PJO meets HP

Percy stood frozen by the window, his heart hammering against his ribs. The figure had been watching him. That much was clear. But who were they? And why did they vanish the moment he noticed them?

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

He knew he should wake Harry or Ron. Maybe even tell Hermione. But something inside him hesitated. He had spent years trusting his instincts, and right now, they told him that this was something he needed to handle alone—at least for now.

With one last glance at the darkened forest, he turned and padded quietly back to his dormitory, though sleep never came.

By morning, Percy was still shaken. He sat with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at breakfast, absently pushing his food around his plate.

"You're quiet," Hermione observed, her keen eyes studying him.

"Just tired," Percy said, offering her a forced smile.

Ron yawned, stuffing a sausage into his mouth. "Join the club, mate. First week of classes, and I'm already knackered. Bet Snape's got some evil plan to make our lives worse."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione huffed. "He's a professor. He has a duty to teach us."

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "That doesn't mean he likes us."

Percy barely heard the conversation. His gaze flickered toward the staff table, where the professors were seated. His eyes landed on Snape, who was speaking in low tones to Quirrell. The turbaned professor looked nervous—sweating even more than usual.

As if sensing Percy's gaze, Snape's dark eyes darted toward him.

Percy quickly looked away, but not before catching something unsettling in the potions master's gaze—curiosity.

Did Snape know something?

Their first lesson of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell. Percy had been looking forward to it—until Quirrell shuffled into the classroom, stammering over his words as he fumbled with his books.

"As—as you all kn-know," Quirrell began, his voice trembling, "the D-D-Dark Arts are very d-d-dangerous!"

Ron leaned over to Harry and whispered, "At this rate, he'll scare himself into quitting before Christmas."

The lesson was dull—mostly theory about minor jinxes. Percy struggled to focus.

"Now, c-c-can anyone tell me how to repel a Boggart?" Quirrell asked.

Hermione's hand shot up, of course.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"A Boggart is a shape-shifter that takes the form of whatever frightens you most. The way to repel it is with the Riddikulus spell, which forces it into a less frightening shape," Hermione explained flawlessly.

"V-Very good!" Quirrell said, looking relieved that someone knew the answer.

"Let's see if anyone can do the spell," Quirrell said hesitantly, waving his wand at a large wooden wardrobe in the corner. "Th-there's a Boggart inside."

The class tensed as the wardrobe shook.

One by one, students attempted the spell. Neville's Boggart transformed into Professor Snape, which sent the class into fits of laughter when his Riddikulus turned Snape into an old woman in a pink dress.

When it was Percy's turn, he stepped forward warily.

The wardrobe creaked open.

From the darkness, the figure from the Forbidden Forest emerged.

Percy's blood ran cold.

It wasn't just a figure anymore. It was a hooded silhouette, its face obscured in darkness, but its eyes—piercing, glowing like embers—bore into his soul.

The classroom seemed to disappear. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Something inside him reacted—deep, instinctual. Not Hogwarts magic. Not wand magic.

His magic.

The torches in the room flickered violently. A gust of unnatural wind swept through the classroom.

Percy's hand clenched around his wand, but he barely needed it. Energy crackled around him, surging from his core.

The Boggart recoiled.

Then, without thinking, he uttered a single word:

"Riddikulus!"

A rush of power shot forward. The Boggart's form wavered—then twisted, reshaping itself into something entirely ridiculous. The hooded figure shrank until it was no taller than a house-elf, its dark robes transforming into a ridiculous pink tutu.

The class erupted in laughter.

Percy stood there, breathless.

Quirrell blinked. "V-Very good, M-Mr. Jackson." But his expression wasn't one of relief. It was one of fear.

Percy knew why.

Because that had been too easy.

After class, Hermione caught up to him.

"That was incredible," she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. "You're a natural! But…" She hesitated. "There was something different about how you cast that spell. It didn't feel like just normal magic."

Percy forced a chuckle. "Maybe I got lucky."

Hermione frowned. She wasn't convinced. "You should practice more. There's something special about your magic."

Percy wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

That night, Percy lay awake again. His mind raced with questions. Who was that figure? And why had the Boggart taken its form?

Unable to ignore it any longer, he slipped out of bed and into the common room.

The fire had burned low. The castle was silent.

Then—

A whisper.

Percy tensed. He turned toward the window, expecting to see the figure again.

Instead, a piece of parchment lay on the floor.

Frowning, he picked it up.

Three words were written in dark ink:

A chill spread through Percy's body.

He whipped his head around, but the common room was empty.

No footsteps. No shadows.

Just the fire, flickering softly.

But the warning was clear.

Someone knew what he had seen.

And they didn't want him digging any further.

To Be Continued... Next week!

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