𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓, 𝐏𝐉𝐎 𝐱 𝐇𝐏

𝟎𝟏𝟎.𝟏

The past two months had been a chaotic blur for Sixtine, filled with new spells, endless homework, and the unshakable weight of her demigod nightmares. Every day at Hogwarts brought a mix of wonder and frustration, the kind of exhausting balance that left her wanting to scream into a pillow by the time she got to bed—if she could even sleep.

One of the biggest sources of irritation? Harry Potter.

If there were a "Bad Decisions Club," Harry would be president. His recklessness was one thing—wandering around the castle at all hours, poking his nose into mysteries that didn't concern him—but the fact that he had somehow roped Hermione and Ron into his escapades made Sixtine grind her teeth. They were out at night fighting trolls, sneaking around, and obsessing over the third-floor corridor.

Why in Hades' name did they need to know what was on the third floor? Sixtine thought every time Harry brought it up. It's off-limits. Let it be off-limits!

It wasn't like they didn't include her—they did. Harry, ever the open-hearted, tried to loop her in on all their plans, always insisting that she was "part of the group." Hermione would offer her notes as they schemed, and Ron had gone so far as to suggest she could act as a distraction for Filch once. Sixtine had politely declined every single time. She had just escaped Chiron's near death training at Camp Half-Blood. She was perfectly content with the knowledge that, for once in her life, she wasn't actively dodging death.

"I'm happy for you lot," she had told Harry one night after he explained his newest plan to investigate a "mystery door." "But I'd rather keep my limbs attached. Thanks."

Of course, it wasn't just Hogwarts or the trio driving her mad. There was the matter of Apollo.

The literal sun god who had decided her head was his personal vacation home. At first, she thought it was a just a thing he did once or twice. But as the weeks went on, it became painfully clear that Apollo had no concept of personal space. He kept popping in unannounced, his voice filling her mind whenever he felt like it. Sure, he was charming in a golden, self-absorbed kind of way, and yes, there was that whole prophecy thing claiming they were soulmates or whatever, but honestly? She didn't have time for his nonsense.

"Sixtine, my radiant star, don't you think the stars in the Great Hall pale in comparison to me? The literal sun?"

She had ignored him.

"You're really getting the hang of this, my dear. Did you know I once invented levitation? No? Well, you're welcome."

She'd tried everything to get him to stop: meditation, Occlumency practice, even yelling at him out loud (to the confusion of her classmates). Nothing worked. Apollo always had a knack for dramatic timing, chiming in just as she was about to focus.

"You really should pay attention in Transfiguration, Sixtine. That's not how you hold your wand."

Despite all the chaos, she couldn't deny that a small part of her—an infinitesimal part—found his presence comforting. He might be insufferable, but at least she wasn't entirely alone in the strange duality of her life. Still, If Hogwarts didn't kill her, Apollo's constant interruptions might.

The prophecy that bound her to him—that they were soulmates in some divine, cosmic way—only made things worse. Soulmates or not, Sixtine wasn't sure how she was supposed to live with Apollo constantly flitting in and out of her head like her brain was a revolving door. If it continued, she was genuinely worried she'd develop some kind of magical stress condition.

Her pen flew across the parchment with a vengeance, her hand cramping from the sheer force of her frustration. The words seemed to blur in front of her eyes—one part powdered dragon liver, two parts...—but it didn't matter. The moment was slipping away. Apollo's voice was still droning on in the background, reminding her of every mythical feat he'd ever achieved, and her Potions essay was just about to descend into a mess of scribbled errors.