizarding War to fight Voldemort.
At night, Percy's mind took over from him. Nightmares plagued his sleep worse than usual and in each and every one, everyone he loved was killed. He woke up in a cold sweat every morning while it was still dark and left the house for a long run, usually only returning after Severus had left for the day. That was until today when Percy arrived home from his run to see Severus holding out a traveling cloak for him at the door.
"Sev," Percy drawled. He really didn't want to do anything.
"Come on," his godfather urged, shaking the material. "War doesn't wait, you know that."
Percy sighed. Unfortunately, he did.
Seeing Grimmauld Place for the first time gave Percy serious chills, though he was uncertain as to why exactly. The painting of Walburga Black could have easily been the reason, yes, but Percy felt it was more than a screaming dead witch- it was darker, some of the darkest magic he'd ever felt. He brushed it off upon entering, however, as the house was filled to the brim with laughter from the Weasley's, whose voices he'd recognize anywhere.
"Perce, is that you?" George hollered from upstairs. "Blimey!"
"Percy's here? Is Harry here?" Ron came next, popping his head over the railing a floor above.
Before Percy could answer, Severus took his shoulder and steered him towards what Percy assumed to be the kitchen. Percy waved up apologetically.
"Oi!" Fred shouted upstairs. "How come he gets to go in there!"
The kitchen was also full of people, but the atmosphere was darker than the joyous laughter in the hall. Looking around, Percy identified each person: at the far end of the table was Sirius Black, looking far less ragged than when Percy last saw him in his human form so many months ago, and Remus Lupin sat beside him. Mary, Percy's newfound godmother, sat beside Remus and smiled when she saw him. Percy attempted to smile in return, but it came out forced. Then there was Kingsley Shacklebolt, much to Percy's surprise, along with Arthur Weasley. Molly was at the stove cooking up what smelled like eggs. Moody was there too, the real one obviously. Despite that knowledge, Percy steered clear of him. Two other redheads were present; Percy recognized them as Charlie and Bill Weasley, the two eldest Weasley brothers. Surprisingly, some teachers were there, including McGonagall and Flitwick. There was also a girl with peculiarly colored hair -Percy swore he recognized her- standing beside two older people who were chatting to Sirius in the corner.
